The Fourth Estate.
Pamphleteering opens its abysmal throat wider and wider: never to
close more. Our Philosophes, indeed, rather withdraw; after the
manner of Marmontel, “retiring in disgust the first day.” Abbé
Raynal, grown gray and quiet in his Marseilles domicile, is
little content with this work; the last literary act of the man
will again be an act of rebellion: an indignant _Letter to the
Constituent Assembly;_ answered by “the order of the day.” Thus
also Philosophe Morellet puckers discontented brows; being indeed
threatened in his benefices by that Fourth of August: it is
clearly going too far. How astonishing that those “haggard
figures in woollen jupes” would not rest as satisfied with
Speculation, and victorious Analysis, as we!
Alas, yes: Speculation, Philosophism, once the ornament and
wealth of the saloon, will now coin itself into mere Practical
Propositions, and circulate on street and highway, universally;
with results! A Fourth Estate, of Able Editors, springs up;
increases and multiplies; irrepressible, incalculable. New
Printers, new Journals, and ever new (so prurient is the world),
let our Three Hundred curb and consolidate as they can!
Loustalot, under the wing of Prudhomme dull-blustering Printer,
edits weekly his _Révolutions de Paris;_ in an acrid, emphatic
manner. Acrid, corrosive, as the spirit of sloes and copperas, is
Marat, _Friend of the People;_ struck already with the fact that
the National Assembly, so full of Aristocrats, “can do nothing,”
except dissolve itself, and make way for a better; that the
Townhall Representatives are little other than babblers and
imbeciles, if not even knaves. Poor is this man; squalid, and
dwells in garrets; a man unlovely to the sense, outward and
inward; a man forbid;—and is becoming fanatical, possessed with
fixed-idea. Cruel _lusus_ of Nature! Did Nature, O poor Marat, as
in cruel sport, knead thee out of her _leavings_, and
miscellaneous waste clay; and fling thee forth stepdamelike, a
Distraction into this distracted Eighteenth Century? Work is
appointed thee there; which thou shalt do. The Three Hundred have
summoned and will again summon Marat: but always he croaks forth
answer sufficient; always he will defy them, or elude them; and
endure no gag.
Carra, “Ex-secretary of a decapitated Hospodar,” and then of a
Necklace-Cardinal; likewise pamphleteer, Adventurer in many
scenes and lands,—draws nigh to Mercier, of the _Tableau de
Paris;_ and, with foam on his lips, proposes an _Annales
Patriotiques_. The _Moniteur_ goes its prosperous way; Barrère
“weeps,” on Paper as yet loyal; Rivarol, Royou are not idle. Deep
calls to deep: your _Domine Salvum Fac Regem_ shall awaken _Pange
Lingua;_ with an _Ami-du-Peuple_ there is a King’s-Friend
Newspaper, _Ami-du-Roi_. Camille Desmoulins has appointed himself
_Procureur-Général de la Lanterne_, Attorney-General of the
Lamp-iron; and pleads, _not_ with atrocity, under an atrocious
title; editing weekly his brilliant _Revolutions of Paris and
Brabant_. Brilliant, we say: for if, in that thick murk of
Journalism, with its dull blustering, with its fixed or loose
fury, any ray of genius greet thee, be sure it is Camille’s. The
thing that Camille teaches he, with his light finger, adorns:
brightness plays, gentle, unexpected, amid horrible confusions;
often is the word of Camille worth reading, when no other’s is.
Questionable Camille, how thou glitterest with a fallen,
rebellious, yet still semi-celestial light; as is the star-light
on the brow of Lucifer! Son of the Morning, into what times and
what lands, art thou fallen!
But in all things is good;—though not good for “consolidating
Revolutions.” Thousand wagon-loads of this Pamphleteering and
Newspaper matter, lie rotting slowly in the Public Libraries of
our Europe. Snatched from the great gulf, like oysters by
bibliomaniac pearl-divers, there must they first _rot_, then what
was pearl, in Camille or others, may be seen as such, and
continue as such.
Nor has public speaking declined, though Lafayette and his
Patrols look sour on it. Loud always is the Palais Royal, loudest
the Café de Foy; such a miscellany of Citizens and Citizenesses
circulating there. “Now and then,” according to Camille, “some
Citizens employ the liberty of the _press_ for a private purpose;
so that this or the other Patriot finds himself short of his
watch or pocket-handkerchief!” But, for the rest, in Camille’s
opinion, nothing can be a livelier image of the Roman Forum. “A
Patriot proposes his motion; if it finds any supporters, they
make him mount on a chair, and speak. If he is applauded, he
prospers and redacts; if he is hissed, he goes his ways.” Thus
they, circulating and perorating. Tall shaggy Marquis
Saint-Huruge, a man that has had losses, and has deserved them,
is seen eminent, and also heard. “Bellowing” is the character of
his voice, like that of a Bull of Bashan; voice which drowns all
voices, which causes frequently the hearts of men to leap.
Cracked or half-cracked is this tall Marquis’s head; uncracked
are his lungs; the cracked and the uncracked shall alike avail
him.
Consider farther that each of the Forty-eight Districts has its
own Committee; speaking and motioning continually; aiding in the
search for grain, in the search for a Constitution; checking and
spurring the poor Three Hundred of the Townhall. That Danton,
with a “voice reverberating from the domes,” is President of the
Cordeliers District; which has already become a Goshen of
Patriotism. That apart from the “seventeen thousand utterly
necessitous, digging on Montmartre,” most of whom, indeed, have
got passes, and been dismissed into Space “with four
shillings,”—there is a _strike_, or union, of Domestics out of
place; who assemble for public speaking: next, a strike of
Tailors, for even they will strike and speak; further, a strike
of Journeymen Cordwainers; a strike of Apothecaries: so dear is
bread.[226] All these, having struck, must speak; generally under
the open canopy; and pass resolutions;—Lafayette and his Patrols
watching them suspiciously from the distance.
Unhappy mortals: such tugging and lugging, and throttling of one
another, to divide, in some not intolerable way, the joint
Felicity of man in this Earth; when the whole lot to be divided
is such a “feast of _shells!_”—Diligent are the Three Hundred;
none equals Scipio Americanus in dealing with mobs. But surely
all these things bode ill for the consolidating of a Revolution.