or them that dwell in houses of clay; so, especially
in hot regions and times, do the proudest palaces we build of it take
wings, and become Sahara sand-palaces, spinning many pillared in the
whirlwind, and bury us under their sand!--

In spite of the forty thousand, the National Assembly persists in
its thanks; and Royalist Latour du Pin continues Minister. The forty
thousand assemble next day, as loud as ever; roll towards Latour's
Hotel; find cannon on the porch-steps with flambeau lit; and have to
retire elsewhither, and digest their spleen, or re-absorb it into the
blood.

Over in Lorraine, meanwhile, they of the distributed fusils, ringleaders
of Mestre-de-Camp, of Roi, have got marked out for judgment;--yet shall
never get judged. Briefer is the doom of Chateau-Vieux. Chateau-Vieux
is, by Swiss law, given up for instant trial in Court-Martial of its own
officers. Which Court-Martial, with all brevity (in not many hours),
has hanged some Twenty-three, on conspicuous gibbets; marched some
Three-score in chains to the Galleys; and so, to appearance, finished
the matter off. Hanged men do cease for ever from this Earth; but out
of chains and the Galleys there may be resuscitation in triumph.
Resuscitation for the chained Hero; and even for the chained Scoundrel,
or Semi-scoundrel! Scottish John Knox, such World-Hero, as we know, sat
once nevertheless pulling grim-taciturn at the oar of French Galley, 'in
the Water of Lore;' and even flung their Virgin-Mary over, instead of
kissing her,--as 'a pented bredd,' or timber Virgin, who could
naturally swim. (Knox's History of the Reformation, b. i.) So, ye of
Chateau-Vieux, tug patiently, not without hope!

But indeed at Nanci generally, Aristocracy rides triumphant, rough.
Bouille is gone again, the second day; an Aristocrat Municipality, with
free course, is as cruel as it had before been cowardly. The Daughter
Society, as the mother of the whole mischief, lies ignominiously
suppressed; the Prisons can hold no more; bereaved down-beaten
Patriotism murmurs, not loud but deep. Here and in the neighbouring
Towns, 'flattened balls' picked from the streets of Nanci are worn at
buttonholes: balls flattened in carrying death to Patriotism; men wear
them there, in perpetual memento of revenge. Mutineer Deserters roam the
woods; have to demand charity at the musket's end. All is dissolution,
mutual rancour, gloom and despair:--till National-Assembly Commissioners
arrive, with a