One other incident and specialty we note; with how different an interest!  It is of the Parlement of Paris; which starts forward, like the others (only with less audacity, seeing better how it lay), to nose-ring that Behemoth of a States-General.  Worthy Doctor Guillotin, respectable practitioner in Paris, has drawn up his little ’Plan of a Cahier of doleances;’—­as had he not, having the wish and gift, the clearest liberty to do?  He is getting the people to sign it; whereupon the surly Parlement summons him to give an account of himself.  He goes; but with all Paris at his heels; which floods the outer courts, and copiously signs the Cahier even there, while the Doctor is giving account of himself within!  The Parlement cannot too soon dismiss Guillotin, with compliments; to be borne home shoulder-high. (Deux Amis de la Liberte, i. 141.) This respectable Guillotin we hope to behold once more, and perhaps only once; the Parlement not even once, but let it be engulphed unseen by us.

Meanwhile such things, cheering as they are, tend little to cheer the national creditor, or indeed the creditor of any kind.  In the midst of universal portentous doubt, what certainty can seem so certain as money in the purse, and the wisdom of keeping it there?  Trading Speculation, Commerce of all kinds, has as far as possible come to a dead pause; and the hand of the industrious lies idle in his bosom.  Frightful enough, when now the rigour of seasons has also done its part, and to scarcity of work is added scarcity of food!  In the opening spring, there come rumours of forestalment, there come King’s Edicts, Petitions of bakers against millers; and at length, in the month of April—­troops of ragged Lackalls, and fierce cries of starvation!  These are the thrice-famed Brigands:  an actual existing quotity of persons:  who, long reflected and reverberated through so many millions of heads, as in concave multiplying mirrors, become a whole Brigand World; and, like a kind of Supernatural Machinery wondrously move the Epos of the Revolution.  The Brigands are here:  the Brigands are there; the Brigands are coming!  Not otherwise sounded the clang of Phoebus Apollos’s silver bow, scattering pestilence and pale terror; for this clang too was of the imagination; preternatural; and it too walked in formless immeasurability, having made itself like to the Night (Greek.)!

But remark at least, for the first time, the singular empire of Suspicion, in those lands, in those days.  If poor famishing men shall, prior to death, gather in groups and crowds, as the poor fieldfares and plovers do in bitter weather, were it but that they may chirp mournfully together, and misery look in the eyes of misery; if famishing men (what famishing fieldfares cannot do) should discover, once congregated, that they need not die while food is in the land, since they are many, and with empty wallets have right hands:  in all this, what need were there of Preternatural Machinery?  To most people none; but not to French