a hundred feet in stature; and dance their huge Desert-waltz there!—
Nevertheless, in all human movements, were they but a day old, there is order, or the beginning of order. Consider two things in this Sahara-waltz of the French Twenty-five millions; or rather one thing, and one hope of a thing; the Commune (Municipality) of Paris, which is already here; the National Convention, which shall in a few weeks be here. The Insurrrectionary Commune, which, improvising itself on the eve of the Tenth of August, worked this ever-memorable Deliverance by explosion, must needs rule over it,—till the Convention meet. This Commune, which they may well call a spontaneous or 'improvised' Commune, is, for the present, sovereign of France. The Legislative, deriving its authority from the Old, how can it now have authority when the Old is exploded by insurrection? As a floating piece of wreck, certain things, persons, and interests may still cleave to it: volunteer defenders, riflemen or pikemen in green uniform, or red nightcap (of bonnet rouge), defile before it daily, just on the wing towards Brunswick; with the brandishing of arms; always with some touch of Leonidas-eloquence, often with a fire of daring that threatens to outherod Herod,—the Galleries, 'especially the Ladies, never done with applauding.'[1] Addresses of this or the like sort can be received and answered, in the hearing of all France; the Salle de Manége is still useful as a place of proclamation. For which use, indeed, it now chiefly serves. Vergniaud delivers spirit-stirring orations; but always with a prophetic sense only, looking towards the coming Convention. 'Let our memory perish,' cries Vergniaud; 'but let France be free!'—whereupon they all start to their feet, shouting responsive: 'Yes, yes, périsse notre mémoire, pourvu que la France soit libre!'[2] Disfrocked Chabot adjures Heaven that at least we may 'have done with Kings'; and fast as powder under spark, we all blaze-up once more, and with waved hats shout and swear: ' Yes, nous le jurons;
