iament too, with 'screams
from the Opposition benches,' and 'the honourable Member borne out in
hysterics?' To a Children's Parliament would I gladly consent; or even
lower if ye wished it. Beloved Brothers! Liberty, one might fear, is
actually, as the ancient wise men said, of Heaven. On this Earth, where,
thinks the enlightened public, did a brave little Dame de Staal (not
Necker's Daughter, but a far shrewder than she) find the nearest
approach to Liberty? After mature computation, cool as Dilworth's, her
answer is, In the Bastille. (See De Staal: Memoires (Paris, 1821), i.
169-280.) "Of Heaven?" answer many, asking. Wo that they should ask; for
that is the very misery! "Of Heaven" means much; share in the National
Palaver it may, or may as probably not mean.

One Sansculottic bough that cannot fail to flourish is Journalism. The
voice of the People being the voice of God, shall not such divine voice
make itself heard? To the ends of France; and in as many dialects as
when the first great Babel was to be built! Some loud as the lion; some
small as the sucking dove. Mirabeau himself has his instructive Journal
or Journals, with Geneva hodmen working in them; and withal has quarrels
enough with Dame le Jay, his Female Bookseller, so ultra-compliant
otherwise. (See Dumont: Souvenirs, 6.)

King's-friend Royou still prints himself. Barrere sheds tears of loyal
sensibility in Break of Day Journal, though with declining sale. But why
is Freron so hot, democratic; Freron, the King's-friend's Nephew? He has
it by kind, that heat of his: wasp Freron begot him; Voltaire's Frelon;
who fought stinging, while sting and poison-bag were left, were it only
as Reviewer, and over Printed Waste-paper. Constant, illuminative,
as the nightly lamplighter, issues the useful Moniteur, for it is now
become diurnal: with facts and few commentaries; official, safe in the
middle:--its able Editors sunk long since, recoverably or irrecoverably,
in deep darkness. Acid Loustalot, with his 'vigour,' as of young sloes,
shall never ripen, but die untimely: his Prudhomme, however, will
not let that Revolutions de Paris die; but edit it himself, with much
else,--dull-blustering Printer though he be.

Of Cassandra-Marat we have spoken often; yet the most surprising truth
remains to be spoken: that he actually does not want sense; but, with
croaking gelid throat, croaks out masses of the truth, on several
things. Nay sometimes, one might almost fancy he