led Persigny!

And I would drag you there also, all of you accomplices! This Morny,
this Romieu, this Fould, the Jew senator, this Delangle, who bears on
his back this placard: JUSTICE! and this Troplong, this judicial
glorifier of the violation of the laws, this lawyer apologist of the
_coup d'etat_, this magistrate flatterer of perjury, this judge
panegyrist of murder, who will go down to posterity with a sponge filled
with mud and with blood in his hand.

I begin the battle therefore. With whom? With the present ruler of
Europe. It is right that this spectacle should be given to the world.
Louis Bonaparte is the success, is the intoxicated triumph, is the gay
and ferocious despotism, opening out under the victory, he is the mad
fulness of power, seeking limits and finding none, neither in things nor
in men; Louis Bonaparte holds France, _Urbem Roman habit_; and whoever
holds France holds the world; he is master of the votes, master of the
consciences, master of the people; he nominates his successor, reigns
forever over future electoral scrutinies, disposes of eternity, and
places futurity in an envelope; his Senate, his Legislative Body, his
Council of State, with heads lowered and mingled confusedly behind him,
lick his feet; he drags along in a leash the bishops and cardinals; he
tramples on the justice which curses him, and on the judges who adore
him, thirty correspondents inform the Continent that he has frowned, and
every electric telegraph vibrates if he raises his little finger; around
him is heard the rustling of sabres, and the drums beat the salute; he
sits under the shadow of the eagle in the midst of bayonets and of
citadels, the free nations tremble and hide their liberties for fear
that he should steal them, the great American Republic herself falters
in his presence, and dares not withdraw her Ambassador from him; the
kings, surrounded by their armies, look at him smilingly, with their
hearts full of fear. Where will he begin? With Belgium? With
Switzerland? With Piedmont? Europe expects to be overrun. He is capable
of all, and he dreams of all.

Well, then! Before this master, this triumpher, this conqueror, this
dictator, this Emperor, this all-powerful, there rises a solitary man, a
wanderer, despoiled, ruined, prostrate, proscribed, and attacks him.
Louis Napoleon has ten thousand cannons, and five hundred thousand
soldiers; the writer has his pen and his ink-stand. The writer is
nothing, he i