the Rhine; till he too bestir himself and march, and in sour humour, another Lord of Land is gone, not taking the Land with him.  Nay, what of Captains and emigrating Seigneurs?  There is not an angry word on any of those Twenty-five million French tongues, and indeed not an angry thought in their hearts, but is some fraction of the great Battle.  Add many successions of angry words together, you have the manual brawl; add brawls together, with the festering sorrows they leave, and they rise to riots and revolts.  One reverend thing after another ceases to meet reverence:  in visible material combustion, chateau after chateau mounts up; in spiritual invisible combustion, one authority after another.  With noise and glare, or noisily and unnoted, a whole Old System of things is vanishing piecemeal:  on the morrow thou shalt look and it is not.

Chapter 2.3.II.

The Wakeful.

Sleep who will, cradled in hope and short vision, like Lafayette, ’who always in the danger done sees the last danger that will threaten him,’—­Time is not sleeping, nor Time’s seedfield.

That sacred Herald’s-College of a new Dynasty; we mean the Sixty and odd Billstickers with their leaden badges, are not sleeping.  Daily they, with pastepot and cross-staff, new clothe the walls of Paris in colours of the rainbow:  authoritative heraldic, as we say, or indeed almost magical thaumaturgic; for no Placard-Journal that they paste but will convince some soul or souls of man.  The Hawkers bawl; and the Balladsingers:  great Journalism blows and blusters, through all its throats, forth from Paris towards all corners of France, like an Aeolus’ Cave; keeping alive all manner of fires.

Throats or Journals there are, as men count, (Mercier, iii. 163.) to the number of some hundred and thirty-three.  Of various calibre; from your Cheniers, Gorsases, Camilles, down to your Marat, down now to your incipient Hebert of the Pere Duchesne; these blow, with fierce weight of argument or quick light banter, for the Rights of man:  Durosoys, Royous, Peltiers, Sulleaus, equally with mixed tactics, inclusive, singular to say, of much profane Parody, (See Hist.  Parl. vii. 51.) are blowing for Altar and Throne.  As for Marat the People’s-Friend, his voice is as that of the bullfrog, or bittern by the solitary pools; he, unseen of men, croaks harsh thunder, and that alone continually,—­of indignation, suspicion, incurable sorrow.  The People are sinking towards ruin, near starvation itself:  ‘My dear friends,’ cries he, ’your indigence is not the fruit of vices nor of idleness, you have a right to life, as good as Louis xvi., or the happiest of the century.  What man can say he has a right to dine, when you have no bread?’ (Ami du Peuple, No. 306.  See other Excerpts in Hist.  Parl. viii. 139-149, 428-433; ix. 85-93, &c.) The People sinking on the one hand:  on the other hand, nothing but wretched Sieur Motiers, treasonous Riquetti