Chapter 3: 1.I

The Improvised Commune.

Ye have roused her, then, ye Emigrants and Despots of the world;
France is roused; long have ye been lecturing and tutoring this
poor Nation, like cruel uncalled-for pedagogues, shaking over her
your ferulas of fire and steel: it is long that ye have pricked
and fillipped and affrighted her, there as she sat helpless in
her dead cerements of a Constitution, you gathering in on her
from all lands, with your armaments and plots, your invadings and
truculent bullyings;—and lo now, ye have pricked her to the
quick, and she is up, and her blood is up. The dead cerements are
rent into cobwebs, and she fronts you in that terrible strength
of Nature, which no man has measured, which goes down to Madness
and Tophet: see now how ye will deal with her!

This month of September, 1792, which has become one of the
memorable months of History, presents itself under two most
diverse aspects; all of black on the one side, all of bright on
the other. Whatsoever is cruel in the panic frenzy of Twenty-five
million men, whatsoever is great in the simultaneous
death-defiance of Twenty-five million men, stand here in abrupt
contrast, near by one another. As indeed is usual when a man, how
much more when a Nation of men, is hurled suddenly beyond the
limits. For Nature, as green as she looks, rests everywhere on
dread foundations, were we farther down; and Pan, to whose music
the Nymphs dance, has a cry in him that can drive all men
distracted.

Very frightful it is when a Nation, rending asunder its
Constitutions and Regulations which were grown dead cerements for
it, becomes _trans_cendental; and must now seek its wild way
through the New, Chaotic,—where Force is not yet distinguished
into Bidden and Forbidden, but Crime and Virtue welter
unseparated,—in that domain of what is called the Passions; of
what we call the Miracles and the Portents! It is thus that, for
some three years to come, we are to contemplate France, in this
final Third Volume of our History. Sansculottism reigning in all
its grandeur and in all its hideousness: the Gospel (God’s
Message) of Man’s Rights, Man’s _mights_ or strengths, once more
preached irrefragably abroad; along with this, and still louder
for the time, and fearfullest Devil’s-Message of Man’s weaknesses
and sins;—and all on such a scale, and under such aspect: cloudy
“death-birth of a world;” huge smoke-cloud, streaked with rays as
of heaven on one side; girt on the other as with hell-fire!
History tells us many things: but for the last thousand years and
more, what thing has she told us of a sort like this? Which
therefore let us two, O Reader, dwell on willingly, for a little;
and from its endless significance endeavour to extract what may,
in present circumstances, be adapted for us.

It is unfortunate, though very natural, that the history of this
Period has so generally been written in hysterics. Exaggeration
abounds, execration, wailing; and, on the whole, darkness. But
thus too, when foul old Rome had to be swept from the Earth, and
those Northmen, and other horrid sons of Nature, came in,
“swallowing formulas” as the French now do, foul old Rome
screamed execratively her loudest; so that, the true shape of
many things is lost for us. Attila’s Huns had arms of such length
that they could lift a stone without stooping. Into the body of
the poor Tatars execrative Roman History intercalated an
alphabetic letter; and so they continue Ta-r-tars, of fell
Tartarean nature, to this day. Here, in like manner, search as we
will in these multi-form innumerable French Records, darkness too
frequently covers, or sheer distraction bewilders. One finds it
difficult to imagine that the Sun shone in this September month,
as he does in others. Nevertheless it is an indisputable fact
that the Sun did shine; and there was weather and work,—nay, as
to that, very bad weather for harvest work! An unlucky Editor may
do his utmost; and after all, require allowances.

He had been a wise Frenchman, who, looking, close at hand, on
this waste aspect of a France all stirring and whirling, in ways
new, untried, had been able to discern where the cardinal
movement lay; which tendency it was that had the rule and primary
direction of it then! But at forty-four years’ distance, it is
different. To all men now, two cardinal movements or grand
tendencies, in the September whirl, have become discernible
enough: that stormful effluence towards the Frontiers; that
frantic crowding towards Townhouses and Council-halls in the
interior. Wild France dashes, in desperate death-defiance,
towards the Frontiers, to defend itself from foreign Despots;
crowds towards Townhalls and Election Committee-rooms, to defend
itself from domestic Aristocrats. Let the Reader conceive well
these two cardinal movements; and what side-currents and endless
vortexes might depend on these. He shall judge too, whether, in
such sudden wreckage of all old Authorities, such a pair of
cardinal movements, half-frantic in themselves, could be of soft
nature? As in dry Sahara, when the winds waken, and lift and
winnow the immensity of sand! The air itself (Travellers say) is
a dim sand-air; and dim looming through it, the wonderfullest
uncertain colonnades of Sand-Pillars rush whirling from this side
and from that, like so many mad Spinning-Dervishes, of a hundred
feet in stature; and dance their huge Desert-waltz there!—

Nevertheless in all human movements, were they but a day old,
there is order, or the beginning of order. Consider two things in
this Sahara-waltz of the French Twenty-five millions; or rather
one thing, and one hope of a thing: the _Commune_ (Municipality)
of Paris, which is already here; the National Convention, which
shall in few weeks be here. The Insurrectionary Commune, which
improvising itself on the eve of the Tenth of August, worked this
ever-memorable Deliverance by explosion, must needs rule over
it,—till the Convention meet. This Commune, which they may well
call a spontaneous or “improvised” Commune, is, for the present,
sovereign of France. The Legislative, deriving its authority from
the Old, how can _it_ now have authority when the Old is exploded
by insurrection? As a floating piece of wreck, certain things,
persons and interests may still cleave to it: volunteer
defenders, riflemen or pikemen in green uniform, or red nightcap
(of _bonnet rouge_), defile before it daily, just on the wing
towards Brunswick; with the brandishing of arms; always with some
touch of Leonidas-eloquence, often with a fire of daring that
threatens to outherod Herod,—the Galleries, “especially the
Ladies, never done with applauding.”[512] Addresses of this or
the like sort can be received and answered, in the hearing of all
France: the Salle de Manége is still useful as a place of
proclamation. For which use, indeed, it now chiefly serves.
Vergniaud delivers spirit-stirring orations; but always with a
prophetic sense only, looking towards the coming Convention. ‘Let
our memory perish,’ cries Vergniaud, ‘but let France be
free!’—whereupon they all start to their feet, shouting
responsive: ‘Yes, yes, _périsse notre mémoire, pourvu que la
France soit libre!_’[513] Disfrocked Chabot abjures Heaven that
at least we may ‘have done with Kings;’ and fast as powder under
spark, we all blaze up once more, and with waved hats shout and
swear: ‘Yes, _nous le jurons; plus de roi!_’[514] All which, as a
method of proclamation, is very convenient.

For the rest, that our busy Brissots, rigorous Rolands, men who
once had authority and now have less and less; men who love law,
and will have even an Explosion explode itself, as far as
possible, according to rule, do find this state of matters most
unofficial unsatisfactory,—is not to be denied. Complaints are
made; attempts are made: but without effect. The attempts even
recoil; and must be desisted from, for fear of worse: the sceptre
is departed from this Legislative once and always. A poor
Legislative, so hard was fate, had let itself be hand-gyved,
nailed to the rock like an Andromeda, and could only wail there
to the Earth and Heavens; miraculously a winged Perseus (or
Improvised Commune) has dawned out of the void Blue, and cut her
loose: but whether now is it she, with her softness and musical
speech, or is it he, with his hardness and sharp falchion and
aegis, that shall have casting vote? Melodious _agreement_ of
vote; this were the rule! But if otherwise, and votes diverge,
then surely Andromeda’s part is to weep,—if possible, tears of
gratitude alone.

Be content, O France, with this Improvised Commune, such as it
is! It has the implements, and has the hands: the time is not
long. On Sunday the twenty-sixth of August, our Primary
Assemblies shall meet, begin electing of Electors; on Sunday the
second of September (may the day prove lucky!) the Electors shall
begin electing Deputies; and so an all-healing National
Convention will come together. No _marc d’argent_, or distinction
of Active and Passive, now insults the French Patriot: but there
is universal suffrage, unlimited liberty to choose.
Old-constituents, Present-Legislators, all France is eligible.
Nay, it may be said, the flower of all the Universe (_de
l’Univers_) is eligible; for in these very days we, by act of
Assembly, “naturalise” the chief Foreign Friends of humanity:
Priestley, burnt out for us in Birmingham; Klopstock, a genius of
all countries; Jeremy Bentham, useful Jurisconsult; distinguished
Paine, the rebellious Needleman;—some of whom may be chosen. As
is most fit; for a Convention of this kind. In a word, Seven
Hundred and Forty-five unshackled sovereigns, admired of the
universe, shall replace this hapless impotency of a
Legislative,—out of which, it is likely, the best members, and
the Mountain in mass, may be re-elected. Roland is getting ready
the _Salles des Cent Suisses_, as preliminary rendezvous for
them; in that void Palace of the Tuileries, now void and
National, and not a Palace, but a Caravansera.

As for the Spontaneous Commune, one may say that there never was
on Earth a stranger Town-Council. Administration, not of a great
City, but of a great Kingdom in a state of revolt and frenzy,
this is the task that has fallen to it. Enrolling, provisioning,
judging; devising, deciding, doing, endeavouring to do: one
wonders the human brain did not give way under all this, and
reel. But happily human brains have such a talent of taking up
simply what they can carry, and ignoring all the rest; leaving
all the rest, as if it were not there! Whereby somewhat is verily
shifted for; and much shifts for itself. This Improvised Commune
walks along, nothing doubting; promptly making front, without
fear or flurry, at what moment soever, to the wants of the
moment. Were the world on fire, one improvised tricolor Municipal
has but one life to lose. They are the elixir and chosen-men of
Sansculottic Patriotism; promoted to the forlorn-hope;
unspeakable victory or a high gallows, this is their meed. They
sit there, in the Townhall, these astonishing tricolor
Municipals; in Council General; in Committee of Watchfulness (_de
Surveillance_, which will even become _de Salut Public_, of
Public Salvation), or what other Committees and Sub-committees
are needful;—managing infinite Correspondence; passing infinite
Decrees: one hears of a Decree being “the ninety-eighth of the
day.” Ready! is the word. They carry loaded pistols in their
pocket; also some improvised luncheon by way of meal. Or indeed,
by and by, _traiteurs_ contract for the supply of repasts, to be
eaten on the spot,—too lavishly, as it was afterwards grumbled.
Thus they: girt in their tricolor sashes; Municipal note-paper in
the one hand, fire-arms in other. They have their Agents out all
over France; speaking in townhouses, market-places, highways and
byways; agitating, urging to arm; all hearts tingling to hear.
Great is the fire of Anti-Aristocrat eloquence: nay some, as
Bibliopolic Momoro, seem to hint afar off at something which
smells of Agrarian Law, and a surgery of the overswoln dropsical
strong-box itself;—whereat indeed the bold Bookseller runs risk
of being hanged, and Ex-Constituent Buzot has to smuggle him
off.[515]

Governing Persons, were they never so insignificant
intrinsically, have for most part plenty of Memoir-writers; and
the curious, in after-times, can learn minutely their goings out
and comings in: which, as men always love to know their
fellow-men in singular situations, is a comfort, of its kind. Not
so, with these Governing Persons, now in the Townhall! And yet
what most original fellow-man, of the Governing sort,
high-chancellor, king, kaiser, secretary of the home or the
foreign department, ever shewed such a phasis as Clerk Tallien,
Procureur Manuel, future Procureur Chaumette, here in this
Sand-waltz of the Twenty-five millions, now do? O brother
mortals,—thou Advocate Panis, friend of Danton, kinsman of
Santerre; Engraver Sergent, since called _Agate_ Sergent; thou
Huguenin, with the tocsin in thy heart! But, as Horace says, they
wanted the sacred memoir-writer (_sacro vate_); and we know them
not. Men bragged of August and its doings, publishing them in
high places; but of this September none now or afterwards would
brag. The September world remains dark, fuliginous, as Lapland
witch-midnight;—from which, indeed, very strange shapes will
evolve themselves.

Understand this, however: that incorruptible Robespierre is not
wanting, now when the brunt of battle is past; in a stealthy way
the seagreen man sits there, his feline eyes excellent in the
twilight. Also understand this other, a single fact worth many:
that Marat is not only there, but has a seat of honour assigned
him, a _tribune particulière_. How changed for Marat; lifted from
his dark cellar into this luminous “peculiar tribune!” All dogs
have their day; even rabid dogs. Sorrowful, incurable Philoctetes
Marat; without whom Troy cannot be taken! Hither, as a main
element of the Governing Power, has Marat been raised. Royalist
types, for we have “suppressed” innumerable Durosoys, Royous, and
even clapt them in prison,—Royalist types replace the worn types
often snatched from a People’s-Friend in old ill days. In our
“peculiar tribune” we write and redact: Placards, of due monitory
terror; _Amis-du-Peuple_ (now under the name of _Journal de la
République_); and sit obeyed of men. “Marat,” says one, “is the
conscience of the Hôtel-de-Ville.” _Keeper_, as some call it, of
the Sovereign’s Conscience;—which surely, in such hands, will not
lie hid in a napkin!

Two great movements, as we said, agitate this distracted National
mind: a rushing against domestic Traitors, a rushing against
foreign Despots. Mad movements both, restrainable by no known
rule; strongest passions of human nature driving them on: love,
hatred; vengeful sorrow, braggart Nationality also vengeful,—and
pale Panic over all! Twelve Hundred slain Patriots, do they not,
from their dark catacombs there, in Death’s dumb-shew, plead (O
ye Legislators) for vengeance? Such was the destructive rage of
these Aristocrats on the ever-memorable Tenth. Nay, apart from
vengeance, and with an eye to Public Salvation only, are there
not still, in this Paris (in round numbers) “thirty thousand
Aristocrats,” of the most malignant humour; driven now to their
last trump-card?—Be patient, ye Patriots: our New High Court,
“Tribunal of the Seventeenth,” sits; each Section has sent Four
Jurymen; and Danton, extinguishing improper judges, improper
practices wheresoever found, is “the same man you have known at
the Cordeliers.” With such a Minister of Justice shall not
Justice be done?—Let it be swift then, answers universal
Patriotism; swift and sure!—

One would hope, this Tribunal of the Seventeenth is swifter than
most. Already on the 21st, while our Court is but four days old,
Collenot d’Angremont, “the Royal enlister” (crimp, _embaucheur_)
dies by torch-light. For, lo, the great _Guillotine_, wondrous to
behold, now stands there; the Doctor’s _Idea_ has become Oak and
Iron; the huge cyclopean axe “falls in its grooves like the ram
of the Pile-engine,” swiftly snuffing out the light of men?”
“_Mais vous, Gualches_, what have you invented?” _This?_—Poor old
Laporte, Intendant of the Civil List, follows next; quietly, the
mild old man. Then Durosoy, Royalist Placarder, “cashier of all
the Anti-Revolutionists of the interior:” he went rejoicing; said
that a Royalist like him ought to die, of all days on this day,
the 25th or Saint Louis’s Day. All these have been tried,
cast,—the Galleries shouting approval; and handed over to the
Realised Idea, within a week. Besides those whom we have
acquitted, the Galleries murmuring, and have dismissed; or even
have personally guarded back to Prison, as the Galleries took to
howling, and even to menacing and elbowing.[516] Languid this
Tribunal is not.

Nor does the other movement slacken; the rushing against foreign
Despots. Strong forces shall meet in death-grip; drilled Europe
against mad undrilled France; and singular conclusions will be
tried.—Conceive therefore, in some faint degree, the tumult that
whirls in this France, in this Paris! Placards from Section, from
Commune, from Legislative, from the individual Patriot, flame
monitory on all walls. Flags of Danger to Fatherland wave at the
Hôtel-de-Ville; on the Pont Neuf—over the prostrate Statues of
Kings. There is universal enlisting, urging to enlist; there is
tearful-boastful leave-taking; irregular marching on the Great
North-Eastern Road. Marseillese sing their wild _To Arms_, in
chorus; which now all men, all women and children have learnt,
and sing chorally, in Theatres, Boulevards, Streets; and the
heart burns in every bosom: _Aux Armes! Marchons!_—Or think how
your Aristocrats are skulking into covert; how Bertrand-Moleville
lies hidden in some garret “in Aubry-le-boucher Street, with a
poor surgeon who had known me;” Dame de Staël has secreted her
Narbonne, not knowing what in the world to make of him. The
Barriers are sometimes open, oftenest shut; no passports to be
had; Townhall Emissaries, with the eyes and claws of falcons,
flitting watchful on all points of your horizon! In two words:
Tribunal of the Seventeenth, busy under howling Galleries;
Prussian Brunswick, “over a space of forty miles,” with his
war-tumbrils, and sleeping thunders, and Briarean “sixty-six
thousand”[517] right-hands,—coming, coming!

O Heavens, in these latter days of August, he is come! Durosoy
was not yet guillotined when news had come that the Prussians
were harrying and ravaging about Metz; in some four days more,
one hears that Longwi, our first strong-place on the borders, is
fallen “in fifteen hours.” Quick, therefore, O ye improvised
Municipals; quick, and ever quicker!—The improvised Municipals
make front to this also. Enrolment urges itself; and clothing,
and arming. Our very officers have now “wool epaulettes;” for it
is the reign of Equality, and also of Necessity. Neither do men
now _monsieur_ and _sir_ one another; _citoyen_ (citizen) were
suitabler; we even say _thou_, as “the free peoples of Antiquity
did:” so have Journals and the Improvised Commune suggested;
which shall be well.

Infinitely better, meantime, could we suggest, where arms are to
be found. For the present, our _Citoyens_ chant chorally _To
arms;_ and have no arms! Arms are searched for; passionately;
there is joy over any musket. Moreover, entrenchments shall be
made round Paris: on the slopes of Montmartre men dig and shovel;
though even the simple suspect this to be desperate. They dig;
Tricolour sashes speak encouragement and _well-speed-ye_. Nay
finally “twelve Members of the Legislative go daily,” not to
encourage only, but to bear a hand, and delve: it was decreed
with acclamation. Arms shall either be provided; or else the
ingenuity of man crack itself, and become fatuity. Lean
Beaumarchais, thinking to serve the Fatherland, and do a stroke
of trade, in the old way, has commissioned sixty thousand stand
of good arms out of Holland: would to Heaven, for Fatherland’s
sake and his, they were come! Meanwhile railings are torn up;
hammered into pikes: chains themselves shall be welded together,
into pikes. The very coffins of the dead are raised; for melting
into balls. All Church-bells must down into the furnace to make
cannon; all Church-plate into the mint to make money. Also behold
the fair swan-bevies of _Citoyennes_ that have alighted in
Churches, and sit there with swan-neck,—sewing tents and
regimentals! Nor are Patriotic Gifts wanting, from those that
have aught left; nor stingily given: the fair Villaumes, mother
and daughter, Milliners in the Rue St.-Martin, give “a silver
thimble, and a coin of fifteen _sous_ (sevenpence halfpenny),”
with other similar effects; and offer, at least the mother does,
to mount guard. Men who have not even a thimble, give a
thimbleful,—were it but of invention. One Citoyen has wrought out
the scheme of a wooden cannon; which France shall exclusively
profit by, in the first instance. It is to be made of _staves_,
by the coopers;—of almost boundless calibre, but uncertain as to
strength! Thus they: hammering, scheming, stitching, founding,
with all their heart and with all their soul. Two bells only are
to remain in each Parish,—for tocsin and other purposes.

But mark also, precisely while the Prussian batteries were
playing their briskest at Longwi in the North-East, and our
dastardly Lavergne saw nothing for it but
surrender,—south-westward, in remote, patriarchal La Vendée, that
sour ferment about Nonjuring Priests, after long working, is
ripe, and explodes: at the wrong moment for us! And so we have
“eight thousand Peasants at Châtillon-sur-Sèvre,” who will not be
ballotted for soldiers; will not have their Curates molested. To
whom Bonchamps, Laroche-jaquelins, and Seigneurs enough, of a
Royalist turn, will join themselves; with Stofflets and
Charettes; with Heroes and Chouan Smugglers; and the loyal warmth
of a simple people, blown into flame and fury by theological and
seignorial bellows! So that there shall be fighting from behind
ditches, death-volleys bursting out of thickets and ravines of
rivers; huts burning, feet of the pitiful women hurrying to
refuge with their children on their back; seedfields fallow,
whitened with human bones;—“eighty thousand, of all ages, ranks,
sexes, flying at once across the Loire,” with wail borne far on
the winds: and, in brief, for years coming, such a suite of
scenes as glorious war has not offered in these late ages, not
since our Albigenses and Crusadings were over,—save indeed some
chance Palatinate, or so, we might have to “burn,” by way of
exception. The “eight thousand at Chatillon” will be got
dispelled for the moment; the fire scattered, not extinguished.
To the dints and bruises of outward battle there is to be added
henceforth a deadlier internal gangrene.

This rising in La Vendée reports itself at Paris on Wednesday the
29th of August;—just as we had got our Electors elected; and, in
spite of Brunswick’s and Longwi’s teeth, were hoping still to
have a National Convention, if it pleased Heaven. But indeed,
otherwise, this Wednesday is to be regarded as one of the
notablest Paris had yet seen: gloomy tidings come successively,
like Job’s messengers; are met by gloomy answers. Of Sardinia
rising to invade the South-East, and Spain threatening the South,
we do not speak. But are not the Prussians masters of Longwi
(treacherously yielded, one would say); and preparing to besiege
Verdun? Clairfait and his Austrians are encompassing Thionville;
darkening the North. Not Metz-land now, but the Clermontais is
getting harried; flying hulans and huzzars have been seen on the
Chalons Road, almost as far as Sainte-Menehould. Heart, ye
Patriots, if ye lose heart, ye lose all!

It is not without a dramatic emotion that one reads in the
Parliamentary Debates of this Wednesday evening “past seven
o’clock,” the scene with the military fugitives from Longwi.
Wayworn, dusty, disheartened, these poor men enter the
Legislative, about sunset or after; give the most pathetic detail
of the frightful pass they were in:—Prussians billowing round by
the myriad, volcanically spouting fire for fifteen hours: we,
scattered sparse on the ramparts, hardly a cannoneer to two guns;
our dastard Commandant Lavergne no where shewing face; the
priming would not catch; there was no powder in the bombs,—what
could we do? ‘_Mourir!_ Die!’ answer prompt voices;[518] and the
dusty fugitives must shrink elsewhither for comfort.—Yes,
_Mourir_, that is now the word. Be Longwi a proverb and a hissing
among French strong-places: let it (says the Legislative) be
obliterated rather, from the shamed face of the Earth;—and so
there has gone forth Decree, that Longwi shall, were the
Prussians once out of it, “be rased,” and exist only as ploughed
ground.

Nor are the Jacobins milder; as how could they, the flower of
Patriotism? Poor Dame Lavergne, wife of the poor Commandant, took
her parasol one evening, and escorted by her Father came over to
the Hall of the mighty Mother; and “reads a memoir tending to
justify the Commandant of Longwi.” _Lafarge, President_, makes
answer: ‘Citoyenne, the Nation will judge Lavergne; the Jacobins
are bound to tell him the truth. He would have ended his course
there (_termine sa carrière_), if he had loved the honour of his
country.’[519]