Journalism.
As for Constitutionalism, with its National Guards, it is doing
what it can; and has enough to do: it must, as ever, with one
hand wave persuasively, repressing Patriotism; and keep the other
clenched to menace Royalty plotters. A most delicate task;
requiring tact.
Thus, if People’s-friend Marat has today his writ of “_prise de
corps_, or seizure of body,” served on him, and dives out of
sight, tomorrow he is left at large; or is even encouraged, as a
sort of bandog whose baying may be useful. President Danton, in
open Hall, with reverberating voice, declares that, in a case
like Marat’s, ‘force may be resisted by force.’ Whereupon the
Chatelet serves Danton also with a writ;—which, however, as the
whole Cordeliers District responds to it, what Constable will be
prompt to execute? Twice more, on new occasions, does the
Chatelet launch its writ; and twice more in vain: the body of
Danton cannot be seized by Châtelet; he unseized, should he even
fly for a season, shall behold the Châtelet itself flung into
limbo.
Municipality and Brissot, meanwhile, are far on with their
Municipal Constitution. The Sixty _Districts_ shall become
Forty-eight _Sections;_ much shall be adjusted, and Paris have
its Constitution. A Constitution wholly Elective; as indeed all
French Government shall and must be. And yet, one fatal element
has been introduced: that of _citoyen actif_. No man who does not
pay the _marc d’argent_, or yearly tax equal to three days’
labour, shall be other than a _passive_ citizen: not the
slightest vote for him; were he _acting_, all the year round,
with sledge hammer, with forest-levelling axe! Unheard of! cry
Patriot Journals. Yes truly, my Patriot Friends, if Liberty, the
passion and prayer of all men’s souls, means Liberty to send your
fifty-thousandth part of a new Tongue-fencer into National
Debating-club, then, be the gods witness, ye are hardly
entreated. Oh, if in National _Palaver_ (as the Africans name
it), such blessedness is verily found, what tyrant would deny it
to Son of Adam! Nay, might there not be a Female Parliament too,
with “screams from the Opposition benches,” and “the honourable
Member borne out in hysterics?” To a Children’s Parliament would
I gladly consent; or even lower if ye wished it. Beloved
Brothers! Liberty, one might fear, is actually, as the ancient
wise men said, of Heaven. On this Earth, where, thinks the
enlightened public, did a brave little Dame de Staal (not
Necker’s Daughter, but a far shrewder than she) find the nearest
approach to Liberty? After mature computation, cool as
Dilworth’s, her answer is, _In the Bastille._[279] ‘Of Heaven?’
answer many, asking. Wo that they should _ask;_ for that is the
very misery! ‘Of Heaven’ means much; share in the National
Palaver it may, or may as probably _not_ mean.
One Sansculottic bough that cannot fail to flourish is
Journalism. The voice of the People _being_ the voice of God,
shall not such divine voice make itself heard? To the ends of
France; and in as many dialects as when the _first_ great Babel
was to be built! Some loud as the lion; some small as the sucking
dove. Mirabeau himself has his instructive Journal or Journals,
with Geneva hodmen working in them; and withal has quarrels
enough with Dame le Jay, his Female Bookseller, so
ultra-compliant otherwise.[280]
_King’s-friend_ Royou still prints himself. Barrère sheds tears
of loyal sensibility in _Break of Day_ Journal, though with
declining sale. But why is Fréron so hot, democratic; Fréron, the
King’s-friend’s Nephew? He has it by kind, that heat of his:
_wasp_ Fréron begot him; Voltaire’s _Frélon;_ who fought
stinging, while sting and poison-bag were left, were it only as
Reviewer, and over Printed Waste-paper. Constant, illuminative,
as the nightly lamplighter, issues the useful _Moniteur_, for it
is now become diurnal: with facts and few commentaries; official,
safe in the middle:—its able Editors sunk long since, recoverably
or irrecoverably, in deep darkness. Acid Loustalot, with his
“vigour,” as of young sloes, shall never ripen, but die untimely:
his Prudhomme, however, will not let that _Révolutions de Paris_
die; but edit it himself, with much else,—dull-blustering Printer
though he be.
Of Cassandra-Marat we have spoken often; yet the most surprising
truth remains to be spoken: that he actually does not want sense;
but, with croaking gelid throat, croaks out masses of the truth,
on several things. Nay sometimes, one might almost fancy he had a
perception of humour, and were laughing a little, far down in his
inner man. Camille is wittier than ever, and more outspoken,
cynical; yet sunny as ever. A light melodious creature; “born,”
as he shall yet say with bitter tears, “to write verses;” light
Apollo, so clear, soft-lucent, in this war of the Titans, wherein
he shall not conquer!
Folded and hawked Newspapers exist in all countries; but, in such
a Journalistic element as this of France, other and stranger
sorts are to be anticipated. What says the English reader to a
_Journal-Affiche_, Placard Journal; legible to him that has no
halfpenny; in bright prismatic colours, calling the eye from
afar? Such, in the coming months, as Patriot Associations, public
and private, advance, and can subscribe funds, shall plenteously
hang themselves out: _leaves_, limed leaves, to catch what they
can! The very Government shall have its Pasted Journal; Louvet,
busy yet with a new “charming romance,” shall write
_Sentinelles_, and post them with effect; nay Bertrand de
Moleville, in his extremity, shall still more cunningly try
it.[281] Great is Journalism. Is not every Able Editor a Ruler of
the World, being a persuader of it; though self-elected, yet
sanctioned, by the sale of his Numbers? Whom indeed the world has
the readiest method of deposing, should need be: that of merely
doing _nothing_ to him; which ends in starvation!
Nor esteem it small what those Bill-stickers had to do in Paris:
above Three Score of them: all with their crosspoles, haversacks,
pastepots; nay with leaden badges, for the Municipality licenses
them. A Sacred College, properly of World-rulers’ Heralds, though
not respected as such, in an Era still incipient and raw. They
made the walls of Paris didactic, suasive, with an ever fresh
Periodical Literature, wherein he that ran might read: Placard
Journals, Placard Lampoons, Municipal Ordinances, Royal
Proclamations; the whole other or vulgar Placard-department
super-added,—or omitted from contempt! What unutterable things
the stone-walls spoke, during these five years! But it is all
gone; Today swallowing Yesterday, and then being in its turn
swallowed of Tomorrow, even as Speech ever is. Nay what, O thou
immortal Man of Letters, is Writing itself but Speech conserved
for a time? The Placard Journal conserved it for one day; some
Books conserve it for the matter of ten years; nay some for three
thousand: but what then? Why, _then_, the years being all run, it
also dies, and the world is rid of it. Oh, were there not a
spirit in the word of man, as in man himself, that survived the
audible bodied word, and tended either Godward, or else Devilward
for evermore, why should he trouble himself much with the truth
of it, or the falsehood of it, except for commercial purposes?
His immortality indeed, and whether it shall last half a
lifetime, or a lifetime and half; is not that a very considerable
thing? As mortality, was to the runaway, whom Great Fritz bullied
back into the battle with a: ‘_R—, wollt ihr ewig leben_,
Unprintable Off-scouring of Scoundrels, would ye live for ever!’
This is the Communication of Thought: how happy when there is any
Thought to communicate! Neither let the simpler old methods be
neglected, in their sphere. The Palais-Royal Tent, a tyrannous
Patrollotism has removed; but can it remove the lungs of man?
Anaxagoras Chaumette we saw mounted on bourne-stones, while
Tallien worked sedentary at the subeditorial desk. In any corner
of the civilised world, a tub can be inverted, and an
articulate-speaking biped mount thereon. Nay, with contrivance, a
portable trestle, or folding-stool, can be procured, for love or
money; this the peripatetic Orator can take in his hand, and,
driven out here, set it up again there; saying mildly, with a
Sage Bias, _Omnia mea mecum porto._
Such is Journalism, hawked, pasted, spoken. How changed since One
old Métra walked this same Tuileries Garden, in gilt cocked hat,
with Journal at his nose, or held loose-folded behind his back;
and was a notability of Paris, “Métra the Newsman;”[282] and
Louis himself was wont to say: _Qu’en dit Métra?_ Since the first
Venetian News-sheet was sold for a _gazza_, or farthing, and
named _Gazette!_ We live in a fertile world.