universally in the female head, and might explode. In squalid garret,
on Monday morning, Maternity awakes, to hear children weeping for
bread. Maternity must forth to the streets, to the herb-markets
and Bakers'--queues; meets there with hunger-stricken Maternity,
sympathetic, exasperative. O we unhappy women! But, instead of
Bakers'-queues, why not to Aristocrats' palaces, the root of the matter?
Allons! Let us assemble. To the Hotel-de-Ville; to Versailles; to the
Lanterne!

In one of the Guardhouses of the Quartier Saint-Eustache, 'a young
woman' seizes a drum,--for how shall National Guards give fire on women,
on a young woman? The young woman seizes the drum; sets forth, beating
it, 'uttering cries relative to the dearth of grains.' Descend, O
mothers; descend, ye Judiths, to food and revenge!--All women gather
and go; crowds storm all stairs, force out all women: the female
Insurrectionary Force, according to Camille, resembles the English Naval
one; there is a universal 'Press of women.' Robust Dames of the Halle,
slim Mantua-makers, assiduous, risen with the dawn; ancient Virginity
tripping to matins; the Housemaid, with early broom; all must go. Rouse
ye, O women; the laggard men will not act; they say, we ourselves may
act!

And so, like snowbreak from the mountains, for every staircase is
a melted brook, it storms; tumultuous, wild-shrilling, towards the
Hotel-de-Ville. Tumultuous, with or without drum-music: for the Faubourg
Saint-Antoine also has tucked up its gown; and, with besom-staves,
fire-irons, and even rusty pistols (void of ammunition), is flowing on.
Sound of it flies, with a velocity of sound, to the outmost Barriers.
By seven o'clock, on this raw October morning, fifth of the month, the
Townhall will see wonders. Nay, as chance would have it, a male party