Not so:  on the Twentieth morning of June, a large Tree of Liberty, Lombardy Poplar by kind, lies visibly tied on its car, in the Suburb-Antoine.  Suburb Saint-Marceau too, in the uttermost South-East, and all that remote Oriental region, Pikemen and Pikewomen, National Guards, and the unarmed curious are gathering,—­with the peaceablest intentions in the world.  A tricolor Municipal arrives; speaks.  Tush, it is all peaceable, we tell thee, in the way of Law:  are not Petitions allowable, and the Patriotism of Mais?  The tricolor Municipal returns without effect:  your Sansculottic rills continue flowing, combining into brooks:  towards noontide, led by tall Santerre in blue uniform, by tall Saint-Huruge in white hat, it moves Westward, a respectable river, or complication of still-swelling rivers.

What Processions have we not seen:  Corpus-Christi and Legendre waiting in Gig; Bones of Voltaire with bullock-chariots, and goadsmen in Roman Costume; Feasts of Chateau-Vieux and Simonneau; Gouvion Funerals, Rousseau Sham-Funerals, and the Baptism of Petion-National-Pike!  Nevertheless this Procession has a character of its own.  Tricolor ribands streaming aloft from pike-heads; ironshod batons; and emblems not a few; among which, see specially these two, of the tragic and the untragic sort:  a Bull’s Heart transfixed with iron, bearing this epigraph, ‘Coeur d’Aristocrate, Aristocrat’s Heart;’ and, more striking still, properly the standard of the host, a pair of old Black Breeches (silk, they say), extended on cross-staff high overhead, with these memorable words:  ’Tremblez tyrans, voila les Sansculottes, Tremble tyrants, here are the Sans-indispensables!’ Also, the Procession trails two cannons.

Scarfed tricolor Municipals do now again meet it, in the Quai Saint-Bernard; and plead earnestly, having called halt.  Peaceable, ye virtuous tricolor Municipals, peaceable are we as the sucking dove.  Behold our Tennis-Court Mai.  Petition is legal; and as for arms, did not an august Legislative receive the so-called Eight Thousand in arms, Feuillants though they were?  Our Pikes, are they not of National iron?  Law is our father and mother, whom we will not dishonour; but Patriotism is our own soul.  Peaceable, ye virtuous Municipals;—­and on the whole, limited as to time!  Stop we cannot; march ye with us.—­The Black Breeches agitate themselves, impatient; the cannon-wheels grumble:  the many-footed Host tramps on.

How it reached the Salle de Manege, like an ever-waxing river; got admittance, after debate; read its Address; and defiled, dancing and ca-ira-ing, led by tall sonorous Santerre and tall sonorous Saint-Huruge:  how it flowed, not now a waxing river but a shut Caspian lake, round all Precincts of the Tuileries; the front Patriot squeezed by the rearward, against barred iron Grates, like to have the life squeezed out of him, and looking too into the dread throat of cannon, for National Battalions stand ranked within:  how tricolor Municipals ran assiduous, and Royalists with Tickets of Entry; and both Majesties sat in the interior surrounded by men in black:  all this the human mind shall fancy for itself, or read in old Newspapers, and Syndic Roederer’s Chronicle of Fifty Days. (Roederer, &c. &c. in Hist.  Parl. xv. 98-194.)