Meanwhile, the faster, O ye black-aproned Smiths, smite; with strong arm and willing heart.  This man and that, all stroke from head to heel, shall thunder alternating, and ply the great forge-hammer, till stithy reel and ring again; while ever and anon, overhead, booms the alarm-cannon,—­for the City has now got gunpowder.  Pikes are fabricated; fifty thousand of them, in six-and-thirty hours:  judge whether the Black-aproned have been idle.  Dig trenches, unpave the streets, ye others, assiduous, man and maid; cram the earth in barrel-barricades, at each of them a volunteer sentry; pile the whinstones in window-sills and upper rooms.  Have scalding pitch, at least boiling water ready, ye weak old women, to pour it and dash it on Royal-Allemand, with your old skinny arms:  your shrill curses along with it will not be wanting!—­Patrols of the newborn National Guard, bearing torches, scour the streets, all that night; which otherwise are vacant, yet illuminated in every window by order.  Strange-looking; like some naphtha-lighted City of the Dead, with here and there a flight of perturbed Ghosts.

O poor mortals, how ye make this Earth bitter for each other; this fearful and wonderful Life fearful and horrible; and Satan has his place in all hearts!  Such agonies and ragings and wailings ye have, and have had, in all times:—­to be buried all, in so deep silence; and the salt sea is not swoln with your tears.

Great meanwhile is the moment, when tidings of Freedom reach us; when the long-enthralled soul, from amid its chains and squalid stagnancy, arises, were it still only in blindness and bewilderment, and swears by Him that made it, that it will be free!  Free?  Understand that well, it is the deep commandment, dimmer or clearer, of our whole being, to be free.  Freedom is the one purport, wisely aimed at, or unwisely, of all man’s struggles, toilings and sufferings, in this Earth.  Yes, supreme is such a moment (if thou have known it):  first vision as of a flame-girt Sinai, in this our waste Pilgrimage,—­which thenceforth wants not its pillar of cloud by day, and pillar of fire by night!  Something it is even,—­nay, something considerable, when the chains have grown corrosive, poisonous, to be free ‘from oppression by our fellow-man.’  Forward, ye maddened sons of France; be it towards this destiny or towards that!  Around you is but starvation, falsehood, corruption and the clam of death.  Where ye are is no abiding.

Imagination may, imperfectly, figure how Commandant Besenval, in the Champ-de-Mars, has worn out these sorrowful hours Insurrection all round; his men melting away!  From Versailles, to the most pressing messages, comes no answer; or once only some vague word of answer which is worse than none.  A Council of Officers can decide merely that there is no decision:  Colonels inform him, ‘weeping,’ that they do not think their men will fight.  Cruel uncertainty is here:  war-god Broglie sits yonder, inaccessible in his Olympus; does not descend terror-clad, does not produce his whiff of grapeshot; sends no orders.