ing a list of Bastille Heroes. O Friends, stain not with
blood the greenest laurels ever gained in this world: such is the burden
of Elie's song; could it but be listened to. Courage, Elie! Courage,
ye Municipal Electors! A declining sun; the need of victuals, and of
telling news, will bring assuagement, dispersion: all earthly things
must end.

Along the streets of Paris circulate Seven Bastille Prisoners, borne
shoulder-high: seven Heads on pikes; the Keys of the Bastille; and much
else. See also the Garde Francaises, in their steadfast military way,
marching home to their barracks, with the Invalides and Swiss kindly
enclosed in hollow square. It is one year and two months since these
same men stood unparticipating, with Brennus d'Agoust at the Palais
de Justice, when Fate overtook d'Espremenil; and now they have
participated; and will participate. Not Gardes Francaises henceforth,
but Centre Grenadiers of the National Guard: men of iron discipline and
humour,--not without a kind of thought in them!

Likewise ashlar stones of the Bastille continue thundering through the
dusk; its paper-archives shall fly white. Old secrets come to view; and
long-buried Despair finds voice. Read this portion of an old Letter:
(Dated, a la Bastille, 7 Octobre, 1752; signed Queret-Demery. Bastille
Devoilee, in Linguet, Memoires sur la Bastille (Paris, 1821), p. 199.)
'If for my consolation Monseigneur would grant me for the sake of God
and the Most Blessed Trinity, that I could have news of my dear wife;
were it only her name on card to shew that she is alive! It were the
greatest consolation I could receive; and I should for ever bless the
greatness of Monseigneur.' Poor Prisoner, who namest thyself Queret
Demery, and hast no other history,--she is dead, that dear wife of
thine, and thou art dead! 'Tis fifty years since thy breaking heart put
this question; to be heard now first, and long heard, in the hearts of
men.

But so does the July twilight thicken; so must Paris, as sick children,
and all distracted creatures do, brawl itself finally into a kind
of sleep. Municipal Electors, astonished to find their heads still
uppermost, are home: only Moreau de Saint-Mery of tropical birth and
heart, of coolest judgment; he, with two others, shall sit permanent at
the Townhall. Paris sleeps; gleams upward the illuminated City: patrols
go clashing, without common watchword; there go rumours; alarms of
war, to the extent of 'fifteen thousand