in my heart the death-dirge of the French Monarchy; the dead remains of it will now be the spoil of the factious.”  Or again, when he heard the cannon fire, what is characteristic too:  “Have we the Achilles’ Funeral already?” So likewise, while some friend is supporting him:  “Yes, support that head; would I could bequeath it thee!” For the man dies as he has lived; self-conscious, conscious of a world looking on.  He gazes forth on the young Spring, which for him will never be Summer.  The Sun has risen; he says:  “Si ce n’est pas la Dieu, c’est du moins son cousin germain.” (Fils Adoptif, viii. 450; Journal de la maladie et de la mort de Mirabeau, par P.J.G.  Cabanis (Paris, 1803).)—­Death has mastered the outworks; power of speech is gone; the citadel of the heart still holding out:  the moribund giant, passionately, by sign, demands paper and pen; writes his passionate demand for opium, to end these agonies.  The sorrowful Doctor shakes his head:  Dormir ‘To sleep,’ writes the other, passionately pointing at it!  So dies a gigantic Heathen and Titan; stumbling blindly, undismayed, down to his rest.  At half-past eight in the morning, Dr. Petit, standing at the foot of the bed, says “Il ne souffre plus.”  His suffering and his working are now ended.

Even so, ye silent Patriot multitudes, all ye men of France; this man is rapt away from you.  He has fallen suddenly, without bending till he broke; as a tower falls, smitten by sudden lightning.  His word ye shall hear no more, his guidance follow no more.—­The multitudes depart, heartstruck; spread the sad tidings.  How touching is the loyalty of men to their Sovereign Man!  All theatres, public amusements close; no joyful meeting can be held in these nights, joy is not for them:  the People break in upon private dancing-parties, and sullenly command that they cease.  Of such dancing-parties apparently but two came to light; and these also have gone out.  The gloom is universal:  never in this City was such sorrow for one death; never since that old night when Louis xii. departed, ’and the Crieurs des Corps went sounding their bells, and crying along the streets:  Le bon roi Louis, pere du peuple, est mort, The good King Louis, Father of the People, is dead!’ (Henault, Abrege Chronologique, p. 429.) King Mirabeau is now the lost King; and one may say with little exaggeration, all the People mourns for him.

For three days there is low wide moan:  weeping in the National Assembly itself.  The streets are all mournful; orators mounted on the bournes, with large silent audience, preaching the funeral sermon of the dead.  Let no coachman whip fast, distractively with his rolling wheels, or almost at all, through these groups!  His traces may be cut; himself and his fare, as incurable Aristocrats, hurled sulkily into the kennels.  The bourne-stone orators speak as it is given them; the Sansculottic People, with its rude soul, listens eager,—­as men will to any Sermon, or Sermo, when it is a spoken Word