t, the thing has caught fire; broken into flaming chaos
again.

"Freytag [to give one snatch from Collini's side] got into the carriage
along with us, and led us, in this way, across the mob of people to
Schmidt's [to see what was to be done with us]. Sentries were put at
the gate to keep out the mob; we are led into a kind of counting-room;
clerk, maid-and man-servants are about; Madam Schmidt passes before
Voltaire with a disdainful air, to listen to Freytag, recounting," in
the tone not of a LEARNED sergeant, what the matter is. They seize our
effects; under violent protest, worse than vain. "Voltaire demands to
have at least his snuffbox, cannot do without snuff; they answer, 'It is
usual to take everything.'

"His," Voltaire's, "eyes were sparkling with fury; from time to time he
lifted them on mine, as if to interrogate me. All on a sudden, noticing
a door half open, he dashes through it, and is out. Madam Schmidt forms
her squad, shopmen and three maid-servants; and, at their head, rushes
after. 'What?' cries he, (cannot I be allowed to--to vomit, then?'" They
form circle round him, till he do it; call out Collini, who finds him
"bent down, with his fingers in his throat, attempting to vomit; and is
terrified; 'MON DIEU, are you ill, then?' He answered in a low voice,
tears in his eyes, 'FINGO, FINGO (I pretend,'" and Collini leads
him back, RE INFECTA. "The Author of the HENRIADE and MEROPE; what a
spectacle! [Collini, pp. 81, 86.]... Not for two hours had they
done with their writings and arrangings. Our portfolios and CASSETTE
(money-box) were thrown into an empty trunk [what else could they be
thrown into?]--which was locked with a padlock, and sealed with a paper,
Voltaire's arms on the one end, and Schmidt's cipher on the other.
Dorn, Freytag's Clerk, was bidden lead us away. Sign of the BOUC" (or
BILLY-GOAT; there henceforth; LION D,OR refusing to be concerned with us
farther); twelve soldiers; Madame Denis with curtains of bayonets,--and
other well-known flagrancies.... The 7th of July, Voltaire did actually
go; and then in an extreme hurry,--by his own blame, again. These final
passages we touch only in the lump; Voltaire's own Narrative of these
being so copious, flamingly impressive, and still known to everybody.
How much better for Voltaire and us, had nobody ever known it; had
it never been written; had the poor hubbub, no better than a chance
street-riot all of it, after amusing old Frankfurt for a