Here and there in London by James Ewing Ritchie

The "swinish multitude," as a term of reproach, in these days of ours is gradually becoming less and less in vogue. There were times when gentlemen were not ashamed to use it -- when the people, degraded and oppressed, demoralised by the vices of their superiors, were scorned for the degradation which had been forced on them against their will. Not voluntarily did the people give up its inherent rights and its divine power. The struggle was long and severe before the man relinquished his birthright, and sank into a savage or a sot. The divine in man had to be expelled -- the instinct in manhood had to be repressed -- conscience had to be seared -- fatal habits had to be engendered -- ere this final consummation took place; and kings, with their brute force and men of war, and with their priests slavish enough blasphemously to affirm the voice of the king was the voice of God, found some trouble in effecting it. But they succeeded in time. They fancied that at last they had controlled what was as much beyond their control as the winds of heaven or the ocean's stormy waves. They thought they had inscribed upon humanity at last the proud command: "Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further. " Nor even did the philosopher show himself above the delusion of the age. Gibbon, in closing his story of Rome's decline and fall, pitied the future historian, for whom would exist no parallel passages similar to those which had lent such thrilling charm to his own eventful page. Adam Smith calmly predicted the perpetuity of society as it then was, utterly ignorant of the greatness and the glory yet to come. Yet hardly was the ink dry which recorded these sage predictions, when they were singularly falsified.

Suddenly, without one word of warning, without one note of preparation, a change came as the lightning flash. There was a shaking amongst the dry bones -- a hurrying to and fro of armed men in the imperial halls of Versailles. The curls that clustered on the fair brow of the daughter of the lion-hearted Maria Theresa in a night became grey. The blood of the heir of a hundred kings was spilt like water. The storm over, Europe witnessed a mighty change; old things had passed away, all things had become new: the slavery of the past was gone; the vain tradition of the elders was laughed to scorn: the political emancipation of the people as an idea was already won, and the people -- no longer dumb, inarticulate, without intellectual life -- conscious of its divine destiny, became what it is. The clouds of ignorance were dispelled; wisdom lifted up her voice in the street; knowledge tabernacled on earth. Hence even the spread of a literature for the people -- suited to their wants and capacities -- a literature they can buy, and read, and understand.