ground its arms; will ‘march in a quarter of an hour.’  Nay these poor effervesced require ‘escort’ to march with, and get it; though they are thousands strong, and have thirty ball-cartridges a man!  The Sun is not yet down, when Peace, which might have come bloodless, has come bloody:  the mutinous Regiments are on march, doleful, on their three Routes; and from Nanci rises wail of women and men, the voice of weeping and desolation; the City weeping for its slain who awaken not.  These streets are empty but for victorious patrols.

Thus has Fortune, favouring the brave, dragged Bouille, as himself says, out of such a frightful peril, ‘by the hair of the head.’  An intrepid adamantine man this Bouille:—­had he stood in old Broglie’s place, in those Bastille days, it might have been all different!  He has extinguished mutiny, and immeasurable civil war.  Not for nothing, as we see; yet at a rate which he and Constitutional Patriotism considers cheap.  Nay, as for Bouille, he, urged by subsequent contradiction which arose, declares coldly, it was rather against his own private mind, and more by public military rule of duty, that he did extinguish it, (Bouille, i. 175.)—­immeasurable civil war being now the only chance.  Urged, we say, by subsequent contradiction!  Civil war, indeed, is Chaos; and in all vital Chaos, there is new Order shaping itself free:  but what a faith this, that of all new Orders out of Chaos and Possibility of Man and his Universe, Louis Sixteenth and Two-Chamber Monarchy were precisely the one that would shape itself!  It is like undertaking to throw deuce-ace, say only five hundred successive times, and any other throw to be fatal—­for Bouille.  Rather thank Fortune, and Heaven, always, thou intrepid Bouille; and let contradiction of its way!  Civil war, conflagrating universally over France at this moment, might have led to one thing or to another thing:  meanwhile, to quench conflagration, wheresoever one finds it, wheresoever one can; this, in all times, is the rule for man and General Officer.

But at Paris, so agitated and divided, fancy how it went, when the continually vibrating Orderlies vibrated thither at hand gallop, with such questionable news!  High is the gratulation; and also deep the indignation.  An august Assembly, by overwhelming majorities, passionately thanks Bouille; a King’s autograph, the voices of all Loyal, all Constitutional men run to the same tenor.  A solemn National funeral-service, for the Law-defenders slain at Nanci; is said and sung in the Champ de Mars; Bailly, Lafayette and National Guards, all except the few that protested, assist.  With pomp and circumstance, with episcopal Calicoes in tricolor girdles, Altar of Fatherland smoking with cassolettes, or incense-kettles; the vast Champ-de-Mars wholly hung round with black mortcloth,—­which mortcloth and expenditure Marat thinks had better have been laid out in bread, in these dear days, and given to the hungry living Patriot. (Ami du Peuple in Hist.  Parl., ubi supra.) On the other hand, living Patriotism, and Saint-Antoine, which we have seen noisily closing its shops and such like, assembles now ‘to the number of forty thousand;’ and, with loud cries, under the very windows of the thanking National Assembly, demands revenge for murdered Brothers, judgment on Bouille, and instant dismissal of War-Minister Latour du Pin.