of the members.

During the latter part of the Eighteenth Century, these clubs were very
popular in London. Men who could talk or speak were made welcome, and if
the new member generated caloric, so much the better--excitement was at
a premium.

Marat was now able to speak English with precision, and his slight
French accent only added a charm to his words. He was fiery, direct,
impetuous. He was a fighter by disposition, and care was taken never to
cross him beyond a point where the sparks began to fly. The man was
immensely diverting, and his size was to his advantage--orators should
be very big or very little--anything but commonplace. The Duke of Mantua
would have gloried in Jean Paul, and later might have cut off his head
as a precautionary measure.

Among the visitors at one of the coffeehouse clubs was one B. Franklin,
big, patient, kind. He weighed twice as much as Marat: and his years
were sixty, while Marat's were thirty.

Franklin listened with amused smiles at the little man, and the little
man grew to have an idolatrous regard for the big 'un. Franklin carried
copies of a pamphlet called "Common Sense," written by one T. Paine.
Paine was born in England, but was always pleased to be spoken of as an
American, yet he called himself "A Citizen of the World."

Paine's pamphlet, "The Crisis," was known by heart to Marat, and the
success of Franklin and Paine as writers had fired him to write as well
as to orate. As a result, we have "The Chains of Slavery." The work
today has no interest to us except as a literary curiosity. It is a
composite of Rousseau and Paine, done by a sophomore in a mood of
exaltation, and might serve acceptably well as a graduation essay, done
in F major. It lacks the poise of Paine and the reserve of Rousseau, and
all the fine indifference of Franklin is noticeable by its absence.

They say that Marat's name was "Mara" and his ancestors came from County
Down. But never mind that--his heart was right. Of all the inane
imbecilities and stupid untruths of history, none is worse than the
statement that Jean Paul Marat was a demagog, hotly intent on the main
chance.

In this man's character there was nothing subtle, secret nor untrue. He
was simplicity itself, and his undiplomatic bluntness bears witness to
his honesty.

In London, he lived as the Mayor of Boston said William Lloyd Garrison
lived--in a hole in the ground. His services as a physician were free to
all--if they could