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 had a perception of humour, and were laughing a little, far down in his inner man.  Camille is wittier than ever, and more outspoken, cynical; yet sunny as ever.  A light melodious creature; ‘born,’ as he shall yet say with bitter tears, ‘to write verses;’ light Apollo, so clear, soft-lucent, in this war of the Titans, wherein he shall not conquer!

Folded and hawked Newspapers exist in all countries; but, in such a Journalistic element as this of France, other and stranger sorts are to be anticipated.  What says the English reader to a Journal-Affiche, Placard Journal; legible to him that has no halfpenny; in bright prismatic colours, calling the eye from afar?  Such, in the coming months, as Patriot Associations, public and private, advance, and can subscribe funds, shall plenteously hang themselves out:  leaves, limed leaves, to catch what they can!  The very Government shall have its Pasted Journal; Louvet, busy yet with a new ‘charming romance,’ shall write Sentinelles, and post them with effect; nay Bertrand de Moleville, in his extremity, shall still more cunningly try it. (See Bertrand-Moleville:  Memoires, ii. 100, &c.) Great is Journalism.  Is not every Able Editor a Ruler of the World, being a persuader of it; though self-elected, yet sanctioned, by the sale of his Numbers?  Whom indeed the world has the readiest method of deposing, should need be:  that of merely doing nothing to him; which ends in starvation!