pay, all right; if not, it made no difference. He
looked after the wants of political refugees, and head, heart and
pocketbook were at the disposal of those who needed them. His
lodging-place was a garret, a cellar--anywhere: he was homeless, and his
public appearances were only at the coffeehouse clubs, or in the parks,
where he would stand on a barrel and speak to the crowd on his one theme
of liberty, fraternity and equality. His plea was for the individual. In
order to have a strong and excellent society, we must have strong and
excellent men and women. That phrase of Paine's, "The world is my
country: to do good is my religion," he repeated over and over again.

* * * * *

In the year Seventeen Hundred Seventy-nine, Marat moved to Paris. He was
then thirty-six years old. In Paris he lived very much the same life
that he had in London. He established himself as a physician, and might
have made a decided success had he put all his eggs in one basket and
then watched the basket.

But he didn't. Franklin had inspired him with a passion for invention:
he rubbed amber with wool, made a battery and applied the scheme in a
crude way to the healing art. He wrote articles on electricity and even
foreshadowed the latter-day announcement that electricity is life. And
all the time he discussed economics, and gave out through speech and
written word his views as to the rights of the people. He saw the needs
of the poor--he perceived how through lack of nourishment there
developed a craving for stimulants, and observed how disease and death
fasten themselves upon the ill-fed and the ill-taught. To alleviate the
suffering of the poor, he opened a dispensary as he had done in London,
and gave free medical attendance to all who applied. At this dispensary,
he gave lectures on certain days upon hygiene, at which times he never
failed to introduce his essence of Rousseau and Voltaire.

Some one called him "the people's friend." The name stuck--he liked it.

In August, Seventeen Hundred Eighty-nine, this "terrible dwarf" was
standing on his barrel in Paris haranguing crowds with an oratory that
was tremendous in its impassioned quality. Men stopped to laugh and
remained to applaud.

Not only did he denounce the nobility, but he saw danger in the liberal
leaders, and among others, Mirabeau came in for scathing scorn. Of all
the insane paradoxes this one is the most paradoxical--that men will
hate tho