One would hope, this Tribunal of the Seventeenth is swifter than most.  Already on the 21st, while our Court is but four days old, Collenot d’Angremont, ‘the Royal enlister’ (crimp, embaucheur) dies by torch-light.  For, lo, the great Guillotine, wondrous to behold, now stands there; the Doctor’s Idea has become Oak and Iron; the huge cyclopean axe ‘falls in its grooves like the ram of the Pile-engine,’ swiftly snuffing out the light of men?’ ’Mais vous, Gualches, what have you invented?’ This?—­Poor old Laporte, Intendant of the Civil List, follows next; quietly, the mild old man.  Then Durosoy, Royalist Placarder, ‘cashier of all the Anti-Revolutionists of the interior:’  he went rejoicing; said that a Royalist like him ought to die, of all days on this day, the 25th or Saint Louis’s Day.  All these have been tried, cast,—­the Galleries shouting approval; and handed over to the Realised Idea, within a week.  Besides those whom we have acquitted, the Galleries murmuring, and have dismissed; or even have personally guarded back to Prison, as the Galleries took to howling, and even to menacing and elbowing. (Moore’s Journal, i. 159-168.) Languid this Tribunal is not.

Nor does the other movement slacken; the rushing against foreign Despots.  Strong forces shall meet in death-grip; drilled Europe against mad undrilled France; and singular conclusions will be tried.—­Conceive therefore, in some faint degree, the tumult that whirls in this France, in this Paris!  Placards from Section, from Commune, from Legislative, from the individual Patriot, flame monitory on all walls.  Flags of Danger to Fatherland wave at the Hotel-de-Ville; on the Pont Neuf—­over the prostrate Statues of Kings.  There is universal enlisting, urging to enlist; there is tearful-boastful leave-taking; irregular marching on the Great North-Eastern Road.  Marseillese sing their wild To Arms, in chorus; which now all men, all women and children have learnt, and sing chorally, in Theatres, Boulevards, Streets; and the heart burns in every bosom:  Aux Armes!  Marchons!—­Or think how your Aristocrats are skulking into covert; how Bertrand-Moleville lies hidden in some garret ’in Aubry-le-boucher Street, with a poor surgeon who had known me;’ Dame de Stael has secreted her Narbonne, not knowing what in the world to make of him.  The Barriers are sometimes open, oftenest shut; no passports to be had; Townhall Emissaries, with the eyes and claws of falcons, flitting watchful on all points of your horizon!  In two words:  Tribunal of the Seventeenth, busy under howling Galleries; Prussian Brunswick, ‘over a space of forty miles,’ with his war-tumbrils, and sleeping thunders, and Briarean ‘sixty-six thousand’ (See Toulongeon, Hist. de France. ii. c. 5.) right-hands,—­coming, coming!