churchyards, and ask ‘how many new graves there were today,’ though it gave his poor Pompadour the disagreeablest qualms.  We can figure the thought of Louis that day, when, all royally caparisoned for hunting, he met, at some sudden turning in the Wood of Senart, a ragged Peasant with a coffin:  “For whom?”—­It was for a poor brother slave, whom Majesty had sometimes noticed slaving in those quarters.  “What did he die of?”—­“Of hunger:”—­the King gave his steed the spur. (Campan, iii. 39.)

But figure his thought, when Death is now clutching at his own heart-strings, unlooked for, inexorable!  Yes, poor Louis, Death has found thee.  No palace walls or life-guards, gorgeous tapestries or gilt buckram of stiffest ceremonial could keep him out; but he is here, here at thy very life-breath, and will extinguish it.  Thou, whose whole existence hitherto was a chimera and scenic show, at length becomest a reality:  sumptuous Versailles bursts asunder, like a dream, into void Immensity; Time is done, and all the scaffolding of Time falls wrecked with hideous clangour round thy soul:  the pale Kingdoms yawn open; there must thou enter, naked, all unking’d, and await what is appointed thee!  Unhappy man, there as thou turnest, in dull agony, on thy bed of weariness, what a thought is thine!  Purgatory and Hell-fire, now all-too possible, in the prospect; in the retrospect,—­alas, what thing didst thou do that were not better undone; what mortal didst thou generously help; what sorrow hadst thou mercy on?  Do the ‘five hundred thousand’ ghosts, who sank shamefully on so many battle-fields from Rossbach to Quebec, that thy Harlot might take revenge for an epigram,—­crowd round thee in this hour?  Thy foul Harem; the curses of mothers, the tears and infamy of daughters?  Miserable man! thou ’hast done evil as thou couldst:’  thy whole existence seems one hideous abortion and mistake of Nature; the use and meaning of thee not yet known.  Wert thou a fabulous Griffin, devouring the works of men; daily dragging virgins to thy cave;—­clad also in scales that no spear would pierce:  no spear but Death’s?  A Griffin not fabulous but real!  Frightful, O Louis, seem these moments for thee.—­We will pry no further into the horrors of a sinner’s death-bed.

And yet let no meanest man lay flattering unction to his soul.  Louis was a Ruler; but art not thou also one?  His wide France, look at it from the Fixed Stars (themselves not yet Infinitude), is no wider than thy narrow brickfield, where thou too didst faithfully, or didst unfaithfully.  Man, ’Symbol of Eternity imprisoned into ‘Time!’ it is not thy works, which are all mortal, infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than the least, but only the Spirit thou workest in, that can have worth or continuance.