we retain Mayor Petion, for the present walking in the Tuileries; Procureur Manuel; Procureur Substitute Danton, invisible Atlas of the whole.  And so, with our Hundred and forty-four, among whom are a Tocsin-Huguenin, a Billaud, a Chaumette; and Editor-Talliens, and Fabre d’Eglantines, Sergents, Panises; and in brief, either emergent, or else emerged and full-blown, the entire Flower of unlimited Patriotism:  have we not, as by magic, made a New Municipality; ready to act in the unlimited manner; and declare itself roundly, ’in a State of Insurrection!’—­First of all, then, be Commandant Mandat sent for, with that Mayor’s-Order of his; also let the New Municipals visit those Squadrons that were to charge; and let the stormbell ring its loudest;—­and, on the whole, Forward, ye Hundred and forty-four; retreat is now none for you!

Reader, fancy not, in thy languid way, that Insurrection is easy.  Insurrection is difficult:  each individual uncertain even of his next neighbour; totally uncertain of his distant neighbours, what strength is with him, what strength is against him; certain only that, in case of failure, his individual portion is the gallows!  Eight hundred thousand heads, and in each of them a separate estimate of these uncertainties, a separate theorem of action conformable to that:  out of so many uncertainties, does the certainty, and inevitable net-result never to be abolished, go on, at all moments, bodying itself forth;—­leading thee also towards civic-crowns or an ignominious noose.

Could the Reader take an Asmodeus’s Flight, and waving open all roofs and privacies, look down from the Tower of Notre Dame, what a Paris were it!  Of treble-voice whimperings or vehemence, of bass-voice growlings, dubitations; Courage screwing itself to desperate defiance; Cowardice trembling silent within barred doors;—­and all round, Dulness calmly snoring; for much Dulness, flung on its mattresses, always sleeps.  O, between the clangour of these high-storming tocsins and that snore of Dulness, what a gamut:  of trepidation, excitation, desperation; and above it mere Doubt, Danger, Atropos and Nox!

Fighters of this section draw out; hear that the next Section does not; and thereupon draw in.  Saint-Antoine, on this side the River, is uncertain of Saint-Marceau on that.  Steady only is the snore of Dulness, are the Six Hundred Marseillese that know how to die!  Mandat, twice summoned to the Townhall, has not come.  Scouts fly incessant, in distracted haste; and the many-whispering voices of Rumour.  Theroigne and unofficial Patriots flit, dim-visible, exploratory, far and wide; like Night-birds on the wing.  Of Nationals some Three thousand have followed Mandat and his generale; the rest follow each his own theorem of the uncertainties:  theorem, that one should march rather with Saint-Antoine; innumerable theorems, that in such a case the wholesomest were sleep.  And so the drums beat, in made fits, and the stormbells