ow
of faces, in the transcendent heaven-lashing Haha; two hours longer,
towards the Hotel-de-Ville. Then again to be harangued there, by
several persons; by Moreau de Saint-Mery, among others; Moreau of the
Three-thousand orders, now National Deputy for St. Domingo. To all which
poor Louis, who seemed to 'experience a slight emotion' on entering this
Townhall, can answer only that he "comes with pleasure, with confidence
among his people." Mayor Bailly, in reporting it, forgets 'confidence;'
and the poor Queen says eagerly: "Add, with confidence."--"Messieurs,"
rejoins Bailly, "You are happier than if I had not forgot."

Finally, the King is shewn on an upper balcony, by torchlight, with a
huge tricolor in his hat: 'And all the "people," says Weber, grasped one
another's hands;--thinking now surely the New Era was born.' Hardly till
eleven at night can Royalty get to its vacant, long-deserted Palace of
the Tuileries: to lodge there, somewhat in strolling-player fashion. It
is Tuesday, the sixth of October, 1789.

Poor Louis has Two other Paris Processions to make: one
ludicrous-ignominious like this; the other not ludicrous nor
ignominious, but serious, nay sublime.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

VOLUME II.

THE CONSTITUTION

BOOK 2.I.

THE FEAST OF PIKES

Chapter 2.1.I.

In the Tuileries.

The victim having once got his stroke-of-grace, the catastrophe can be
considered as almost come. There is small interest now in watching his
long low moans: notable only are his sharper agonies, what convulsive
struggles he may take to cast the torture off from him; and then finally
the last departure of life itself, and how he lies extinct and ended,
either wrapt like Caesar in decorous mantle-folds, or unseemly sunk
together, like one that had not the force even to die.

Was French Royalty, when wrenched forth from its tapestries in that
fashion, on that Sixth of October 1789, such a victim? Universal France,
and Royal Proclamation to all the Provinces, answers anxiously, No;
nevertheless one may fear the worst. Royalty was beforehand so decrepit,
moribund, there is little life in it to heal an injury. How much of
its strength, which was of the imagination merely, has fled; Rascality
having looked plainly in the King's face, and not died! When the
assembled crows can pluck up their scarecrow, and say to it, Here shalt
thou stand and not there; and can treat with it, and make it, from an
infinite, a quite fi