questionable case. Sure only that man is mortal; that with the life
of one mortal snaps irrevocably the wonderfulest talisman, and all
Dubarrydom rushes off, with tumult, into infinite Space; and ye, as
subterranean Apparitions are wont, vanish utterly,--leaving only a smell
of sulphur!

These, and what holds of these may pray,--to Beelzebub, or whoever will
hear them. But from the rest of France there comes, as was said, no
prayer; or one of an opposite character, 'expressed openly in the
streets.' Chateau or Hotel, were an enlightened Philosophism scrutinises
many things, is not given to prayer: neither are Rossbach victories,
Terray Finances, nor, say only 'sixty thousand Lettres de Cachet' (which
is Maupeou's share), persuasives towards that. O Henault! Prayers? From
a France smitten (by black-art) with plague after plague, and lying now
in shame and pain, with a Harlot's foot on its neck, what prayer can
come? Those lank scarecrows, that prowl hunger-stricken through all
highways and byways of French Existence, will they pray? The dull
millions that, in the workshop or furrowfield, grind fore-done at the
wheel of Labour, like haltered gin-horses, if blind so much the quieter?
Or they that in the Bicetre Hospital, 'eight to a bed,' lie waiting
their manumission? Dim are those heads of theirs, dull stagnant those
hearts: to them the great Sovereign is known mainly as the great
Regrater of Bread. If they hear of his sickness, they will answer with a
dull Tant pis pour lui; or with the question, Will he die?

Yes, will he die? that is now, for all France, the grand question, and
hope; whereby alone the King's sickness has still some interest.