The French Revolution

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THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

A HISTORY

by

THOMAS CARLYLE





CONTENTS.


VOLUME I.

THE BASTILLE


BOOK 1.I.

DEATH OF LOUIS XV.

Chapter 1.1.I. Louis the Well-Beloved

Chapter 1.1.II. Realised Ideals

Chapter 1.1.III. Viaticum

Chapter 1.1.IV. Louis the Unforgotten


BOOK 1.II.

THE PAPER AGE

Chapter 1.2.I. Astraea Redux

Chapter 1.2.II. Petition in Hieroglyphs

Chapter 1.2.III. Questionable

Chapter 1.2.IV. Maurepas

Chapter 1.2.V. Astraea Redux without Cash

Chapter 1.2.VI. Windbags

Chapter 1.2.VII. Contrat Social

Chapter 1.2.VIII. Printed Paper


BOOK 1.III.

THE PARLEMENT OF PARIS

Chapter 1.3.I. Dishonoured Bills

Chapter 1.3.II. Controller Calonne

Chapter 1.3.III. The Notables

Chapter 1.3.IV. Lomenie's Edicts

Chapter 1.3.V. Lomenie's Thunderbolts

Chapter 1.3.VI. Lomenie's Plots

Chapter 1.3.VII. Internecine

Chapter 1.3.VIII. Lomenie's Death-throes

Chapter 1.3.IX. Burial with Bonfire


BOOK 1.IV.

STATES-GENERAL

Chapter 1.4.I. The Notables Again

Chapter 1.4.II. The Election

Chapter 1.4.III. Grown Electric

Chapter 1.4.IV. The Procession


BOOK 1.V.

THE THIRD ESTATE

Chapter 1.5.I. Inertia

Chapter 1.5.II. Mercury de Breze

Chapter 1.5.III. Broglie the War-God

Chapter 1.5.IV. To Arms!

Chapter 1.5.V. Give us Arms

Chapter 1.5.VI. Storm and Victory

Chapter 1.5.VII. Not a Revolt

Chapter 1.5.VIII. Conquering your King

Chapter 1.5.IX. The Lanterne


Book 1.VI.

CONSOLIDATION

Chapter 1.6.I. Make the Constitution

Chapter 1.6.II. The Constituent Assembly

Chapter 1.6.III. The General Overturn

Chapter 1.6.IV. In Queue

Chapter 1.6.V. The Fourth Estate


BOOK 1.VII.

THE INSURRECTION OF WOMEN

Chapter 1.7.I. Patrollotism

Chapter 1.7.II. O Richard, O my King

Chapter 1.7.III. Black Cockades

Chapter 1.7.IV. The Menads

Chapter 1.7.V. Usher Maillard

Chapter 1.7.VI. To Versailles

Chapter 1.7.VII. At Versailles

Chapter 1.7.VIII. The Equal Diet

Chapter 1.7.IX. Lafayette

Chapter 1.7.X. The Grand Entries

Chapter 1.7.XI. From Versailles



VOLUME II.

THE CONSTITUTION


BOOK 2.I.

THE FEAST OF PIKES

Chapter 2.1.I. In the Tuileries

Chapter 2.1.II. In the Salle de Manege

Chapter 2.1.III. The Muster

Chapter 2.1.IV. Journalism

Chapter 2.1.V. Clubbism

Chapter 2.1.VI. Je le jure

Chapter 2.1.VII. Prodigies

Chapter 2.1.VIII. Solemn League and Covenant

Chapter 2.1.IX. Symbolic

Chapter 2.1.X. Mankind

Chapter 2.1.XI. As in the Age of Gold

Chapter 2.1.XII. Sound and Smoke


BOOK 2.II.

NANCI

Chapter 2.2.I. Bouille

Chapter 2.2.II. Arrears and Aristocrats

Chapter 2.2.III. Bouille at Metz

Chapter 2.2.IV. Arrears at Nanci

Chapter 2.2.V. Inspector Malseigne

Chapter 2.2.VI. Bouille at Nanci


BOOK 2.III.

THE TUILERIES

Chapter 2.3.I. Epimenides

Chapter 2.3.II. The Wakeful

Chapter 2.3.III. Sword in Hand

Chapter 2.3.IV. To fly or not to fly

Chapter 2.3.V. The Day of Poniards

Chapter 2.3.VI. Mirabeau

Chapter 2.3.VII. Death of Mirabeau


BOOK 2.IV.

VARENNES

Chapter 2.4.I. Easter at Saint-Cloud

Chapter 2.4.II. Easter at Paris

Chapter 2.4.III. Count Fersen

Chapter 2.4.IV. Attitude

Chapter 2.4.V. The New Berline

Chapter 2.4.VI. Old-Dragoon Drouet

Chapter 2.4.VII. The Night of Spurs

Chapter 2.4.VIII. The Return

Chapter 2.4.IX. Sharp Shot


BOOK 2.V.

PARLIAMENT FIRST

Chapter 2.5.I. Grande Acceptation

Chapter 2.5.II. The Book of the Law

Chapter 2.5.III. Avignon

Chapter 2.5.IV. No Sugar

Chapter 2.5.V. Kings and Emigrants

Chapter 2.5.VI. Brigands and Jales

Chapter 2.5.VII. Constitution will not march

Chapter 2.5.VIII. The Jacobins

Chapter 2.5.IX. Minister Roland

Chapter 2.5.X. Petion-National-Pique

Chapter 2.5.XI. The Hereditary Representative

Chapter 2.5.XII. Procession of the Black Breeches


BOOK 2.VI.

THE MARSEILLESE

Chapter 2.6.I. Executive that does not act

Chapter 2.6.II. Let us march

Chapter 2.6.III. Some Consolation to Mankind

Chapter 2.6.IV. Subterranean

Chapter 2.6.V. At Dinner

Chapter 2.6.VI. The Steeples at Midnight

Chapter 2.6.VII. The Swiss

Chapter 2.6.VIII. Constitution burst in Pieces



VOLUME III.

THE GUILLOTINE


BOOK 3.I.

SEPTEMBER

Chapter 3.1.I. The Improvised Commune

Chapter 3.1.II. Danton

Chapter 3.1.III. Dumouriez

Chapter 3.1.IV. September in Paris

Chapter 3.1.V. A Trilogy

Chapter 3.1.VI. The Circular

Chapter 3.1.VII. September in Argonne

Chapter 3.1.VIII. Exeunt


BOOK 3.II.

REGICIDE

Chapter 3.2.I. The Deliberative

Chapter 3.2.II. The Executive

Chapter 3.2.III. Discrowned

Chapter 3.2.IV. The Loser pays

Chapter 3.2.V. Stretching of Formulas

Chapter 3.2.VI. At the Bar

Chapter 3.2.VII. The Three Votings

Chapter 3.2.VIII. Place de la Revolution


BOOK 3.III.

THE GIRONDINS

Chapter 3.3.I. Cause and Effect

Chapter 3.3.II. Culottic and Sansculottic

Chapter 3.3.III. Growing shrill

Chapter 3.3.IV. Fatherland in Danger

Chapter 3.3.V. Sansculottism Accoutred

Chapter 3.3.VI. The Traitor

Chapter 3.3.VII. In Fight

Chapter 3.3.VIII. In Death-Grips

Chapter 3.3.IX. Extinct


BOOK 3.IV.

TERROR

Chapter 3.4.I. Charlotte Corday

Chapter 3.4.II. In Civil War

Chapter 3.4.III. Retreat of the Eleven

Chapter 3.4.IV. O Nature

Chapter 3.4.V. Sword of Sharpness

Chapter 3.4.VI. Risen against Tyrants

Chapter 3.4.VII. Marie-Antoinette

Chapter 3.4.VIII. The Twenty-two


BOOK 3.V.

TERROR THE ORDER OF THE DAY

Chapter 3.5.I. Rushing down

Chapter 3.5.II. Death

Chapter 3.5.III. Destruction

Chapter 3.5.IV. Carmagnole complete

Chapter 3.5.V. Like a Thunder-Cloud

Chapter 3.5.VI. Do thy Duty

Chapter 3.5.VII. Flame-Picture


BOOK 3.VI.

THERMIDOR

Chapter 3.6.I. The Gods are athirst

Chapter 3.6.II. Danton, No weakness

Chapter 3.6.III. The Tumbrils

Chapter 3.6.IV. Mumbo-Jumbo

Chapter 3.6.V. The Prisons

Chapter 3.6.VI. To finish the Terror

Chapter 3.6.VII. Go down to


BOOK 3.VII.

VENDEMIAIRE

Chapter 3.7.I. Decadent

Chapter 3.7.II. La Cabarus

Chapter 3.7.III. Quiberon

Chapter 3.7.IV. Lion not dead

Chapter 3.7.V. Lion sprawling its last

Chapter 3.7.VI. Grilled Herrings

Chapter 3.7.VII. The Whiff of Grapeshot



THE FRENCH REVOLUTION A HISTORY

By

THOMAS CARLYLE


VOLUME I.--THE BASTILLE


BOOK 1.I.

DEATH OF LOUIS XV.


Chapter 1.1.I.

Louis the Well-Beloved.

President Henault, remarking on royal Surnames of Honour how difficult
it often is to ascertain not only why, but even when, they were
conferred, takes occasion in his sleek official way, to make a
philosophical reflection. 'The Surname of Bien-aime (Well-beloved),'
says he, 'which Louis XV. bears, will not leave posterity in the same
doubt. This Prince, in the year 1744, while hastening from one end of
his kingdom to the other, and suspending his conquests in Flanders that
he might fly to the assistance of Alsace, was arrested at Metz by a
malady which threatened to cut short his days. At the news of this,
Paris, all in terror, seemed a city taken by storm: the churches
resounded with supplications and groans; the prayers of priests and
people were every moment interrupted by their sobs: and it was from an
interest so dear and tender that this Surname of Bien-aime fashioned
itself, a title higher still than all the rest which this great Prince
has earned.' (Abrege Chronologique de l'Histoire de France (Paris,
1775), p. 701.)

So stands it written; in lasting memorial of that year 1744. Thirty
other years have come and gone; and 'this great Prince' again lies
sick; but in how altered circumstances now! Churches resound not with
excessive groanings; Paris is stoically calm: sobs interrupt no prayers,
for indeed none are offered; except Priests' Litanies, read or chanted
at fixed money-rate per hour, which are not liable to interruption. The
shepherd of the people has been carried home from Little Trianon, heavy
of heart, and been put to bed in his own Chateau of Versailles: the
flock knows it, and heeds it not. At most, in the immeasurable tide of
French Speech (which ceases not day after day, and only ebbs towards the
short hours of night), may this of the royal sickness emerge from time
to time as an article of news. Bets are doubtless depending; nay, some
people 'express themselves loudly in the streets.' (Memoires de M. le
Baron Besenval (Paris, 1805), ii. 59-90.) But for the rest, on green
field and steepled city, the May sun shines out, the May evening fades;
and men ply their useful or useless business as if no Louis lay in
danger.

Dame Dubarry, indeed, might pray, if she had a talent for it; Duke
d'Aiguillon too, Maupeou and the Parlement Maupeou: these, as they sit
in their high places, with France harnessed under their feet, know well
on what basis they continue there. Look to it, D'Aiguillon; sharply
as thou didst, from the Mill of St. Cast, on Quiberon and the invading
English; thou, 'covered if not with glory yet with meal!' Fortune was
ever accounted inconstant: and each dog has but his day.

Forlorn enough languished Duke d'Aiguillon, some years ago; covered,
as we said, with meal; nay with worse. For La Chalotais, the Breton
Parlementeer, accused him not only of poltroonery and tyranny, but even
of concussion (official plunder of money); which accusations it was
easier to get 'quashed' by backstairs Influences than to get answered:
neither could the thoughts, or even the tongues, of men be tied. Thus,
under disastrous eclipse, had this grand-nephew of the great Richelieu
to glide about; unworshipped by the world; resolute Choiseul, the abrupt
proud man, disdaining him, or even forgetting him. Little prospect but
to glide into Gascony, to rebuild Chateaus there, (Arthur Young, Travels
during the years 1787-88-89 (Bury St. Edmunds, 1792), i. 44.) and die
inglorious killing game! However, in the year 1770, a certain young
soldier, Dumouriez by name, returning from Corsica, could see 'with
sorrow, at Compiegne, the old King of France, on foot, with doffed hat,
in sight of his army, at the side of a magnificent phaeton, doing homage
the--Dubarry.' (La Vie et les Memoires du General Dumouriez (Paris,
1822), i. 141.)

Much lay therein! Thereby, for one thing, could D'Aiguillon postpone
the rebuilding of his Chateau, and rebuild his fortunes first. For stout
Choiseul would discern in the Dubarry nothing but a wonderfully dizened
Scarlet-woman; and go on his way as if she were not. Intolerable: the
source of sighs, tears, of pettings and pouting; which would not end
till 'France' (La France, as she named her royal valet) finally mustered
heart to see Choiseul; and with that 'quivering in the chin (tremblement
du menton natural in such cases) (Besenval, Memoires, ii. 21.) faltered
out a dismissal: dismissal of his last substantial man, but pacification
of his scarlet-woman. Thus D'Aiguillon rose again, and culminated. And
with him there rose Maupeou, the banisher of Parlements; who plants
you a refractory President 'at Croe in Combrailles on the top of steep
rocks, inaccessible except by litters,' there to consider himself.
Likewise there rose Abbe Terray, dissolute Financier, paying eightpence
in the shilling,--so that wits exclaim in some press at the playhouse,
"Where is Abbe Terray, that he might reduce us to two-thirds!" And so
have these individuals (verily by black-art) built them a Domdaniel,
or enchanted Dubarrydom; call it an Armida-Palace, where they dwell
pleasantly; Chancellor Maupeou 'playing blind-man's-buff' with
the scarlet Enchantress; or gallantly presenting her with dwarf
Negroes;--and a Most Christian King has unspeakable peace within doors,
whatever he may have without. "My Chancellor is a scoundrel; but I
cannot do without him." (Dulaure, Histoire de Paris (Paris, 1824), vii.
328.)

Beautiful Armida-Palace, where the inmates live enchanted lives;
lapped in soft music of adulation; waited on by the splendours of the
world;--which nevertheless hangs wondrously as by a single hair. Should
the Most Christian King die; or even get seriously afraid of dying! For,
alas, had not the fair haughty Chateauroux to fly, with wet cheeks
and flaming heart, from that Fever-scene at Metz; driven forth by sour
shavelings? She hardly returned, when fever and shavelings were both
swept into the background. Pompadour too, when Damiens wounded Royalty
'slightly, under the fifth rib,' and our drive to Trianon went off
futile, in shrieks and madly shaken torches,--had to pack, and be in
readiness: yet did not go, the wound not proving poisoned. For his
Majesty has religious faith; believes, at least in a Devil. And now
a third peril; and who knows what may be in it! For the Doctors look
grave; ask privily, If his Majesty had not the small-pox long ago?--and
doubt it may have been a false kind. Yes, Maupeou, pucker those sinister
brows of thine, and peer out on it with thy malign rat-eyes: it is a
questionable case. Sure only that man is mortal; that with the life
of one mortal snaps irrevocably the wonderfulest talisman, and all
Dubarrydom rushes off, with tumult, into infinite Space; and ye, as
subterranean Apparitions are wont, vanish utterly,--leaving only a smell
of sulphur!

These, and what holds of these may pray,--to Beelzebub, or whoever will
hear them. But from the rest of France there comes, as was said, no
prayer; or one of an opposite character, 'expressed openly in the
streets.' Chateau or Hotel, were an enlightened Philosophism scrutinises
many things, is not given to prayer: neither are Rossbach victories,
Terray Finances, nor, say only 'sixty thousand Lettres de Cachet' (which
is Maupeou's share), persuasives towards that. O Henault! Prayers? From
a France smitten (by black-art) with plague after plague, and lying now
in shame and pain, with a Harlot's foot on its neck, what prayer can
come? Those lank scarecrows, that prowl hunger-stricken through all
highways and byways of French Existence, will they pray? The dull
millions that, in the workshop or furrowfield, grind fore-done at the
wheel of Labour, like haltered gin-horses, if blind so much the quieter?
Or they that in the Bicetre Hospital, 'eight to a bed,' lie waiting
their manumission? Dim are those heads of theirs, dull stagnant those
hearts: to them the great Sovereign is known mainly as the great
Regrater of Bread. If they hear of his sickness, they will answer with a
dull Tant pis pour lui; or with the question, Will he die?

Yes, will he die? that is now, for all France, the grand question, and
hope; whereby alone the King's sickness has still some interest.



Chapter 1.1.II.

Realised Ideals.

Such a changed France have we; and a changed Louis. Changed, truly; and
further than thou yet seest!--To the eye of History many things, in
that sick-room of Louis, are now visible, which to the Courtiers there
present were invisible. For indeed it is well said, 'in every object
there is inexhaustible meaning; the eye sees in it what the eye
brings means of seeing.' To Newton and to Newton's Dog Diamond, what a
different pair of Universes; while the painting on the optical retina of
both was, most likely, the same! Let the Reader here, in this sick-room
of Louis, endeavour to look with the mind too.

Time was when men could (so to speak) of a given man, by nourishing and
decorating him with fit appliances, to the due pitch, make themselves
a King, almost as the Bees do; and what was still more to the purpose,
loyally obey him when made. The man so nourished and decorated,
thenceforth named royal, does verily bear rule; and is said, and even
thought, to be, for example, 'prosecuting conquests in Flanders,' when
he lets himself like luggage be carried thither: and no light luggage;
covering miles of road. For he has his unblushing Chateauroux, with her
band-boxes and rouge-pots, at his side; so that, at every new station,
a wooden gallery must be run up between their lodgings. He has not only
his Maison-Bouche, and Valetaille without end, but his very Troop
of Players, with their pasteboard coulisses, thunder-barrels, their
kettles, fiddles, stage-wardrobes, portable larders (and chaffering
and quarrelling enough); all mounted in wagons, tumbrils, second-hand
chaises,--sufficient not to conquer Flanders, but the patience of the
world. With such a flood of loud jingling appurtenances does he lumber
along, prosecuting his conquests in Flanders; wonderful to behold. So
nevertheless it was and had been: to some solitary thinker it might seem
strange; but even to him inevitable, not unnatural.

For ours is a most fictile world; and man is the most fingent plastic
of creatures. A world not fixable; not fathomable! An unfathomable
Somewhat, which is Not we; which we can work with, and live amidst,--and
model, miraculously in our miraculous Being, and name World.--But if the
very Rocks and Rivers (as Metaphysic teaches) are, in strict language,
made by those outward Senses of ours, how much more, by the Inward
Sense, are all Phenomena of the spiritual kind: Dignities, Authorities,
Holies, Unholies! Which inward sense, moreover is not permanent like
the outward ones, but forever growing and changing. Does not the Black
African take of Sticks and Old Clothes (say, exported Monmouth-Street
cast-clothes) what will suffice, and of these, cunningly combining them,
fabricate for himself an Eidolon (Idol, or Thing Seen), and name it
Mumbo-Jumbo; which he can thenceforth pray to, with upturned awestruck
eye, not without hope? The white European mocks; but ought rather to
consider; and see whether he, at home, could not do the like a little
more wisely.

So it was, we say, in those conquests of Flanders, thirty years ago: but
so it no longer is. Alas, much more lies sick than poor Louis: not the
French King only, but the French Kingship; this too, after long rough
tear and wear, is breaking down. The world is all so changed; so
much that seemed vigorous has sunk decrepit, so much that was not is
beginning to be!--Borne over the Atlantic, to the closing ear of Louis,
King by the Grace of God, what sounds are these; muffled ominous, new
in our centuries? Boston Harbour is black with unexpected Tea: behold a
Pennsylvanian Congress gather; and ere long, on Bunker Hill, DEMOCRACY
announcing, in rifle-volleys death-winged, under her Star Banner, to the
tune of Yankee-doodle-doo, that she is born, and, whirlwind-like, will
envelope the whole world!

Sovereigns die and Sovereignties: how all dies, and is for a Time only;
is a 'Time-phantasm, yet reckons itself real!' The Merovingian Kings,
slowly wending on their bullock-carts through the streets of Paris,
with their long hair flowing, have all wended slowly on,--into Eternity.
Charlemagne sleeps at Salzburg, with truncheon grounded; only Fable
expecting that he will awaken. Charles the Hammer, Pepin Bow-legged,
where now is their eye of menace, their voice of command? Rollo and his
shaggy Northmen cover not the Seine with ships; but have sailed off on
a longer voyage. The hair of Towhead (Tete d'etoupes) now needs no
combing; Iron-cutter (Taillefer) cannot cut a cobweb; shrill Fredegonda,
shrill Brunhilda have had out their hot life-scold, and lie silent,
their hot life-frenzy cooled. Neither from that black Tower de Nesle
descends now darkling the doomed gallant, in his sack, to the Seine
waters; plunging into Night: for Dame de Nesle how cares not for this
world's gallantry, heeds not this world's scandal; Dame de Nesle is
herself gone into Night. They are all gone; sunk,--down, down, with
the tumult they made; and the rolling and the trampling of ever new
generations passes over them, and they hear it not any more forever.

And yet withal has there not been realised somewhat? Consider (to go no
further) these strong Stone-edifices, and what they hold! Mud-Town of
the Borderers (Lutetia Parisiorum or Barisiorum) has paved itself, has
spread over all the Seine Islands, and far and wide on each bank, and
become City of Paris, sometimes boasting to be 'Athens of Europe,' and
even 'Capital of the Universe.' Stone towers frown aloft; long-lasting,
grim with a thousand years. Cathedrals are there, and a Creed (or
memory of a Creed) in them; Palaces, and a State and Law. Thou seest
the Smoke-vapour; unextinguished Breath as of a thing living. Labour's
thousand hammers ring on her anvils: also a more miraculous Labour works
noiselessly, not with the Hand but with the Thought. How have cunning
workmen in all crafts, with their cunning head and right-hand, tamed
the Four Elements to be their ministers; yoking the winds to their
Sea-chariot, making the very Stars their Nautical Timepiece;--and
written and collected a Bibliotheque du Roi; among whose Books is the
Hebrew Book! A wondrous race of creatures: these have been realised, and
what of Skill is in these: call not the Past Time, with all its confused
wretchednesses, a lost one.

Observe, however, that of man's whole terrestrial possessions and
attainments, unspeakably the noblest are his Symbols, divine or
divine-seeming; under which he marches and fights, with victorious
assurance, in this life-battle: what we can call his Realised Ideals. Of
which realised ideals, omitting the rest, consider only these two:
his Church, or spiritual Guidance; his Kingship, or temporal one. The
Church: what a word was there; richer than Golconda and the treasures of
the world! In the heart of the remotest mountains rises the little Kirk;
the Dead all slumbering round it, under their white memorial-stones, 'in
hope of a happy resurrection:'--dull wert thou, O Reader, if never in
any hour (say of moaning midnight, when such Kirk hung spectral in
the sky, and Being was as if swallowed up of Darkness) it spoke to
thee--things unspeakable, that went into thy soul's soul. Strong was he
that had a Church, what we can call a Church: he stood thereby, though
'in the centre of Immensities, in the conflux of Eternities,' yet
manlike towards God and man; the vague shoreless Universe had become for
him a firm city, and dwelling which he knew. Such virtue was in Belief;
in these words, well spoken: I believe. Well might men prize their
Credo, and raise stateliest Temples for it, and reverend Hierarchies,
and give it the tithe of their substance; it was worth living for and
dying for.

Neither was that an inconsiderable moment when wild armed men first
raised their Strongest aloft on the buckler-throne, and with clanging
armour and hearts, said solemnly: Be thou our Acknowledged Strongest! In
such Acknowledged Strongest (well named King, Kon-ning, Can-ning, or Man
that was Able) what a Symbol shone now for them,--significant with the
destinies of the world! A Symbol of true Guidance in return for loving
Obedience; properly, if he knew it, the prime want of man. A Symbol
which might be called sacred; for is there not, in reverence for what is
better than we, an indestructible sacredness? On which ground, too, it
was well said there lay in the Acknowledged Strongest a divine right;
as surely there might in the Strongest, whether Acknowledged or
not,--considering who made him strong. And so, in the midst of
confusions and unutterable incongruities (as all growth is confused),
did this of Royalty, with Loyalty environing it, spring up; and grow
mysteriously, subduing and assimilating (for a principle of Life was in
it); till it also had grown world-great, and was among the main Facts of
our modern existence. Such a Fact, that Louis XIV., for example, could
answer the expostulatory Magistrate with his "L'Etat c'est moi (The
State? I am the State);" and be replied to by silence and abashed looks.
So far had accident and forethought; had your Louis Elevenths, with
the leaden Virgin in their hatband, and torture-wheels and conical
oubliettes (man-eating!) under their feet; your Henri Fourths, with
their prophesied social millennium, 'when every peasant should have his
fowl in the pot;' and on the whole, the fertility of this most fertile
Existence (named of Good and Evil),--brought it, in the matter of the
Kingship. Wondrous! Concerning which may we not again say, that in
the huge mass of Evil, as it rolls and swells, there is ever some Good
working imprisoned; working towards deliverance and triumph?

How such Ideals do realise themselves; and grow, wondrously, from amid
the incongruous ever-fluctuating chaos of the Actual: this is what
World-History, if it teach any thing, has to teach us, How they grow;
and, after long stormy growth, bloom out mature, supreme; then quickly
(for the blossom is brief) fall into decay; sorrowfully dwindle; and
crumble down, or rush down, noisily or noiselessly disappearing. The
blossom is so brief; as of some centennial Cactus-flower, which after
a century of waiting shines out for hours! Thus from the day when rough
Clovis, in the Champ de Mars, in sight of his whole army, had to cleave
retributively the head of that rough Frank, with sudden battleaxe, and
the fierce words, "It was thus thou clavest the vase" (St. Remi's and
mine) "at Soissons," forward to Louis the Grand and his L'Etat c'est
moi, we count some twelve hundred years: and now this the very
next Louis is dying, and so much dying with him!--Nay, thus too, if
Catholicism, with and against Feudalism (but not against Nature and
her bounty), gave us English a Shakspeare and Era of Shakspeare, and so
produced a blossom of Catholicism--it was not till Catholicism itself,
so far as Law could abolish it, had been abolished here.