a prophetic sense only, looking towards the coming Convention.  “Let our memory perish,” cries Vergniaud, “but let France be free!”—­whereupon they all start to their feet, shouting responsive:  “Yes, yes, perisse notre memoire, pourvu que la France soit libre!” (Hist.  Parl. xvii. 467.) Disfrocked Chabot abjures Heaven that at least we may “have done with Kings;” and fast as powder under spark, we all blaze up once more, and with waved hats shout and swear:  “Yes, nous le jurons; plus de roi!” (Ibid. xvii. 437.) All which, as a method of proclamation, is very convenient.

For the rest, that our busy Brissots, rigorous Rolands, men who once had authority and now have less and less; men who love law, and will have even an Explosion explode itself, as far as possible, according to rule, do find this state of matters most unofficial unsatisfactory,—­is not to be denied.  Complaints are made; attempts are made:  but without effect.  The attempts even recoil; and must be desisted from, for fear of worse:  the sceptre is departed from this Legislative once and always.  A poor Legislative, so hard was fate, had let itself be hand-gyved, nailed to the rock like an Andromeda, and could only wail there to the Earth and Heavens; miraculously a winged Perseus (or Improvised Commune) has dawned out of the void Blue, and cut her loose:  but whether now is it she, with her softness and musical speech, or is it he, with his hardness and sharp falchion and aegis, that shall have casting vote?  Melodious agreement of vote; this were the rule!  But if otherwise, and votes diverge, then surely Andromeda’s part is to weep,—­if possible, tears of gratitude alone.

Be content, O France, with this Improvised Commune, such as it is!  It has the implements, and has the hands:  the time is not long.  On Sunday the twenty-sixth of August, our Primary Assemblies shall meet, begin electing of Electors; on Sunday the second of September (may the day prove lucky!) the Electors shall begin electing Deputies; and so an all-healing National Convention will come together.  No marc d’argent, or distinction of Active and Passive, now insults the French Patriot:  but there is universal suffrage, unlimited liberty to choose.  Old-constituents, Present-Legislators, all France is eligible.  Nay, it may be said, the flower of all the Universe (de l’Univers) is eligible; for in these very days we, by act of Assembly, ‘naturalise’ the chief Foreign Friends of humanity:  Priestley, burnt out for us in Birmingham; Klopstock, a genius of all countries; Jeremy Bentham, useful Jurisconsult; distinguished Paine, the rebellious Needleman;—­some of whom may be chosen.  As is most fit; for a Convention of this kind.  In a word, Seven Hundred and Forty-five unshackled sovereigns, admired of the universe, shall replace this hapless impotency of a Legislative,—­out of which, it is likely, the best members, and the Mountain in mass, may be re-elected.  Roland is getting ready the Salles des Cent Suisses, as preliminary rendezvous for them; in that void Palace of the Tuileries, now void and National, and not a Palace, but a Caravansera.