n seen, who rush on, armed only with walking-sticks. (Hist. Parl. ubi
supra. Rapport du Captaine des Canonniers, Rapport du Commandant, &c.
Ibid. xvii. 300-18.) Terror and Fury rule the hour.

The Swiss, pressed on from without, paralyzed from within, have ceased
to shoot; but not to be shot. What shall they do? Desperate is the
moment. Shelter or instant death: yet How? Where? One party flies out
by the Rue de l'Echelle; is destroyed utterly, 'en entier.' A second, by
the other side, throws itself into the Garden; 'hurrying across a keen
fusillade:' rushes suppliant into the National Assembly; finds pity and
refuge in the back benches there. The third, and largest, darts out in
column, three hundred strong, towards the Champs Elysees: Ah, could we
but reach Courbevoye, where other Swiss are! Wo! see, in such fusillade
the column 'soon breaks itself by diversity of opinion,' into distracted
segments, this way and that;--to escape in holes, to die fighting from
street to street. The firing and murdering will not cease; not yet for
long. The red Porters of Hotels are shot at, be they Suisse by nature,
or Suisse only in name. The very Firemen, who pump and labour on that
smoking Carrousel, are shot at; why should the Carrousel not burn? Some
Swiss take refuge in private houses; find that mercy too does still
dwell in the heart of man. The brave Marseillese are merciful, late so
wroth; and labour to save. Journalist Gorsas pleads hard with enfuriated
groups. Clemence, the Wine-merchant, stumbles forward to the Bar of the
Assembly, a rescued Swiss in his hand; tells passionately how he rescued
him with pain and peril, how he will henceforth support him, being
childless himself; and falls a swoon round the poor Swiss's neck: amid
plaudits. But the most are butchered, and even mangled. Fifty (some
say Fourscore) were marched as prisoners, by National Guards, to the
Hotel-de-Ville: the ferocious people bursts through on them, in the
Place de Greve; massacres them to the last man. 'O Peuple, envy of the
universe!' Peuple, in mad Gaelic effervescence!

Surely few things in the history of carnage are painfuller. What
ineffaceable red streak, flickering so sad in the memory, is that,
of this poor column of red Swiss 'breaking itself in the confusion of
opinions;' dispersing, into blackness and death! Honour to you, brave
men; honourable pity, through long times! Not martyrs were ye; and yet
almost more. He was no King of yours, thi