made it, by rubbing of the proper
lamp, an Aladdin's Palace:--and now behold, he wanders dim-flitting over
Europe, half-drowned in the Rhine-stream, scarcely saving his Papers!
Vos non vobis.--The fair Roland, equal to either fortune, has her public
Dinner on Fridays, the Ministers all there in a body: she withdraws to
her desk (the cloth once removed), and seems busy writing; nevertheless
loses no word: if for example Deputy Brissot and Minister Claviere
get too hot in argument, she, not without timidity, yet with a cunning
gracefulness, will interpose. Deputy Brissot's head, they say, is
getting giddy, in this sudden height: as feeble heads do.

Envious men insinuate that the Wife Roland is Minister, and not the
Husband: it is happily the worst they have to charge her with. For
the rest, let whose head soever be getting giddy, it is not this brave
woman's. Serene and queenly here, as she was of old in her own
hired garret of the Ursulines Convent! She who has quietly shelled
French-beans for her dinner; being led to that, as a young maiden, by
quiet insight and computation; and knowing what that was, and what she
was: such a one will also look quietly on or-moulu and veneering, not
ignorant of these either. Calonne did the veneering: he gave dinners
here, old Besenval diplomatically whispering to him; and was great: yet
Calonne we saw at last 'walk with long strides.' Necker next: and where
now is Necker? Us also a swift change has brought hither; a swift change
will send us hence. Not a Palace but a Caravansera!

So wags and wavers this unrestful World, day after day, month
after month. The Streets of Paris, and all Cities, roll daily their
oscillatory flood of men; which flood does, nightly, disappear, and lie
hidden horizontal in beds and trucklebeds; and awakes on the morrow
to new perpendicularity and movement. Men go their roads, foolish or
wise;--Engineer Goguelat to and fro, bearing Queen's cipher. A Madame
de Stael is busy; cannot clutch her Narbonne from the Time-flood: a
Princess de Lamballe is busy; cannot help her Queen. Barnave, seeing
the Feuillants dispersed, and Coblentz so brisk, begs by way of final
recompence to kiss her Majesty's hand; augurs not well of her new
course; and retires home to Grenoble, to wed an heiress there. The Cafe
Valois and Meot the Restaurateur's hear daily gasconade; loud babble
of Half-pay Royalists, with or without Poniards; remnants of Aristocrat
saloons call the new Min