ther: very singular to contemplate. They wend; amid the
infinitude of doubt and dim peril; they not doubtful: Fate and Feudal
Europe, having decided, come girdling in from without: they, having also
decided, do march within. Dusty of face, with frugal refreshment, they
plod onwards; unweariable, not to be turned aside. Such march will
become famous. The Thought, which works voiceless in this blackbrowed
mass, an inspired Tyrtaean Colonel, Rouget de Lille whom the Earth still
holds, (A.D. 1836.) has translated into grim melody and rhythm; into
his Hymn or March of the Marseillese: luckiest musical-composition ever
promulgated. The sound of which will make the blood tingle in men's
veins; and whole Armies and Assemblages will sing it, with eyes weeping
and burning, with hearts defiant of Death, Despot and Devil.

One sees well, these Marseillese will be too late for the Federation
Feast. In fact, it is not Champ-de-Mars Oaths that they have in view.
They have quite another feat to do: a paralytic National Executive
to set in action. They must 'strike down' whatsoever 'Tyrant,' or
Martyr-Faineant, there may be who paralyzes it; strike and be struck;
and on the whole prosper and know how to die.

Chapter 2.6.III.

Some Consolation to Mankind.

Of the Federation Feast itself we shall say almost nothing. There are
Tents pitched in the Champ-de-Mars; tent for National Assembly; tent for
Hereditary Representative,--who indeed is there too early, and has
to wait long in it. There are Eighty-three symbolical Departmental
Trees-of-Liberty; trees and mais enough: beautifullest of all these
is one huge mai, hung round with effete Scutcheons, Emblazonries
and Genealogy-books; nay better still, with Lawyers'-bags, 'sacs de
procedure:' which shall be burnt. The Thirty seat-rows of that famed
Slope are again full; we have a bright Sun; and all is marching,
streamering and blaring: but what avails it? Virtuous Mayor Petion, whom
Feuillantism had suspended, was reinstated only last night, by Decree of
the Assembly. Men's humour is of the sourest. Men's hats have on them,
written in chalk, 'Vive Petion;' and even, 'Petion or Death, Petion ou
la Mort.'

Poor Louis, who has waited till five o'clock before the Assembly would
arrive, swears the National Oath this time, with a quilted cuirass under
his waistcoat which will turn pistol-bullets. (Campan, ii. c. 20; De
Stael, ii. c. 7.) Madame de Stael, from that Royal Tent, stretches out