Let us march.
But to our minds the notablest of all these moving phenomena, is
that of Barbaroux’s “Six Hundred Marseillese who know how to
die.”
Prompt to the request of Barbaroux, the Marseilles Municipality
has got these men together: on the fifth morning of July, the
Townhall says, ‘_Marchez, abatez le Tyran_, March, strike down
the Tyrant;’[480] and they, with grim appropriate ‘_Marchons_,’
are marching. Long journey, doubtful errand; _Enfans de la
Patrie_, may a good genius guide you! Their own wild heart and
what faith it has will guide them: and is not that the monition
of some genius, better or worse? Five Hundred and Seventeen able
men, with Captains of fifties and tens; well armed all, musket on
shoulder, sabre on thigh: nay they drive three pieces of cannon;
for who knows what obstacles may occur? Municipalities there are,
paralyzed by War-minister; Commandants with orders to stop even
Federation Volunteers; good, when sound arguments will not open a
Town-gate, if you have a petard to shiver it! They have left
their sunny Phocean City and Sea-haven, with its bustle and its
bloom: the thronging _Course_, with high-frondent Avenues, pitchy
dockyards, almond and olive groves, orange trees on house-tops,
and white glittering _bastides_ that crown the hills, are all
behind them. They wend on their wild way, from the extremity of
French land, through unknown cities, toward an unknown destiny;
with a purpose that they know.
Much wondering at this phenomenon, and how, in a peaceable
trading City, so many householders or hearth-holders do severally
fling down their crafts and industrial tools; gird themselves
with weapons of war, and set out on a journey of six hundred
miles to “strike down the tyrant,”—you search in all Historical
Books, Pamphlets, and Newspapers, for some light on it: unhappily
without effect. Rumour and Terror precede this march; which still
echo on you; the march itself an unknown thing. Weber, in the
back-stairs of the Tuileries, has understood that they were
_Forçats_, Galley-slaves and mere scoundrels, these Marseillese;
that, as they marched through Lyons, the people shut their
shops;—also that the number of them was some Four _Thousand_.
Equally vague is Blanc Gilli, who likewise murmurs about
_Forçats_ and danger of plunder.[481] _Forçats_ they were not;
neither was there plunder, or danger of it. Men of regular life,
or of the best-filled purse, they could hardly be; the one thing
needful in them was that they “knew how to die.” Friend
Dampmartin saw them, with his own eyes, march “gradually” through
his quarters at Villefranche in the Beaujolais: but saw in the
vaguest manner; being indeed preoccupied, and himself minded for
matching just then—across the Rhine. Deep was his astonishment to
think of such a march, without appointment or arrangement,
station or ration: for the rest it was “the same men he had seen
formerly” in the troubles of the South; “perfectly civil;” though
his soldiers could not be kept from talking a little with
them.[482]
So vague are all these; _Moniteur, Histoire Parlementaire_ are as
good as silent: garrulous History, as is too usual, will say
nothing where you most wish her to speak! If enlightened
Curiosity ever get sight of the Marseilles Council-Books, will it
not perhaps explore this strangest of Municipal procedures; and
feel called to fish up what of the Biographies, creditable or
discreditable, of these Five Hundred and Seventeen, the stream of
Time has not yet irrevocably swallowed?
As it is, these Marseillese remain inarticulate,
undistinguishable in feature; a blackbrowed Mass, full of grim
fire, who wend there, in the hot sultry weather: very singular to
contemplate. They wend; amid the infinitude of doubt and dim
peril; they not doubtful: Fate and Feudal Europe, having decided,
come girdling in from without: they, having also decided, do
march within. Dusty of face, with frugal refreshment, they plod
onwards; unweariable, not to be turned aside. Such march will
become famous. The Thought, which works voiceless in this
blackbrowed mass, an inspired Tyrtæan Colonel, Rouget de Lille,
whom the Earth still holds,[483] has translated into grim melody
and rhythm; into his _Hymn_ or March _of the Marseillese:_
luckiest musical-composition ever promulgated. The sound of which
will make the blood tingle in men’s veins; and whole Armies and
Assemblages will sing it, with eyes weeping and burning, with
hearts defiant of Death, Despot and Devil.
One sees well, these Marseillese will be too late for the
Federation Feast. In fact, it is not Champ-de-Mars Oaths that
they have in view. They have quite another feat to do: a
paralytic National Executive to set in action. They must “strike
down” whatsoever “Tyrant,” or Martyr-Fainéant, there may be who
paralyzes it; strike and be struck; and on the whole prosper and
know how to die.