Happy now, indeed, for all manner of mimetic, half-original men!  Tumid blustering, with more or less of sincerity, which need not be entirely sincere, yet the sincerer the better, is like to go far.  Shall we say, the Revolution-element works itself rarer and rarer; so that only lighter and lighter bodies will float in it; till at last the mere blown-bladder is your only swimmer?  Limitation of mind, then vehemence, promptitude, audacity, shall all be available; to which add only these two:  cunning and good lungs.  Good fortune must be presupposed.  Accordingly, of all classes the rising one, we observe, is now the Attorney class:  witness Bazires, Carriers, Fouquier-Tinvilles, Bazoche-Captain Bourdons:  more than enough.  Such figures shall Night, from her wonder-bearing bosom, emit; swarm after swarm.  Of another deeper and deepest swarm, not yet dawned on the astonished eye; of pilfering Candle-snuffers, Thief-valets, disfrocked Capuchins, and so many Heberts, Henriots, Ronsins, Rossignols, let us, as long as possible, forbear speaking.

Thus, over France, all stirs that has what the Physiologists call irritability in it:  how much more all wherein irritability has perfected itself into vitality; into actual vision, and force that can will!  All stirs; and if not in Paris, flocks thither.  Great and greater waxes President Danton in his Cordeliers Section; his rhetorical tropes are all ‘gigantic:’  energy flashes from his black brows, menaces in his athletic figure, rolls in the sound of his voice ’reverberating from the domes;’ this man also, like Mirabeau, has a natural eye, and begins to see whither Constitutionalism is tending, though with a wish in it different from Mirabeau’s.

Remark, on the other hand, how General Dumouriez has quitted Normandy and the Cherbourg Breakwater, to come—­whither we may guess.  It is his second or even third trial at Paris, since this New Era began; but now it is in right earnest, for he has quitted all else.  Wiry, elastic unwearied man; whose life was but a battle and a march!  No, not a creature of Choiseul’s; “the creature of God and of my sword,”—­he fiercely answered in old days.  Overfalling Corsican batteries, in the deadly fire-hail; wriggling invincible from under his horse, at Closterkamp of the Netherlands, though tethered with ’crushed stirrup-iron and nineteen wounds;’ tough, minatory, standing at bay, as forlorn hope, on the skirts of Poland; intriguing, battling in cabinet and field; roaming far out, obscure, as King’s spial, or sitting sealed up, enchanted in Bastille; fencing, pamphleteering, scheming and struggling from the very birth of him, (Dumouriez, Memoires, i. 28, &c.)—­the man has come thus far.  How repressed, how irrepressible!  Like some incarnate spirit in prison, which indeed he was; hewing on granite walls for deliverance; striking fire flashes from them.  And now has the general earthquake rent his cavern too?  Twenty years younger, what might he not have done!  But his hair has a shade of gray:  his way of thought is all fixed, military.  He can grow no further, and the new world is in such growth.  We will name him, on the whole, one of Heaven’s Swiss; without faith; wanting above all things work, work on any side.  Work also is appointed him; and he will do it.