But judge if France, if Paris sat idle, all this while! Addresses from far and near flow in: for our Commons have now grown organic enough to open letters. Or indeed to cavil at them! Thus poor Marquis de Breze, Supreme Usher, Master of Ceremonies, or whatever his title was, writing about this time on some ceremonial matter, sees no harm in winding up with a 'Monsieur, yours with sincere attachment.'--"To whom does it address itself, this sincere attachment?" inquires Mirabeau. "To the Dean of the Tiers-Etat."--"There is no man in France entitled to write that," rejoins he; whereat the Galleries and the World will not be kept from applauding.
(Moniteur (in Histoire Parlementaire, i. 405).) Poor De Breze! These Commons have a still older grudge at him; nor has he yet done with them.
In another way, Mirabeau has had to protest against the quick suppression of his Newspaper, Journal of the States-General;--and to continue it under a new name. In which act of valour, the Paris Electors, still busy redacting their Cahier, could not but support him, by Address to his Majesty: they claim utmost 'provisory ******* of the press;' they have spoken even about demolishing the Bastille, and erecting a Bronze Patriot King on the site!--These are the rich Burghers: but now consider how it went, for example, with such loose miscellany, now all grown eleutheromaniac, of Loungers, Prowlers, social Nondescripts (and the distilled Rascality of our Planet), as whirls forever in the Palais Royal;--or what low infinite groan, first changing into a growl, comes from Saint-Antoine, and the Twenty-five Millions in danger of starvation!
There is the indisputablest scarcity of corn;--be it Aristocrat-plot, D'Orleans-plot, of this year; or drought and hail of last year: in city and province, the poor man looks desolately towards a nameless lot. And this States-General, that could make us an age of gold, is forced to stand motionless; cannot get its powers verified! All industry necessarily languishes, if it be not that of ****** motions.
In the Palais Royal there has been erected, apparently by subscription, a kind of Wooden Tent (en planches de bois); (Histoire Parlementaire, i.
429.)-- most convenient; where select Patriotism can now redact resolutions, deliver harangues, with comfort, let the weather but as it will. Lively is that Satan-at-Home! On his table, on his chair, in every cafe, stands a patriotic orator; a crowd round him within; a crowd listening from without, open-mouthed, through open door and window; with 'thunders of applause for every sentiment of more than common hardiness.'
In Monsieur Dessein's Pamphlet-shop, close by, you cannot without strong elbowing get to the counter: every hour produces its pamphlet, or litter of pamphlets; 'there were thirteen to-day, sixteen yesterday, nine-two last week.' (Arthur Young, Travels, i. 104.) Think of Tyranny and Scarcity;
Fervid-eloquence, Rumour, Pamphleteering; Societe Publicole, Breton Club, Enraged Club;--and whether every tap-room, coffee-room, social reunion, accidental street-group, over wide France, was not an Enraged Club!
To all which the Commons Deputies can only listen with a sublime inertia of sorrow; reduced to busy themselves 'with their internal police.' Surer position no Deputies ever occupied; if they keep it with skill. Let not the temperature rise too high; break not the Eros-egg till it be hatched, till it break itself! An eager public crowds all Galleries and vacancies!