of ‘Tennis-Court Club,’ who enter with far-gleaming Brass-plate, aloft on a pole, and the Tennis-Court Oath engraved thereon; which far gleaming Brass-plate they purpose to affix solemnly in the Versailles original locality, on the 20th of this month, which is the anniversary, as a deathless memorial, for some years:  they will then dine, as they come back, in the Bois de Boulogne; (See Deux Amis, v. 122; Hist.  Parl. &c.)—­cannot, however, do it without apprising the world.  To such things does the august National Assembly ever and anon cheerfully listen, suspending its regenerative labours; and with some touch of impromptu eloquence, make friendly reply;—­as indeed the wont has long been; for it is a gesticulating, sympathetic People, and has a heart, and wears it on its sleeve.

In which circumstances, it occurred to the mind of Anacharsis Clootz that while so much was embodying itself into Club or Committee, and perorating applauded, there yet remained a greater and greatest; of which, if it also took body and perorated, what might not the effect be:  Humankind namely, le Genre Humain itself!  In what rapt creative moment the Thought rose in Anacharsis’s soul; all his throes, while he went about giving shape and birth to it; how he was sneered at by cold worldlings; but did sneer again, being a man of polished sarcasm; and moved to and fro persuasive in coffeehouse and soiree, and dived down assiduous-obscure in the great deep of Paris, making his Thought a Fact:  of all this the spiritual biographies of that period say nothing.  Enough that on the 19th evening of June 1790, the Sun’s slant rays lighted a spectacle such as our foolish little Planet has not often had to show:  Anacharsis Clootz entering the august Salle de Manege, with the Human Species at his heels.  Swedes, Spaniards, Polacks; Turks, Chaldeans, Greeks, dwellers in Mesopotamia:  behold them all; they have come to claim place in the grand Federation, having an undoubted interest in it.

“Our ambassador titles,” said the fervid Clootz, “are not written on parchment, but on the living hearts of all men.”  These whiskered Polacks, long-flowing turbaned Ishmaelites, astrological Chaldeans, who stand so mute here, let them plead with you, august Senators, more eloquently than eloquence could.  They are the mute representatives of their tongue-tied, befettered, heavy-laden Nations; who from out of that dark bewilderment gaze wistful, amazed, with half-incredulous hope, towards you, and this your bright light of a French Federation:  bright particular day-star, the herald of universal day.  We claim to stand there, as mute monuments, pathetically adumbrative of much.—­From bench and gallery comes ‘repeated applause;’ for what august Senator but is flattered even by the very shadow of Human Species depending on him?  From President Sieyes, who presides this remarkable fortnight, in spite of his small voice, there comes eloquent though shrill reply.  Anacharsis and the ‘Foreigners