or Centre Grenadiers, shall have their mittimus:  they do ere long, in the Journals, not without a hoarse pathos, publish their Farewell; ’wishing all Aristocrats the graves in Paris which to us are denied.’ (Hist.  Parl. xiii. 73.) They depart, these first Soldiers of the Revolution; they hover very dimly in the distance for about another year; till they can be remodelled, new-named, and sent to fight the Austrians; and then History beholds them no more.  A most notable Corps of men; which has its place in World-History;—­though to us, so is History written, they remain mere rubrics of men; nameless; a shaggy Grenadier Mass, crossed with buff-belts.  And yet might we not ask:  What Argonauts, what Leonidas’ Spartans had done such a work?  Think of their destiny:  since that May morning, some three years ago, when they, unparticipating, trundled off d’Espremenil to the Calypso Isles; since that July evening, some two years ago, when they, participating and sacreing with knit brows, poured a volley into Besenval’s Prince de Lambesc!  History waves them her mute adieu.

So that the Sovereign Power, these Sansculottic Watchdogs, more like wolves, being leashed and led away from his Tuileries, breathes freer.  The Sovereign Power is guarded henceforth by a loyal Eighteen hundred,—­whom Contrivance, under various pretexts, may gradually swell to Six thousand; who will hinder no Journey to Saint-Cloud.  The sad Varennes business has been soldered up; cemented, even in the blood of the Champ-de-Mars, these two months and more; and indeed ever since, as formerly, Majesty has had its privileges, its ‘choice of residence,’ though, for good reasons, the royal mind ‘prefers continuing in Paris.’  Poor royal mind, poor Paris; that have to go mumming; enveloped in speciosities, in falsehood which knows itself false; and to enact mutually your sorrowful farce-tragedy, being bound to it; and on the whole, to hope always, in spite of hope!

Nay, now that his Majesty has accepted the Constitution, to the sound of cannon-salvoes, who would not hope?  Our good King was misguided but he meant well.  Lafayette has moved for an Amnesty, for universal forgiving and forgetting of Revolutionary faults; and now surely the glorious Revolution cleared of its rubbish, is complete!  Strange enough, and touching in several ways, the old cry of Vive le Roi once more rises round King Louis the Hereditary Representative.  Their Majesties went to the Opera; gave money to the Poor:  the Queen herself, now when the Constitution is accepted, hears voice of cheering.  Bygone shall be bygone; the New Era shall begin!  To and fro, amid those lamp-galaxies of the Elysian Fields, the Royal Carriage slowly wends and rolls; every where with vivats, from a multitude striving to be glad.  Louis looks out, mainly on the variegated lamps and gay human groups, with satisfaction enough for the hour.  In her Majesty’s face, ’under that kind graceful smile a deep sadness is legible.’ (De Stael,