In January last, you might see him as President of the Assembly; ’his neck wrapt in linen cloths, at the evening session:’  there was sick heat of the blood, alternate darkening and flashing in the eye-sight; he had to apply leeches, after the morning labour, and preside bandaged.  ’At parting he embraced me,’ says Dumont, ’with an emotion I had never seen in him:  “I am dying, my friend; dying as by slow fire; we shall perhaps not meet again.  When I am gone, they will know what the value of me was.  The miseries I have held back will burst from all sides on France."’ (Dumont, p. 267.) Sickness gives louder warning; but cannot be listened to.  On the 27th day of March, proceeding towards the Assembly, he had to seek rest and help in Friend de Lamarck’s, by the road; and lay there, for an hour, half-fainted, stretched on a sofa.  To the Assembly nevertheless he went, as if in spite of Destiny itself; spoke, loud and eager, five several times; then quitted the Tribune—­for ever.  He steps out, utterly exhausted, into the Tuileries Gardens; many people press round him, as usual, with applications, memorials; he says to the Friend who was with him:  Take me out of this!

And so, on the last day of March 1791, endless anxious multitudes beset the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin; incessantly inquiring:  within doors there, in that House numbered in our time ‘42,’ the over wearied giant has fallen down, to die. (Fils Adoptif, viii. 420-79.) Crowds, of all parties and kinds; of all ranks from the King to the meanest man!  The King sends publicly twice a-day to inquire; privately besides:  from the world at large there is no end of inquiring.  ’A written bulletin is handed out every three hours,’ is copied and circulated; in the end, it is printed.  The People spontaneously keep silence; no carriage shall enter with its noise:  there is crowding pressure; but the Sister of Mirabeau is reverently recognised, and has free way made for her.  The People stand mute, heart-stricken; to all it seems as if a great calamity were nigh:  as if the last man of France, who could have swayed these coming troubles, lay there at hand-grips with the unearthly Power.

The silence of a whole People, the wakeful toil of Cabanis, Friend and Physician, skills not:  on Saturday, the second day of April, Mirabeau feels that the last of the Days has risen for him; that, on this day, he has to depart and be no more.  His death is Titanic, as his life has been.  Lit up, for the last time, in the glare of coming dissolution, the mind of the man is all glowing and burning; utters itself in sayings, such as men long remember.  He longs to live, yet acquiesces in death, argues not with the inexorable.  His speech is wild and wondrous:  unearthly Phantasms dancing now their torch-dance round his soul; the soul itself looking out, fire-radiant, motionless, girt together for that great hour!  At times comes a beam of light from him on the world he is quitting.  “I carry