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Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and

harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All

the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination

could record itself, are fused in the one realisation,

Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety

of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a

peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more

certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity

out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist

itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of

rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely

yield the same fruit according to its kind.