ociferate the trusty partisans of the faubourgs.
"He is the Catholic Emperor," murmur the devout in the sacristies. How
happy he would be if he could pass in the latter for Constantine, and
in the former for Babeuf! Watchwords are repeated, adhesion is
declared, enthusiasm spreads from one to another, the Ecole Militaire
draws his cypher with bayonets and pistol-barrels, Abbe Gaume and
Cardinal Gousset applaud, his bust is crowned with flowers in the
market, Nanterre dedicates rosebushes to him, social order is certainly
saved, property, family, and religion breathe again, and the police
erect a statue to him.

Of bronze?

Fie! that may do for the uncle.

Of marble! _Tu es Pietri et super hanc pietram aedificabo effigiem
meam._[1]

[1] We read in the Bonapartist correspondence:--"The committee
appointed by the clerks of the prefecture of police, considers
that bronze is not worthy to represent the image of the Prince;
it will therefore be executed in marble; and it will be placed on
a marble pedestal. The following inscription will be cut in the
costly and superb stone: 'Souvenir of the oath of fidelity to the
Prince-President, taken by the clerks of the prefecture of
police, the 29th of May, 1862, before M. Pietri, Prefect of
Police.'

"The subscriptions of the clerks, whose zeal it was necessary to
moderate, will be apportioned as follows:--Chief of division
10fr., chief of a bureau 6fr., clerks at a salary of 1,800fr.,
3fr.; at 1,500fr., 2fr. 50c.; and finally, at 1,200fr., 2fr. It
is calculated that this subscription will amount to upwards of
6,000 francs."

That which he attacks, that which he persecutes, that which they all
persecute with him, upon which they pounce, which they wish to crush,
to burn, to suppress, to destroy, to annihilate, is it this poor
obscure man who is called primary instructor? Is it this sheet of paper
that is called a journal? Is it this bundle of sheets which is called a
book? Is it this machine of wood and iron which is called a press? No,
it is thou, thought, it is thou, human reason, it is thou, nineteenth
century, it is thou, Providence, it is thou, God!

We who combat them are "the eternal enemies of order." We are--for they
can as yet find nothing but this worn-out word--we are demagogues.

In the language of the Duke of Alva, to believe in the sacredness of
the human conscience, to