ts hundreds of
thousands. Patience, ye Paris Patriots; the Royal Berline is returning.
Not till Saturday: for the Royal Berline travels by slow stages; amid
such loud-voiced confluent sea of National Guards, sixty thousand as
they count; amid such tumult of all people. Three National-Assembly
Commissioners, famed Barnave, famed Petion, generally-respectable
Latour-Maubourg, have gone to meet it; of whom the two former ride in
the Berline itself beside Majesty, day after day. Latour, as a mere
respectability, and man of whom all men speak well, can ride in the
rear, with Dame Tourzel and the Soubrettes.

So on Saturday evening, about seven o'clock, Paris by hundreds of
thousands is again drawn up: not now dancing the tricolor joy-dance
of hope; nor as yet dancing in fury-dance of hate and revenge; but in
silence, with vague look of conjecture and curiosity mostly scientific.
A Sainte-Antoine Placard has given notice this morning that 'whosoever
insults Louis shall be caned, whosoever applauds him shall be hanged.'
Behold then, at last, that wonderful New Berline; encircled by blue
National sea with fixed bayonets, which flows slowly, floating it
on, through the silent assembled hundreds of thousands. Three yellow
Couriers sit atop bound with ropes; Petion, Barnave, their Majesties,
with Sister Elizabeth, and the Children of France, are within.

Smile of embarrassment, or cloud of dull sourness, is on the broad
phlegmatic face of his Majesty: who keeps declaring to the successive
Official-persons, what is evident, "Eh bien, me voila, Well, here you
have me;" and what is not evident, "I do assure you I did not mean to
pass the frontiers;" and so forth: speeches natural for that poor Royal
man; which Decency would veil. Silent is her Majesty, with a look of
grief and scorn; natural for that Royal Woman. Thus lumbers and
creeps the ignominious Royal Procession, through many streets, amid a
silent-gazing people: comparable, Mercier thinks, (Nouveau Paris, iii.
22.) to some Procession de Roi de Bazoche; or say, Procession of
King Crispin, with his Dukes of Sutor-mania and royal blazonry of
Cordwainery. Except indeed that this is not comic; ah no, it is
comico-tragic; with bound Couriers, and a Doom hanging over it; most
fantastic, yet most miserably real. Miserablest flebile ludibrium of a
Pickleherring Tragedy! It sweeps along there, in most ungorgeous pall,
through many streets, in the dusty summer evening; gets itself at l