That terrible morning gave the deathblow to the mighty monarchy of the Bourbons.  The throne was so shaken by the popular arm, that though it preserved a semblance of its original shape, a breath was sufficient to cast it to the ground.  I have no heart for the recital.  Even now I can scarcely think of that tremendous pageant of popular fantasy, fury, and the very passion of crime; or bring to my mind’s eye that column, which seemed then to be boundless and endless, with the glare of its torches, the rattle of its drums, the grinding of its cannon-wheels, as we rushed along the causeway, from time to time stopping to fire, as a summons to the other districts, and as a note of exultation; or the perpetual, sullen, and deep roar of the populace—­without a thrilling sense of perplexity and pain.

Long before daybreak we had swept all minor resistance before us, plundered the arsenal of its arms, and taken possession of the Hotel de Ville.  The few troops who had kept guard at the different posts on our way, had been captured without an effort, or joined the insurgents.  But intelligence now came that the palace was roused at last, that troops were ordered from the country for its defence, and that the noblesse remaining in the capital were crowding to the Tuileries.  I stood beside Danton when those tidings were brought to him.  He flung up his cap in the air, with a burst of laughter.  “So much the better!” he exclaimed; “the closer the preserve, the thicker the game.”  I had now a complete view of this hero of democracy.  His figure was herculean; his countenance, which possibly, in his younger days, had been handsome, was now marked with the lines of every passion and profligacy, but it was still commanding.  His costume was one which he had chosen for himself, and which was worn by his peculiar troop; a short brown mantle, an under-robe with the arms naked to the shoulder, a broad leathern belt loaded with pistols, a huge sabre in hand, rusted from hilt to point, which he declared to have been stained with the blood of aristocrats, and the republican red cap, which he frequently waved in the air, or lifted on the point of his sabre as a standard.  Yet, in the midst of all this savage disorder of costume, I observed every hair of his enormous whiskers to be curled with the care of a Parisian merveilleux.  It was the most curious specimen of the ruling passion that I remember to have seen.

At the Hotel de Ville, Danton entered the hall with several of the insurgents; and the crowd, unwilling to waste time, began to fire at the little statues and insignia of the French kings, which ornamented this old building.  When this amusement palled—­the French are easily ennuied—­they formed circles, and danced the Carmagnole.  Rum and brandy, largely introduced among them, gave them animation after their night’s watching, and they were fit for any atrocity.  But the beating of drums, and a rush to the balconies of the Hotel de Ville,