‘A Dio spiacente ed a’ nemici sui!’

But whoever will, with sympathy, which is the first essential towards insight, look at this questionable Mirabeau, may find that there lay verily in him, as the basis of all, a Sincerity, a great free Earnestness; nay call it Honesty, for the man did before all things see, with that clear flashing vision, into what was, into what existed as fact; and did, with his wild heart, follow that and no other.  Whereby on what ways soever he travels and struggles, often enough falling, he is still a brother man.  Hate him not; thou canst not hate him!  Shining through such soil and tarnish, and now victorious effulgent, and oftenest struggling eclipsed, the light of genius itself is in this man; which was never yet base and hateful:  but at worst was lamentable, loveable with pity.  They say that he was ambitious, that he wanted to be Minister.  It is most true; and was he not simply the one man in France who could have done any good as Minister?  Not vanity alone, not pride alone; far from that!  Wild burstings of affection were in this great heart; of fierce lightning, and soft dew of pity.  So sunk, bemired in wretchedest defacements, it may be said of him, like the Magdalen of old, that he loved much:  his Father the harshest of old crabbed men he loved with warmth, with veneration.

Be it that his falls and follies are manifold,—­as himself often lamented even with tears. (Dumont, p. 287.) Alas, is not the Life of every such man already a poetic Tragedy; made up ’of Fate and of one’s own Deservings,’ of Schicksal und eigene Schuld; full of the elements of Pity and Fear?  This brother man, if not Epic for us, is Tragic; if not great, is large; large in his qualities, world-large in his destinies.  Whom other men, recognising him as such, may, through long times, remember, and draw nigh to examine and consider:  these, in their several dialects, will say of him and sing of him,—­till the right thing be said; and so the Formula that can judge him be no longer an undiscovered one.

Here then the wild Gabriel Honore drops from the tissue of our History; not without a tragic farewell.  He is gone:  the flower of the wild Riquetti or Arrighetti kindred; which seems as if in him, with one last effort, it had done its best, and then expired, or sunk down to the undistinguished level.  Crabbed old Marquis Mirabeau, the Friend of Men, sleeps sound.  The Bailli Mirabeau, worthy uncle, will soon die forlorn, alone.  Barrel-Mirabeau, already gone across the Rhine, his Regiment of Emigrants will drive nigh desperate.  ‘Barrel-Mirabeau,’ says a biographer of his, ’went indignantly across the Rhine, and drilled Emigrant Regiments.  But as he sat one morning in his tent, sour of stomach doubtless and of heart, meditating in Tartarean humour on the turn things took, a certain Captain or Subaltern demanded admittance on business.  Such Captain is refused; he again demands, with refusal; and then again, till Colonel Viscount Barrel-Mirabeau, blazing up into a mere burning brandy barrel, clutches his sword, and tumbles out on this canaille of an intruder,—­alas, on the canaille of an intruder’s sword’s point, who had drawn with swift dexterity; and dies, and the Newspapers name it apoplexy and alarming accident.’  So die the Mirabeaus.