atural unities,
can only be painted in gross; somewhat as that antique Painter, driven
desperate, did the foam! For through this blessed July night, there is
clangour, confusion very great, of marching troops; of Sections going
this way, Sections going that; of Missionary Representatives reading
Proclamations by torchlight; Missionary Legendre, who has raised force
somewhere, emptying out the Jacobins, and flinging their key on the
Convention table: "I have locked their door; it shall be Virtue that
re-opens it." Paris, we say, is set against itself, rushing confused,
as Ocean-currents do; a huge Mahlstrom, sounding there, under cloud
of night. Convention sits permanent on this hand; Municipality most
permanent on that. The poor Prisoners hear tocsin and rumour; strive to
bethink them of the signals apparently of hope. Meek continual Twilight
streaming up, which will be Dawn and a To-morrow, silvers the Northern
hem of Night; it wends and wends there, that meek brightness, like a
silent prophecy, along the great Ring-Dial of the Heaven. So still,
eternal! And on Earth all is confused shadow and conflict; dissidence,
tumultuous gloom and glare; and Destiny as yet shakes her doubtful urn.

About three in the morning, the dissident Armed-Forces have met.
Henriot's Armed Force stood ranked in the Place de Greve; and now
Barras's, which he has recruited, arrives there; and they front each
other, cannon bristling against cannon. Citoyens! cries the voice
of Discretion, loudly enough, Before coming to bloodshed, to endless
civil-war, hear the Convention Decree read: 'Robespierre and all rebels
Out of Law!'--Out of Law? There is terror in the sound: unarmed Citoyens
disperse rapidly home; Municipal Cannoneers range themselves on the
Convention side, with shouting. At which shout, Henriot descends from
his upper room, far gone in drink as some say; finds his Place de Greve
empty; the cannons' mouth turned towards him; and, on the whole,--that
it is now the catastrophe!

Stumbling in again, the wretched drunk-sobered Henriot announces: "All
is lost!" "Miserable! it is thou that hast lost it," cry they: and fling
him, or else he flings himself, out of window: far enough down; into
masonwork and horror of cesspool; not into death but worse. Augustin
Robespierre follows him; with the like fate. Saint-Just called on Lebas
to kill him: who would not. Couthon crept under a table; attempting to
kill himself; not doing it.--On entering