of iron, and with well appointed hosts of vassals at their backs: but by the common body of the citizens of Paris; the labouring classes—mechanics—manufacturers—merchants—boys from the Polytechnic school; rushing naked and unarmed, upon the armed bands of the king; without a leader to direct their movements, and yet moving with a judgment, a concert, an energy that would have done honor to the ablest general; and, at the same time, with a moderation, a humanity, an integrity, a respect for private property and private feelings that would have graced the noblest school of philosophers in ancient times, or of christians in modern; finishing the whole stupendous operation in three days, and then returning, quietly and peaceably to their respective occupations, and committing the details of their political arrangements to their more experienced friends!
In the stern decision, in the rapid and resistless execution, in the thorough accomplishment of the purpose, and in the sudden and perfect calm that succeeded, tyrants may read a lesson that may well make them tremble on their thrones; for they see that it is only for the people to resolve, and it is done.
Had this story been told to us by some writer of romance, as the product of his own imagination, there is not a man among us who would not have condemned it as unnatural, improbable, a mere extravagance entirely out of keeping with the human character. And yet the thing has actually taken place; the work has been done, and well and nobly done.
The French have sometimes been spoken of as a light people, without depth or stability of character. Let those who thus describe them, open the annals of England (the Rome of modern times) and shew us there, a movement, from the period of their invasion by Julius Cæsar to the present day, that can match this magnificent
movement of the common people of Paris. No. In the enlightened motive, in the station of the actors, in the character of the action itself, and in its beautiful consummation, there is nothing in the archives of history, ancient or modern, nor even in the volumes of the boldest and wildest imagination, that will bear a comparison. It was for liberty they struck, and the blow was the bolt of heaven. The throne of the tyrant fell before it. The work was done: and all was peace. Well may we be proud to claim such a people as our friends and allies, and to unite in this public demonstration of joy at their triumph.
To give us a still deeper interest in the transaction, whom do we see mingling brilliantly in the conflict, partaking of the triumph, and benevolently tempering and guiding its results? Lafayette, our own Lafayette, the brave, the good, the friend of man. Well may we call him our own: for he gave to us the flower of his youth! freely sacrificed the splendors of a court, all the pleasures and enjoyments natural to his age, nay his fortune and his blood, on the altar of our liberty. With the weight of more than seventy winters upon his head, broken with the struggles of a long life devoted to the cause of liberty, in America and in France—a cause which he has never ceased to cherish in the midst of the most depressing circumstances, even in the dungeon's gloom—we see him now throwing off at once the weight of years, recovering, as if by magic, all the animation of his youth, with all its generosity and humanity; building up the liberties of his country with one hand, and with the other, protecting and alleviating the misfortunes of the fallen dynasty, and its misguided adherents. This is, indeed, to ride like an angel in the whirlwind and direct the storm: like an angel whose mercy is equal to his power. Yes—if any thing could swell still louder the note of our exultation at this great achievement,
it is the part which Lafayette, the noble pupil of our Washington, has borne and is still bearing in it. He seems to have been preserved by heaven, amid the countless perils through which he has passed, that he might witness the final triumph of liberty in his native land. The great object of his life, that alone for which he seemed to wish to live, is accomplished; and he wears, at this moment, a brighter crown than ever graced the brow of a Bourbon; for it is formed of the best affections, the love and gratitude of an admiring world.
Here let us pause, and endeavor to recover from the amazement with which such an event is calculated to overwhelm the mind, that we may contemplate it more calmly.
On the first arrival of the intelligence, we involuntarily asked ourselves, "Can this be a reality?" And when we could no longer doubt the evidence of the fact, the next anxious inquiry which pressed itself upon us, was "Will it stand, or are we again to be disappointed as we were by the revolution of 1789?"
This is not a question of mere idle and speculative curiosity with regard to which we are indifferent about the result. It is one in which our feelings are keenly interested; and more—it is one of deep and awful import to the liberties of the world. For if France is again to revolve through years and through seas of blood and crime, and to terminate, at last, at the point from which she set out—a despotism—despair will fill the European world, and the people will be disposed rather to bear the ills they have, than to encounter the unavailing horrors of the double precedent which France will have set. Let us look, therefore, calmly, for a few moments, at the very interesting question of the probable stability and success of this revolution.