an of the people, plain and unpretentious--a man without
ambition--a dreamer. His first writings were mere debating-society
monologs, done for his own amusement and the half-dozen or so cronies
who cared to listen.

But, as he wrote, things came to him; the significance of his words
became to him apparent. Opposition made it necessary to define his
position, and threat made it wise to amplify and explain. He grew
through exercise, as all men do who grow at all; the spirit of the times
acted upon him, and knowledge unrolled as a scroll.

The sum of Rousseau's political philosophy found embodiment in his book,
"The Social Contract," and his ideas on education in "Emile." "The
Social Contract" became the Bible of the Revolution, and as Emerson
says all of our philosophy will be found in Plato, so in a more exact
sense can every argument of the men of the Revolution be found in "The
Social Contract." But Rousseau did not know what firebrands he was
supplying. He was essentially a man of peace--he launched these children
of his brain, indifferently, like his children of the flesh, upon the
world and left their fate to the god of Chance.

* * * * *

Out of the dust and din of the French Revolution, now seen by us on the
horizon of time, there emerge four names: Robespierre, Mirabeau, Danton
and Marat.

Undaunted men all, hated and loved, feared and idolized, despised and
deified--even yet we find it hard to gauge their worth, and give due
credit for the good that was in each.

Oratory played a most important part in bringing about the explosion.
Oratory arouses passion--fear, vengeance, hate--and draws a beautiful
picture of peace and plenty just beyond.

Without oratory there would have been no political revolution in France,
nor elsewhere.

Politics, more than any other function of human affairs, turns on
oratory. Orators make and unmake kings, but kings are seldom orators,
and orators never secure thrones. Orators are made to die--the cross,
the torch, the noose, the guillotine, the dagger, awaits them. They die
through the passion that they fan to flame--the fear they generate turns
upon themselves, and they are no more.

But they have their reward. Their names are not writ in water; rather
are they traced in blood on history's page. We know them, while the
ensconced smug and successful have sunk into oblivion; and if now and
then a name like that of Pilate or Caiaphas or Judas co