The tri-coloured flag is now floating from the towers of Notre-Dame; while the white flag of the luckless Bourbons, as often stained by the faithlessness of its followers, as by the blood of its foes, still waves from the column of the Place Vendome,--that column erected to commemorate the glory of the great chief now calmly sleeping in his ocean-washed grave.
The civil authorities seem paralyzed: the troops have been twelve hours on duly without any refreshment, except that afforded by the humanity of the people, who have brought them wine and bread; can it be hoped that these same soldiers will turn their arms against those who have supplied their necessities?
The royal emblems are destroyed wherever they are found, and the bust of the king has been trampled on.

The disgusting exhibition of the dead bodies has had the bad effect calculated upon, and all is tumult and disorder.

Every one wonders where are the authorities, and why a sufficient military force does not appear, for there has been ample time, since the disposition to insurrection manifested by the people, to assemble the troops.
Every visitor, and, notwithstanding the disturbed state of Paris, we have already had several to-day, announces some fresh disaster, each representing it according to the political creed to which he adheres.
The Royalists assert that the outbreak is the result of a long and grave conspiracy, fomented by those who expect to derive advantage from it; while the Liberals maintain that it has arisen spontaneously and simultaneously from the wounded spirit of liberty, lashed into a frenzied resistance by the ordonnances.

I pretend not to know which of these statements is the most correct; but I believe that the favourite opinion of the worthy Sir Roger de Coverley, that "much could be said on both sides of the question," might now fairly be urged; for, according to the march of events, it is but too probable that the melodrama now enacting before our eyes has not been an impromptu; and it is quite clear that the ordonnances have furnished the occasion, and the excuse (if such were required), for the performance.
Well might a great Italian writer pronounce revolutions to be the carnivals of history.

This one seems to be not only a carnival but Saturnalia, for the ebriety of the slaves of liberty is well calculated to disgust the friends; and those who witness this intoxication are reminded of the observation of Voltaire, that "_Les Francais goutent de la liberte comme des liqueurs fortes avec lesquelles ils s'enivrent."_ A revolution affected by physical instead of moral force, is a grave wound inflicted on social order and civilization--a wound which it takes ages to heal.
When on the point of sitting down to our _dejeuner a la fourchette_ (for people will eat while thrones are crumbling), repeated knockings, at the _porte-cochere_ induced us to look from the window in order to see who the persons were who thus loudly demanded admittance, when it was discovered that they were Doctors Pasquier and De Guise.