We may say that this French Explosion will doubtless first try all the old Institutions of escape; for by each of these there is, or at least there used to be, some communication with the interior deep; they are national Institutions in virtue of that.  Had they even become personal Institutions, and what we can call choked up from their original uses, there nevertheless must the impediment be weaker than elsewhere.  Through which of them then?  An observer might have guessed:  Through the Law Parlements; above all, through the Parlement of Paris.

Men, though never so thickly clad in dignities, sit not inaccessible to the influences of their time; especially men whose life is business; who at all turns, were it even from behind judgment-seats, have come in contact with the actual workings of the world.  The Counsellor of Parlement, the President himself, who has bought his place with hard money that he might be looked up to by his fellow-creatures, how shall he, in all Philosophe-soirees, and saloons of elegant culture, become notable as a Friend of Darkness?  Among the Paris Long-robes there may be more than one patriotic Malesherbes, whose rule is conscience and the public good; there are clearly more than one hotheaded D’Espremenil, to whose confused thought any loud reputation of the Brutus sort may seem glorious.  The Lepelletiers, Lamoignons have titles and wealth; yet, at Court, are only styled ‘Noblesse of the Robe.’  There are Duports of deep scheme; Freteaus, Sabatiers, of incontinent tongue:  all nursed more or less on the milk of the Contrat Social.  Nay, for the whole Body, is not this patriotic opposition also a fighting for oneself?  Awake, Parlement of Paris, renew thy long warfare!  Was not the Parlement Maupeou abolished with ignominy?  Not now hast thou to dread a Louis xiv., with the crack of his whip, and his Olympian looks; not now a Richelieu and Bastilles:  no, the whole Nation is behind thee.  Thou too (O heavens!) mayest become a Political Power; and with the shakings of thy horse-hair wig shake principalities and dynasties, like a very Jove with his ambrosial curls!

Light old M. de Maurepas, since the end of 1781, has been fixed in the frost of death:  “Never more,” said the good Louis, “shall I hear his step overhead;” his light jestings and gyratings are at an end.  No more can the importunate reality be hidden by pleasant wit, and today’s evil be deftly rolled over upon tomorrow.  The morrow itself has arrived; and now nothing but a solid phlegmatic M. de Vergennes sits there, in dull matter of fact, like some dull punctual Clerk (which he originally was); admits what cannot be denied, let the remedy come whence it will.  In him is no remedy; only clerklike ‘despatch of business’ according to routine.  The poor King, grown older yet hardly more experienced, must himself, with such no-faculty as he has, begin governing; wherein also his Queen will give help.  Bright Queen, with her quick clear