ten predicted, do now recede
from the Mother Society, and become Feuillans; threatening her with
inanition, the rank and respectability being mostly gone. Petition after
Petition, forwarded by Post, or borne in Deputation, comes praying for
Judgment and Decheance, which is our name for Deposition; praying, at
lowest, for Reference to the Eighty-three Departments of France. Hot
Marseillese Deputation comes declaring, among other things: "Our Phocean
Ancestors flung a Bar of Iron into the Bay at their first landing; this
Bar will float again on the Mediterranean brine before we consent to be
slaves." All this for four weeks or more, while the matter still hangs
doubtful; Emigration streaming with double violence over the frontiers;
(Bouille, ii. 101.) France seething in fierce agitation of this question
and prize-question: What is to be done with the fugitive Hereditary
Representative?

Finally, on Friday the 15th of July 1791, the National Assembly decides;
in what negatory manner we know. Whereupon the Theatres all close, the
Bourne-stones and Portable-chairs begin spouting, Municipal Placards
flaming on the walls, and Proclamations published by sound of trumpet,
'invite to repose;' with small effect. And so, on Sunday the 17th, there
shall be a thing seen, worthy of remembering. Scroll of a Petition,
drawn up by Brissots, Dantons, by Cordeliers, Jacobins; for the thing
was infinitely shaken and manipulated, and many had a hand in it: such
Scroll lies now visible, on the wooden framework of the Fatherland's
Altar, for signature. Unworking Paris, male and female, is crowding
thither, all day, to sign or to see. Our fair Roland herself the eye of
History can discern there, 'in the morning;' (Madame Roland, ii. 74.)
not without interest. In few weeks the fair Patriot will quit Paris; yet
perhaps only to return.

But, what with sorrow of baulked Patriotism, what with closed theatres,
and Proclamations still publishing themselves by sound of trumpet, the
fervour of men's minds, this day, is great. Nay, over and above, there
has fallen out an incident, of the nature of Farce-Tragedy and Riddle;
enough to stimulate all creatures. Early in the day, a Patriot (or some
say, it was a Patriotess, and indeed Truth is undiscoverable), while
standing on the firm deal-board of Fatherland's Altar, feels suddenly,
with indescribable torpedo-shock of amazement, his bootsole pricked
through from below; he clutches up suddenly this electri