street clear.  With which spirited resolution, as might have been hoped, the business is got ended.  At sight of the lit matches, of the foreign red-coated Switzers, Saint-Antoine dissipates; hastily, in the shades of dusk.  There is an encumbered street; there are ‘from four to five hundred’ dead men.  Unfortunate Reveillon has found shelter in the Bastille; does therefrom, safe behind stone bulwarks, issue, plaint, protestation, explanation, for the next month.  Bold Besenval has thanks from all the respectable Parisian classes; but finds no special notice taken of him at Versailles,—­a thing the man of true worth is used to. (Besenval, iii. 389.)

But how it originated, this fierce electric sputter and explosion?  From D’Orleans! cries the Court-party:  he, with his gold, enlisted these Brigands,—­surely in some surprising manner, without sound of drum:  he raked them in hither, from all corners; to ferment and take fire; evil is his good.  From the Court! cries enlightened Patriotism:  it is the cursed gold and wiles of Aristocrats that enlisted them; set them upon ruining an innocent Sieur Reveillon; to frighten the faint, and disgust men with the career of Freedom.

Besenval, with reluctance, concludes that it came from ’the English, our natural enemies.’  Or, alas, might not one rather attribute it to Diana in the shape of Hunger?  To some twin Dioscuri, oppression and revenge; so often seen in the battles of men?  Poor Lackalls, all betoiled, besoiled, encrusted into dim defacement; into whom nevertheless the breath of the Almighty has breathed a living soul!  To them it is clear only that eleutheromaniac Philosophism has yet baked no bread; that Patrioti Committee-men will level down to their own level, and no lower.  Brigands, or whatever they might be, it was bitter earnest with them.  They bury their dead with the title of Defenseurs de la Patrie, Martyrs of the good Cause.

Or shall we say:  Insurrection has now served its Apprenticeship; and this was its proof-stroke, and no inconclusive one?  Its next will be a master-stroke; announcing indisputable Mastership to a whole astonished world.  Let that rock-fortress, Tyranny’s stronghold, which they name Bastille, or Building, as if there were no other building,—­look to its guns!

But, in such wise, with primary and secondary Assemblies, and Cahiers of Grievances; with motions, congregations of all kinds; with much thunder of froth-eloquence, and at last with thunder of platoon-musquetry,—­does agitated France accomplish its Elections.  With confused winnowing and sifting, in this rather tumultuous manner, it has now (all except some remnants of Paris) sifted out the true wheat-grains of National Deputies, Twelve Hundred and Fourteen in number; and will forthwith open its States-General.

Chapter 1.4.IV.

The Procession.