ote, old Parliament,
was a great thing. The affairs of the nation were there deliberated
and decided; what we were to _do_ as a nation. But does not, though
the name Parliament subsists, the parliamentary debate go on now,
everywhere and at all times, in a far more comprehensive way, _out_ of
Parliament altogether? Burke said there were Three Estates in
Parliament; but, in the Reporters' Gallery yonder, there sat a _Fourth
Estate_ more important far than they all. It is not a figure of
speech, or a witty saying; it is a literal fact,--very momentous to us
in these times. Literature is our Parliament too. Printing, which
comes necessarily out of Writing, I say often, is equivalent to
Democracy: invent Writing, Democracy is inevitable. Writing brings
Printing; brings universal every-day extempore Printing, as we see at
present. Whoever can speak, speaking now to the whole nation, becomes
a power, a branch of government, with inalienable weight in
law-making, in all acts of authority. It matters not what rank he has,
what revenues or garnitures: the requisite thing is, that he have a
tongue which others will listen to; this and nothing more is
requisite. The nation is governed by all that has tongue in the
nation: Democracy is virtually _there_. Add only, that whatsoever
power exists will have itself, by and by, organised; working secretly
under bandages, obscurations, obstructions, it will never rest till it
get to work free, unencumbered, visible to all. Democracy virtually
extant will insist on becoming palpably extant.--

On all sides, are we not driven to the conclusion that, of the things
which man can do or make here below, by far the most momentous,
wonderful and worthy are the things we call Books! Those poor bits of
rag-paper with black ink on them;--from the Daily Newspaper to the
sacred Hebrew BOOK, what have they not done, what are they not
doing!--For indeed, whatever be the outward form of the thing (bits of
paper, as we say, and black ink), is it not verily, at bottom, the
highest act of man's faculty that produces a Book? It is the _Thought_
of man; the true thaumaturgic virtue; by which man works all things
whatsoever. All that he does, and brings to pass, is the vesture of a
Thought. This London City, with all its houses, palaces,
steam-engines, cathedrals, and huge immeasurable traffic and tumult,
what is it but a Thought, but millions of Thoughts made into One;--a
huge immeasurable Spirit of a THOUGHT