anger of
effervescence is surely proper, the Forty-eight Sections have got their
Central Committee; intended 'for prompt communication.' To which Central
Committee the Municipality, anxious to have it at hand, could not refuse
an Apartment in the Hotel-de-Ville.

Singular City! For overhead of all this, there is the customary baking
and brewing; Labour hammers and grinds. Frilled promenaders saunter
under the trees; white-muslin promenaderess, in green parasol, leaning
on your arm. Dogs dance, and shoeblacks polish, on that Pont Neuf
itself, where Fatherland is in danger. So much goes its course; and yet
the course of all things is nigh altering and ending.

Look at that Tuileries and Tuileries Garden. Silent all as Sahara; none
entering save by ticket! They shut their Gates, after the Day of
the Black Breeches; a thing they had the liberty to do. However, the
National Assembly grumbled something about Terrace of the Feuillants,
how said Terrace lay contiguous to the back entrance to their Salle, and
was partly National Property; and so now National Justice has stretched
a Tricolor Riband athwart, by way of boundary-line, respected with
splenetic strictness by all Patriots. It hangs there that Tricolor
boundary-line; carries 'satirical inscriptions on cards,' generally
in verse; and all beyond this is called Coblentz, and remains vacant;
silent, as a fateful Golgotha; sunshine and umbrage alternating on it in
vain. Fateful Circuit; what hope can dwell in it? Mysterious Tickets
of Entry introduce themselves; speak of Insurrection very imminent.
Rivarol's Staff of Genius had better purchase blunderbusses; Grenadier
bonnets, red Swiss uniforms may be useful. Insurrection will come; but
likewise will it not be met? Staved off, one may hope, till Brunswick
arrive?

But consider withal if the Bourne-stones and Portable chairs remain
silent; if the Herald's College of Bill-Stickers sleep! Louvet's
Sentinel warns gratis on all walls; Sulleau is busy: People's-Friend
Marat and King's-Friend Royou croak and counter-croak. For the man
Marat, though long hidden since that Champ-de-Mars Massacre, is still
alive. He has lain, who knows in what Cellars; perhaps in Legendre's;
fed by a steak of Legendre's killing: but, since April, the bull-frog
voice of him sounds again; hoarsest of earthly cries. For the present,
black terror haunts him: O brave Barbaroux wilt thou not smuggle me to
Marseilles, 'disguised as a jockey?' (Barbaroux,