Behold, the fire slackens not; nor does the Swiss rolling-fire slacken from within.  Nay they clutched cannon, as we saw:  and now, from the other side, they clutch three pieces more; alas, cannon without linstock; nor will the steel-and-flint answer, though they try it. (Deux Amis, viii. 179-88.) Had it chanced to answer!  Patriot onlookers have their misgivings; one strangest Patriot onlooker thinks that the Swiss, had they a commander, would beat.  He is a man not unqualified to judge; the name of him is Napoleon Buonaparte. (See Hist.  Parl. (xvii. 56); Las Cases, &c.) And onlookers, and women, stand gazing, and the witty Dr. Moore of Glasgow among them, on the other side of the River:  cannon rush rumbling past them; pause on the Pont Royal; belch out their iron entrails there, against the Tuileries; and at every new belch, the women and onlookers shout and clap hands. (Moore, Journal during a Residence in France (Dublin, 1793), i. 26.) City of all the Devils!  In remote streets, men are drinking breakfast-coffee; following their affairs; with a start now and then, as some dull echo reverberates a note louder.  And here?  Marseillese fall wounded; but Barbaroux has surgeons; Barbaroux is close by, managing, though underhand, and under cover.  Marseillese fall death-struck; bequeath their firelock, specify in which pocket are the cartridges; and die, murmuring, “Revenge me, Revenge thy country!” Brest Federe Officers, galloping in red coats, are shot as Swiss.  Lo you, the Carrousel has burst into flame!—­Paris Pandemonium!  Nay the poor City, as we said, is in fever-fit and convulsion; such crisis has lasted for the space of some half hour.

But what is this that, with Legislative Insignia, ventures through the hubbub and death-hail, from the back-entrance of the Manege?  Towards the Tuileries and Swiss:  written Order from his Majesty to cease firing!  O ye hapless Swiss, why was there no order not to begin it?  Gladly would the Swiss cease firing:  but who will bid mad Insurrection cease firing?  To Insurrection you cannot speak; neither can it, hydra-headed, hear.  The dead and dying, by the hundred, lie all around; are borne bleeding through the streets, towards help; the sight of them, like a torch of the Furies, kindling Madness.  Patriot Paris roars; as the bear bereaved of her whelps.  On, ye Patriots:  vengeance! victory or death!  There are men seen, who rush on, armed only with walking-sticks. (Hist.  Parl. ubi supra.  Rapport du Captaine des Canonniers, Rapport du Commandant, &c.  Ibid. xvii. 300-18.) Terror and Fury rule the hour.

The Swiss, pressed on from without, paralyzed from within, have ceased to shoot; but not to be shot.  What shall they do?  Desperate is the moment.  Shelter or instant death:  yet How?  Where?  One party flies out by the Rue de l’Echelle; is destroyed utterly, ‘en entier.’  A second, by the other side, throws itself into the Garden; ’hurrying across a keen fusillade:’  rushes suppliant into the National Assembly; finds