Chapter 1: 7.I

Patrollotism.

No, Friends, this Revolution is not of the consolidating kind. Do
not fires, fevers, sown seeds, chemical mixtures, men, events;
all embodiments of Force that work in this miraculous Complex of
Forces, named Universe,—go on _growing_, through their natural
phases and developments, each according to its kind; reach their
height, reach their visible decline; finally sink under,
vanishing, and what we call _die?_ They all grow; there is
nothing but what grows, and shoots forth into its special
expansion,—once give it leave to spring. Observe too that each
grows with a rapidity proportioned, in general, to the madness
and unhealthiness there is in it: slow regular growth, though
this also ends in death, is what we name health and sanity.

A Sansculottism, which has prostrated Bastilles, which has got
pike and musket, and now goes burning Châteaus, passing
resolutions and haranguing under roof and sky, may be said to
have sprung; and, by law of Nature, must grow. To judge by the
madness and diseasedness both of itself, and of the soil and
element it is in, one might expect the rapidity and monstrosity
would be extreme.

Many things too, especially all diseased things, grow by shoots
and fits. The first grand fit and shooting forth of Sansculottism
with that of Paris conquering its King; for Bailly’s figure of
rhetoric was all-too sad a reality. The King is conquered; going
at large on his parole; on condition, say, of absolutely good
behaviour,—which, in these circumstances, will unhappily mean no
behaviour whatever. A quite untenable position, that of Majesty
put on its good behaviour! Alas, is it not natural that whatever
lives try to keep itself living? Whereupon his Majesty’s
behaviour will soon become exceptionable; and so the Second grand
Fit of Sansculottism, that of putting him in durance, cannot be
distant.

Necker, in the National Assembly, is making moan, as usual about
his Deficit: Barriers and Customhouses burnt; the Tax-gatherer
hunted, not hunting; his Majesty’s Exchequer all but empty. The
remedy is a Loan of thirty millions; then, on still more enticing
terms, a Loan of eighty millions: neither of which Loans,
unhappily, will the Stockjobbers venture to lend. The Stockjobber
has no country, except his own black pool of _Agio_.

And yet, in those days, for men that have a country, what a glow
of patriotism burns in many a heart; penetrating inwards to the
very purse! So early as the 7th of August, a _Don Patriotique_,
“a Patriotic Gift of jewels to a considerable extent,” has been
solemnly made by certain Parisian women; and solemnly accepted,
with honourable mention. Whom forthwith all the world takes to
imitating and emulating. Patriotic Gifts, always with some heroic
eloquence, which the President must answer and the Assembly
listen to, flow in from far and near: in such number that the
honourable mention can only be performed in “lists published at
stated epochs.” Each gives what he can: the very cordwainers have
behaved munificently; one landed proprietor gives a forest;
fashionable society gives its shoebuckles, takes cheerfully to
shoe-ties. Unfortunate females give what they “have amassed in
loving.”[227] The smell of all cash, as Vespasian thought, is
good.

Beautiful, and yet inadequate! The Clergy must be “invited” to
melt their superfluous Church-plate,—in the Royal Mint. Nay
finally, a Patriotic Contribution, of the forcible sort, must be
determined on, though unwillingly: let the fourth part of your
declared yearly revenue, for this once only, be paid down; so
shall a National Assembly make the Constitution, undistracted at
least by insolvency. Their own wages, as settled on the 17th of
August, are but Eighteen Francs a day, each man; but the Public
Service must have sinews, must have money. To _appease_ the
Deficit; not to “_combler_, or choke the Deficit,” if you or
mortal could! For withal, as Mirabeau was heard saying, ‘it is
the Deficit that saves us.’

Towards the end of August, our National Assembly in its
constitutional labours, has got so far as the question of _Veto:_
shall Majesty have a Veto on the National Enactments; or not have
a Veto? What speeches were spoken, within doors and without;
clear, and also passionate logic; imprecations, comminations;
gone happily, for most part, to Limbo! Through the cracked brain,
and uncracked lungs of Saint-Huruge, the Palais Royal rebellows
with Veto. Journalism is busy, France rings with Veto. “I shall
never forget,” says Dumont, “my going to Paris, one of these
days, with Mirabeau; and the crowd of people we found waiting for
his carriage, about Le Jay the Bookseller’s shop. They flung
themselves before him; conjuring him with tears in their eyes not
to suffer the _Veto Absolu_. They were in a frenzy: ‘Monsieur le
Comte, you are the people’s father; you must save us; you must
defend us against those villains who are bringing back Despotism.
If the King get this Veto, what is the use of National Assembly?
We are slaves, all is done.’”[228] Friends, _if_ the sky fall,
there will be catching of larks! Mirabeau, adds Dumont, was
eminent on such occasions: he answered vaguely, with a Patrician
imperturbability, and bound himself to nothing.

Deputations go to the Hôtel-de-Ville; anonymous Letters to
Aristocrats in the National Assembly, threatening that fifteen
thousand, or sometimes that sixty thousand, “will march to
illuminate you.” The Paris Districts are astir; Petitions
signing: Saint-Huruge sets forth from the Palais Royal, with an
escort of fifteen hundred individuals, to petition in person.
Resolute, or seemingly so, is the tall shaggy Marquis, is the
Café de Foy: but resolute also is Commandant-General Lafayette.
The streets are all beset by Patrols: Saint-Huruge is stopped at
the _Barrière des Bon Hommes;_ he may bellow like the bulls of
Bashan; but absolutely must return. The brethren of the Palais
Royal “circulate all night,” and make motions, under the open
canopy; all Coffee-houses being shut. Nevertheless Lafayette and
the Townhall do prevail: Saint-Huruge is thrown into prison;
_Veto Absolu_ adjusts itself into _Suspensive Veto_, prohibition
not forever, but for a term of time; and this doom’s-clamour will
grow silent, as the others have done.

So far has Consolidation prospered, though with difficulty;
repressing the Nether Sansculottic world; and the Constitution
shall be made. With difficulty: amid jubilee and scarcity;
Patriotic Gifts, Bakers’-queues; Abbé-Fauchet Harangues, with
their _Amen_ of platoon-musketry! Scipio Americanus has deserved
thanks from the National Assembly and France. They offer him
stipends and emoluments, to a handsome extent; all which stipends
and emoluments he, covetous of far other blessedness than mere
money, does, in his chivalrous way, without scruple, refuse.

To the Parisian common man, meanwhile, one thing remains
inconceivable: that now when the Bastille is down, and French
Liberty restored, grain should continue so dear. Our Rights of
Man are voted, Feudalism and all Tyranny abolished; yet behold we
stand _in queue!_ Is it Aristocrat forestallers; a Court still
bent on intrigues? Something is rotten, somewhere.

And yet, alas, what to do? Lafayette, with his Patrols prohibits
every thing, even complaint. Saint-Huruge and other heroes of the
_Veto_ lie in durance. People’s-Friend Marat was seized; Printers
of Patriotic Journals are fettered and forbidden; the very
Hawkers cannot cry, till they get license, and leaden badges.
Blue National Guards ruthlessly dissipate all groups; scour, with
levelled bayonets, the Palais Royal itself. Pass, on your
affairs, along the Rue Taranne, the Patrol, presenting his
bayonet, cries, _To the left!_ Turn into the Rue Saint-Benoit, he
cries, _To the right!_ A judicious Patriot (like Camille
Desmoulins, in this instance) is driven, for quietness’s sake, to
take the gutter.

O much-suffering People, our glorious Revolution is evaporating
in tricolor ceremonies, and complimentary harangues! Of which
latter, as Loustalot acridly calculates, “upwards of two thousand
have been delivered within the last month, at the Townhall
alone.”[229] And our mouths, unfilled with bread, are to be shut,
under penalties? The Caricaturist promulgates his emblematic
Tablature: _Le Patrouillotisme chassant le Patriotisme_,
Patriotism driven out by Patrollotism. Ruthless Patrols; long
superfine harangues; and scanty ill-baked loaves, more like baked
Bath bricks,—which produce an effect on the intestines! Where
will this end? In consolidation?