dexterity, coolness, suasive eloquence, been made by man.  To the raging play of so many fire-mouths he opposes nothing angrier than light-beams, self-possession and fatherly smiles.  With the imperturbablest bland clearness, he, for five hours long, keeps answering the incessant volley of fiery captious questions, reproachful interpellations; in words prompt as lightning, quiet as light.  Nay, the cross-fire too:  such side questions and incidental interpellations as, in the heat of the main-battle, he (having only one tongue) could not get answered; these also he takes up at the first slake; answers even these. (Besenval, iii. 196.) Could blandest suasive eloquence have saved France, she were saved.

Heavy-laden Controller!  In the Seven Bureaus seems nothing but hindrance:  in Monsieur’s Bureau, a Lomenie de Brienne, Archbishop of Toulouse, with an eye himself to the Controllership, stirs up the Clergy; there are meetings, underground intrigues.  Neither from without anywhere comes sign of help or hope.  For the Nation (where Mirabeau is now, with stentor-lungs, ‘denouncing Agio’) the Controller has hitherto done nothing, or less.  For Philosophedom he has done as good as nothing,—­sent out some scientific Laperouse, or the like:  and is he not in ‘angry correspondence’ with its Necker?  The very Oeil-de-Boeuf looks questionable; a falling Controller has no friends.  Solid M. de Vergennes, who with his phlegmatic judicious punctuality might have kept down many things, died the very week before these sorrowful Notables met.  And now a Seal-keeper, Garde-des-Sceaux Miromenil is thought to be playing the traitor:  spinning plots for Lomenie-Brienne!  Queen’s-Reader Abbe de Vermond, unloved individual, was Brienne’s creature, the work of his hands from the first:  it may be feared the backstairs passage is open, ground getting mined under our feet.  Treacherous Garde-des-Sceaux Miromenil, at least, should be dismissed; Lamoignon, the eloquent Notable, a stanch man, with connections, and even ideas, Parlement-President yet intent on reforming Parlements, were not he the right Keeper?  So, for one, thinks busy Besenval; and, at dinner-table, rounds the same into the Controller’s ear,—­who always, in the intervals of landlord-duties, listens to him as with charmed look, but answers nothing positive. (Besenval, iii. 203.)

Alas, what to answer?  The force of private intrigue, and then also the force of public opinion, grows so dangerous, confused!  Philosophedom sneers aloud, as if its Necker already triumphed.  The gaping populace gapes over Wood-cuts or Copper-cuts; where, for example, a Rustic is represented convoking the poultry of his barnyard, with this opening address:  “Dear animals, I have assembled you to advise me what sauce I shall dress you with;” to which a Cock responding, “We don’t want to be eaten,” is checked by “You wander from the point (Vous vous ecartez de la question).” (Republished in the Musee de la Caricature (Paris,