soon the jealousy of the young generals may not be turned against each other, and they may not leave the country once more a prey to the dangers of a bloody faction; or which, if not more than one, may not fall a victim to the treachery of a vanquished party's vengeance by assassination? The leaves of the book are blank as regards the future. No one can venture to trace even the slightest outline upon them, with the assurance that it may hereafter be filled up as it has been drawn: and yet that those blank leaves must and will be filled with startling pictures once again, no one can doubt. How far will these young generals supply the most prominent figures in them? together, or sundered in opposition? The hand of fate is ready to trace those sketches; but never was that hand more hidden in the dark cloud of unfathomable mystery. The blank leaves of the album, in which the observing and self-regulating man keeps a daily journal of his doings and his thoughts, are always awful to contemplate: no thinking man can look upon them without asking himself what words, for good or for ill, may be recorded on them. But how far more awful still is the book of fate, upon the leaves of which are to be sketched the stirring scenes of a revolutionary city's history, so intimately connected with a country's destiny! and no one can tell what they may be. The last sketch in the Parisian Sketch-book, as it is now filled up--now in the middle of the month of July (for others may be painting even as these lines are traced)--is the dark monster hearse containing the bodies of those who have fallen in the cause of order--the black-behung altar in that _Place_, which has lost its name of Concord and Peace, to take the more suitable one of "Revolution"--the catafalk--the burning candelabras--the black-caparisoned horses that drag the funeral-car--the black draperied columns of the Madeleine--the authorities in mourning attire--the long procession--the sprinkled clouds of burning incense from the waved censers--and the widow's tears.