And so it roars, and rages, and brays; drums beating, steeples pealing; criers rushing with hand-bells: ‘Oyez, oyez. All men to their Districts to be enrolled!’ The Districts have met in gardens, open squares; are getting marshalled into volunteer troops. No redhot ball has yet fallen from Besenval’s Camp; on the contrary, Deserters with their arms are continually dropping in: nay now, joy of joys, at two in the afternoon, the Gardes Françaises, being ordered to Saint-Denis, and flatly declining, have come over in a body! It is a fact worth many. Three thousand six hundred of the best fighting men, with complete accoutrement; with cannoneers even, and cannon! Their officers are left standing alone; could not so much as succeed in “spiking the guns.” The very Swiss, it may now be hoped, Château-Vieux and the others, will have doubts about fighting. Our Parisian Militia,—which some think it were better to name National Guard,—is prospering as heart could wish. It promised to be forty-eight thousand; but will in few hours double and quadruple that number: invincible, if we had only arms! But see, the promised Charleville Boxes, marked _Artillerie!_ Here, then, are arms enough?—Conceive the blank face of Patriotism, when it found them filled with rags, foul linen, candle-ends, and bits of wood! Provost of the Merchants, how is this? Neither at the Chartreux Convent, whither we were sent with signed order, is there or ever was there any weapon of war. Nay here, in this Seine Boat, safe under tarpaulings (had not the nose of Patriotism been of the finest), are “five thousand-weight of gunpowder;” not coming _in_, but surreptitiously going out! What meanest thou, Flesselles? ’Tis a ticklish game, that of “amusing” us. Cat plays with captive mouse: but mouse with enraged cat, with enraged National Tiger?