broke, and the quavering voice still pleaded),
can he be so much as got hanged! His Body is dragged through the
streets; his Head goes aloft on a pike, the mouth filled with grass:
amid sounds as of Tophet, from a grass-eating people. (Deux Amis de la
Liberte, ii. 60-6.)

Surely if Revenge is a 'kind of Justice,' it is a 'wild' kind! O mad
Sansculottism hast thou risen, in thy mad darkness, in thy soot and
rags; unexpectedly, like an Enceladus, living-buried, from under his
Trinacria? They that would make grass be eaten do now eat grass, in
this manner? After long dumb-groaning generations, has the turn suddenly
become thine?--To such abysmal overturns, and frightful instantaneous
inversions of the centre-of-gravity, are human Solecisms all liable,
if they but knew it; the more liable, the falser (and topheavier) they
are!--

To add to the horror of Mayor Bailly and his Municipals, word comes
that Berthier has also been arrested; that he is on his way hither from
Compiegne. Berthier, Intendant (say, Tax-levier) of Paris; sycophant
and tyrant; forestaller of Corn; contriver of Camps against the
people;--accused of many things: is he not Foulon's son-in-law; and, in
that one point, guilty of all? In these hours too, when Sansculottism
has its blood up! The shuddering Municipals send one of their number to
escort him, with mounted National Guards.

At the fall of day, the wretched Berthier, still wearing a face of
courage, arrives at the Barrier; in an open carriage; with the Municipal
beside him; five hundred horsemen with drawn sabres; unarmed footmen
enough, not without noise! Placards go brandished round him; bearing
legibly his indictment, as Sansculottism, with unlegal brevity, 'in huge
letters,' draws it up. ('Il a vole le Roi et la France (He robbed the
King and France).' 'He devoured the substance of the People.' 'He was
the slave of the rich, and the tyrant of the poor.' 'He drank the blood
of the widow and orphan.' 'He betrayed his country.' See Deux Amis,
ii. 67-73.) Paris is come forth to meet him: with hand-clappings, with
windows flung up; with dances, triumph-songs, as of the Furies! Lastly
the Head of Foulon: this also meets him on a pike. Well might his 'look
become glazed,' and sense fail him, at such sight!--Nevertheless, be
the man's conscience what it may, his nerves are of iron. At the
Hotel-de-Ville, he will answer nothing. He says, he obeyed superior
order; they have his papers; they may judge a