In the gay and bustling
Boulevards, a friend, an old resident of Paris, poised out to me, as
we rode, the bullet marks that scarred the houses--significant tokens
of what seems, but is not, forgotten.
At sunset a military band of about seventy performers began playing in
front of the Tuileries. They formed an immense circle, the leader in
the centre. He played the octave flute, which also served as a baton
for marking time. The music was characterized by delicacy, precision,
suppression, and subjugation of rebellious material.
I imagined a congress of horns, clarinets, trumpets, &c., conversing
in low tones on some important theme; nay, rather a conspiracy of
instruments, mourning between whiles their subjugation, and ever and
anon breaking out in a fierce _emeute_, then repressed, hushed,
dying away; as if they had heard of Baron Munchausen's frozen horn,
and had conceived the idea of yielding their harmonies without touch
of human lips, yet were sighing and sobbing at their impotence.
Perhaps I detected the pulses of a nation's palpitating heart,
throbbing for liberty, but trodden down, and sobbing in despair.
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