w to act: from the southern
windows, some fling cartridges, in sign of brotherhood; on the eastern
outer staircase, and within through long stairs and corridors, they
stand firm-ranked, peaceable and yet refusing to stir. Westermann speaks
to them in Alsatian German; Marseillese plead, in hot Provencal speech
and pantomime; stunning hubbub pleads and threatens, infinite, around.
The Swiss stand fast, peaceable and yet immovable; red granite pier in
that waste-flashing sea of steel.

Who can help the inevitable issue; Marseillese and all France, on this
side; granite Swiss on that? The pantomime grows hotter and hotter;
Marseillese sabres flourishing by way of action; the Swiss brow also
clouding itself, the Swiss thumb bringing its firelock to the cock. And
hark! high-thundering above all the din, three Marseillese cannon from
the Carrousel, pointed by a gunner of bad aim, come rattling over the
roofs! Ye Swiss, therefore: Fire! The Swiss fire; by volley, by platoon,
in rolling-fire: Marseillese men not a few, and 'a tall man that was
louder than any,' lie silent, smashed, upon the pavement;--not a few
Marseillese, after the long dusty march, have made halt here. The
Carrousel is void; the black tide recoiling; 'fugitives rushing as far
as Saint-Antoine before they stop.' The Cannoneers without linstock have
squatted invisible, and left their cannon; which the Swiss seize.

Think what a volley: reverberating doomful to the four corners of
Paris, and through all hearts; like the clang of Bellona's thongs! The
blackbrowed Marseillese, rallying on the instant, have become black
Demons that know how to die. Nor is Brest behind-hand; nor Alsatian
Westermann; Demoiselle Theroigne is Sybil Theroigne: Vengeance
Victoire, ou la mort! From all Patriot artillery, great and small;
from Feuillants Terrace, and all terraces and places of the widespread
Insurrectionary sea, there roars responsive a red whirlwind. Blue
Nationals, ranked in the Garden, cannot help their muskets going off,
against Foreign murderers. For there is a sympathy in muskets, in heaped
masses of men: nay, are not Mankind, in whole, like tuned strings, and
a cunning infinite concordance and unity; you smite one string, and
all strings will begin sounding,--in soft sphere-melody, in deafening
screech of madness! Mounted Gendarmerie gallop distracted; are fired on
merely as a thing running; galloping over the Pont Royal, or one knows
not whither. The brain of Pari