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!