Astræa Redux without Cash.
Observe, however, beyond the Atlantic, has not the new day verily
dawned! Democracy, as we said, is born; storm-girt, is struggling
for life and victory. A sympathetic France rejoices over the
Rights of Man; in all saloons, it is said, What a spectacle! Now
too behold our Deane, our Franklin, American Plenipotentiaries,
here in position soliciting;[35] the sons of the Saxon Puritans,
with their Old-Saxon temper, Old-Hebrew culture, sleek Silas,
sleek Benjamin, here on such errand, among the light children of
Heathenism, Monarchy, Sentimentalism, and the Scarlet-woman. A
spectacle indeed; over which saloons may cackle joyous; though
Kaiser Joseph, questioned on it, gave this answer, most
unexpected from a Philosophe: ‘Madame, the trade I live by is
that of royalist (_Mon métier à moi c’est d’être royaliste_).’
So thinks light Maurepas too; but the wind of Philosophism and
force of public opinion will blow him round. Best wishes,
meanwhile, are sent; clandestine privateers armed. Paul Jones
shall equip his _Bon Homme Richard:_ weapons, military stores can
be smuggled over (if the English do not seize them); wherein,
once more Beaumarchais, dimly as the Giant Smuggler becomes
visible,—filling his own lank pocket withal. But surely, in any
case, France should have a Navy. For which great object were not
now the time: now when that proud Termagant of the Seas has her
hands full? It is true, an impoverished Treasury cannot build
ships; but the hint once given (which Beaumarchais says he gave),
this and the other loyal Seaport, Chamber of Commerce, will build
and offer them. Goodly vessels bound into the waters; a _Ville de
Paris_, Leviathan of ships.
And now when gratuitous three-deckers dance there at anchor, with
streamers flying; and eleutheromaniac Philosophedom grows ever
more clamorous, what can a Maurepas do—but gyrate? Squadrons
cross the ocean: Gages, Lees, rough Yankee Generals, “with
woollen night-caps under their hats,” present arms to the
far-glancing Chivalry of France; and new-born Democracy sees, not
without amazement, “Despotism tempered by Epigrams” fight at her
side. So, however, it is. King’s forces and heroic volunteers;
Rochambeaus, Bouillés, Lameths, Lafayettes, have drawn their
swords in this sacred quarrel of mankind;—shall draw them again
elsewhere, in the strangest way.
Off Ushant some naval thunder is heard. In the course of which
did our young Prince, Duke de Chartres, “hide in the hold;” or
did he materially, by _active_ heroism, contribute to the
victory? Alas, by a second edition, we learn that there was no
victory; or that English Keppel had it.[36] Our poor young Prince
gets his Opera plaudits changed into mocking tehees; and cannot
become Grand-Admiral,—the source to him of woes which one may
call endless.
Woe also for _Ville de Paris_, the Leviathan of ships! English
Rodney has clutched it, and led it home, with the rest; so
successful was his new “manœuvre of breaking the enemy’s
line.”[37] It seems as if, according to Louis XV., “France were
never to have a Navy.” Brave Suffren must return from Hyder Ally
and the Indian Waters; with small result; yet with great glory
for “six” _non-defeats;_—which indeed, with such seconding as he
had, one may reckon heroic. Let the old sea-hero rest now,
honoured of France, in his native Cevennes mountains; send smoke,
not of gunpowder, but mere culinary smoke, through the old
chimneys of the Castle of Jalès,—which one day, in other hands,
shall have other fame. Brave Lapérouse shall by and by lift
anchor, on philanthropic Voyage of Discovery; for the King knows
Geography.[38] But, alas, this also will not prosper: the brave
Navigator goes, and returns not; the Seekers search far seas for
him in vain. He has vanished trackless into blue Immensity; and
only some mournful mysterious shadow of him hovers long in all
heads and hearts.
Neither, while the War yet lasts, will Gibraltar surrender. Not
though Crillon, Nassau-Siegen, with the ablest projectors extant,
are there; and Prince Condé and Prince d’Artois have hastened to
help. Wondrous leather-roofed Floating-batteries, set afloat by
French-Spanish _Pacte de Famille_, give gallant summons: to
which, nevertheless, Gibraltar answers Plutonically, with mere
torrents of redhot iron,—as if stone Calpe had become a throat of
the Pit; and utters such a Doom’s-blast of a No, as all men must
credit.[39]
And so, with this loud explosion, the noise of War has ceased; an
Age of Benevolence may hope, for ever. Our noble volunteers of
Freedom have returned, to be her missionaries. Lafayette, as the
matchless of his time, glitters in the Versailles Œil-de-Beouf;
has his Bust set up in the Paris Hôtel-de-Ville. Democracy stands
inexpugnable, immeasurable, in her New World; has even a foot
lifted towards the Old;—and our French Finances, little
strengthened by such work, are in no healthy way.
What to do with the Finance? This indeed is the great question: a
small but most black weather-symptom, which no radiance of
universal hope can cover. We saw Turgot cast forth from the
Controllership, with shrieks,—for want of a Fortunatus’ Purse. As
little could M. de Clugny manage the duty; or indeed do anything,
but consume his wages; attain “a place in History,” where as an
ineffectual shadow thou beholdest him still lingering;—and let
the duty manage itself. Did Genevese Necker _possess_ such a
Purse, then? He possessed banker’s skill, banker’s honesty;
_credit_ of all kinds, for he had written Academic Prize Essays,
struggled for India Companies, given dinners to Philosophes, and
“realised a fortune in twenty years.” He possessed, further, a
taciturnity and solemnity; of depth, or else of dulness. How
singular for Celadon Gibbon, false swain as he had proved; whose
father, keeping most probably his own gig, “would not hear of
such a union,”—to find now his forsaken Demoiselle Curchod
sitting in the high places of the world, as Minister’s Madame,
and “Necker not jealous!”[40]
A new young Demoiselle, one day to be famed as a Madame and De
Staël, was romping about the knees of the Decline and Fall: the
lady Necker founds Hospitals; gives solemn Philosophe
dinner-parties, to cheer her exhausted Controller-General.
Strange things have happened: by clamour of Philosophism,
management of Marquis de Pezay, and Poverty constraining even
Kings. And so Necker, Atlas-like, sustains the burden of the
Finances, for five years long?[41] Without wages, for he refused
such; cheered only by Public Opinion, and the ministering of his
noble Wife. With many thoughts in him, it is hoped;—which,
however, he is shy of uttering. His _Compte Rendu_, published by
the royal permission, fresh sign of a New Era, shows
wonders;—which what but the genius of some Atlas-Necker can
prevent from becoming portents? In Necker’s head too there is a
whole pacific French Revolution, of its kind; and in that
taciturn dull depth, or deep dulness, ambition enough.
Meanwhile, alas, his Fotunatus’ Purse turns out to be little
other than the old “_vectigal_ of Parsimony.” Nay, he too has to
produce his scheme of taxing: Clergy, Noblesse to be taxed;
Provincial Assemblies, and the rest,—like a mere Turgot! The
expiring M. de Maurepas must gyrate one other time. Let Necker
also depart; not unlamented.
Great in a private station, Necker looks on from the distance;
abiding his time. “Eighty thousand copies” of his new Book, which
he calls _Administration des Finances_, will be sold in few days.
He is gone; but shall return, and that more than once, borne by a
whole shouting Nation. Singular Controller-General of the
Finances; once Clerk in Thelusson’s Bank!