nly sung, but shot--with blank cartridges. Our
joy is boundless as our wo threatened to be. Paris, by her own pike
and musket, and the valour of her own heart, has conquered the very
wargods,--to the satisfaction now of Majesty itself. A courier is, this
night, getting under way for Necker: the People's Minister, invited back
by King, by National Assembly, and Nation, shall traverse France amid
shoutings, and the sound of trumpet and timbrel.

Seeing which course of things, Messeigneurs of the Court Triumvirate,
Messieurs of the dead-born Broglie-Ministry, and others such, consider
that their part also is clear: to mount and ride. Off, ye too-loyal
Broglies, Polignacs, and Princes of the Blood; off while it is yet time!
Did not the Palais-Royal in its late nocturnal 'violent motions,' set
a specific price (place of payment not mentioned) on each of your
heads?--With precautions, with the aid of pieces of cannon and regiments
that can be depended on, Messeigneurs, between the 16th night and the
17th morning, get to their several roads. Not without risk! Prince Conde
has (or seems to have) 'men galloping at full speed;' with a view, it
is thought, to fling him into the river Oise, at Pont-Sainte-Mayence.
(Weber, ii. 126.) The Polignacs travel disguised; friends, not servants,
on their coach-box. Broglie has his own difficulties at Versailles,
runs his own risks at Metz and Verdun; does nevertheless get safe to
Luxemburg, and there rests.

This is what they call the First Emigration; determined on, as appears,
in full Court-conclave; his Majesty assisting; prompt he, for his share
of it, to follow any counsel whatsoever. 'Three Sons of France, and
four Princes of the blood of Saint Louis,' says Weber, 'could not more
effectually humble the Burghers of Paris 'than by appearing to withdraw
in fear of their life.' Alas, the Burghers of Paris bear it with
unexpected Stoicism! The Man d'Artois indeed is gone; but has he
carried, for example, the Land D'Artois with him? Not even Bagatelle the
Country-house (which shall be useful as a Tavern); hardly the four-valet
Breeches, leaving the Breeches-maker!--As for old Foulon, one learns
that he is dead; at least a 'sumptuous funeral' is going on; the
undertakers honouring him, if no other will. Intendant Berthier, his
son-in-law, is still living; lurking: he joined Besenval, on that
Eumenides' Sunday; appearing to treat it with levity; and is now fled no
man knows whither.

The Em