riots to follow their example.

"Bravo! adopted!" responded the audience.

The Citizen Jean Jacques Langreneux, a printer in the Rue Dauphin, would
like to have a monument raised to the memory of the martyrs of
Thermidor.

Michel Evariste Nepomucene, ex-professor, gave expression to the wish
that the European democracy should adopt unity of language. A dead
language might be used for that purpose--as, for example, improved
Latin.

"No; no Latin!" exclaimed the architect.

"Why?" said the college-usher.

And these two gentlemen engaged in a discussion, in which the others
also took part, each putting in a word of his own for effect; and the
conversation on this topic soon became so tedious that many went away.
But a little old man, who wore at the top of his prodigiously high
forehead a pair of green spectacles, asked permission to speak in order
to make an important communication.

It was a memorandum on the assessment of taxes. The figures flowed on in
a continuous stream, as if they were never going to end. The impatience
of the audience found vent at first in murmurs, in whispered talk. He
allowed nothing to put him out. Then they began hissing; they catcalled
him. Senecal called the persons who were interrupting to order. The
orator went on like a machine. It was necessary to catch him by the
shoulder in order to stop him. The old fellow looked as if he were
waking out of a dream, and, placidly lifting his spectacles, said:

"Pardon me, citizens! pardon me! I am going--a thousand excuses!"

Frederick was disconcerted with the failure of the old man's attempts to
read this written statement. He had his own address in his pocket, but
an extemporaneous speech would have been preferable.

Finally the president announced that they were about to pass on to the
important matter, the electoral question. They would not discuss the big
Republican lists. However, the "Club of Intellect" had every right, like
every other, to form one, "with all respect for the pachas of the Hotel
de Ville," and the citizens who solicited the popular mandate might set
forth their claims.

"Go on, now!" said Dussardier.

A man in a cassock, with woolly hair and a petulant expression on his
face, had already raised his hand. He said, with a stutter, that his
name was Ducretot, priest and agriculturist, and that he was the author
of a work entitled "Manures." He was told to send it to a horticultural
club.

Then a patriot in a blou