exist; there are endless excellences in Paper.—­What wisest Philosophe, in this halcyon uneventful period, could prophesy that there was approaching, big with darkness and confusion, the event of events?  Hope ushers in a Revolution,—­as earthquakes are preceded by bright weather.  On the Fifth of May, fifteen years hence, old Louis will not be sending for the Sacraments; but a new Louis, his grandson, with the whole pomp of astonished intoxicated France, will be opening the States-General.

Dubarrydom and its D’Aiguillons are gone forever.  There is a young, still docile, well-intentioned King; a young, beautiful and bountiful, well-intentioned Queen; and with them all France, as it were, become young.  Maupeou and his Parlement have to vanish into thick night; respectable Magistrates, not indifferent to the Nation, were it only for having been opponents of the Court, can descend unchained from their ‘steep rocks at Croe in Combrailles’ and elsewhere, and return singing praises:  the old Parlement of Paris resumes its functions.  Instead of a profligate bankrupt Abbe Terray, we have now, for Controller-General, a virtuous philosophic Turgot, with a whole Reformed France in his head.  By whom whatsoever is wrong, in Finance or otherwise, will be righted,—­as far as possible.  Is it not as if Wisdom herself were henceforth to have seat and voice in the Council of Kings?  Turgot has taken office with the noblest plainness of speech to that effect; been listened to with the noblest royal trustfulness. (Turgot’s Letter:  Condorcet, Vie de Turgot (Oeuvres de Condorcet, t. v.), p. 67.  The date is 24th August, 1774.) It is true, as King Louis objects, “They say he never goes to mass;” but liberal France likes him little worse for that; liberal France answers, “The Abbe Terray always went.”  Philosophism sees, for the first time, a Philosophe (or even a Philosopher) in office:  she in all things will applausively second him; neither will light old Maurepas obstruct, if he can easily help it.

Then how ‘sweet’ are the manners; vice ‘losing all its deformity;’ becoming decent (as established things, making regulations for themselves, do); becoming almost a kind of ‘sweet’ virtue!  Intelligence so abounds; irradiated by wit and the art of conversation.  Philosophism sits joyful in her glittering saloons, the dinner-guest of Opulence grown ingenuous, the very nobles proud to sit by her; and preaches, lifted up over all Bastilles, a coming millennium.  From far Ferney, Patriarch Voltaire gives sign:  veterans Diderot, D’Alembert have lived to see this day; these with their younger Marmontels, Morellets, Chamforts, Raynals, make glad the spicy board of rich ministering Dowager, of philosophic Farmer-General.  O nights and suppers of the gods!  Of a truth, the long-demonstrated will now be done:  ’the Age of Revolutions approaches’ (as Jean Jacques wrote), but then of happy blessed ones.  Man awakens from his long somnambulism; chases the