Not so the Clergy.  For granting even that Religion were dead; that it had died, half-centuries ago, with unutterable Dubois; or emigrated lately, to Alsace, with Necklace-Cardinal Rohan; or that it now walked as goblin revenant with Bishop Talleyrand of Autun; yet does not the Shadow of Religion, the Cant of Religion, still linger?  The Clergy have means and material:  means, of number, organization, social weight; a material, at lowest, of public ignorance, known to be the mother of devotion.  Nay, withal, is it incredible that there might, in simple hearts, latent here and there like gold grains in the mud-beach, still dwell some real Faith in God, of so singular and tenacious a sort that even a Maury or a Talleyrand, could still be the symbol for it?—­Enough, and Clergy has strength, the Clergy has craft and indignation.  It is a most fatal business this of the Clergy.  A weltering hydra-coil, which the National Assembly has stirred up about its ears; hissing, stinging; which cannot be appeased, alive; which cannot be trampled dead!  Fatal, from first to last!  Scarcely after fifteen months’ debating, can a Civil Constitution of the Clergy be so much as got to paper; and then for getting it into reality?  Alas, such Civil Constitution is but an agreement to disagree.  It divides France from end to end, with a new split, infinitely complicating all the other splits;—­Catholicism, what of it there is left, with the Cant of Catholicism, raging on the one side, and sceptic Heathenism on the other; both, by contradiction , waxing fanatic.  What endless jarring, of Refractory hated Priests, and Constitutional despised ones; of tender consciences, like the King’s, and consciences hot-seared, like certain of his People’s:  the whole to end in Feasts of Reason and a War of La Vendee!  So deep-seated is Religion in the heart of man, and holds of all infinite passions.  If the dead echo of it still did so much, what could not the living voice of it once do?

Finance and Constitution, Law and Gospel:  this surely were work enough; yet this is not all.  In fact, the Ministry, and Necker himself whom a brass inscription ‘fastened by the people over his door-lintel’ testifies to be the ‘Ministre adore,’ are dwindling into clearer and clearer nullity.  Execution or legislation, arrangement or detail, from their nerveless fingers all drops undone; all lights at last on the toiled shoulders of an august Representative Body.  Heavy-laden National Assembly!  It has to hear of innumerable fresh revolts, Brigand expeditions; of Chateaus in the West, especially of Charter-chests, Chartiers, set on fire; for there too the overloaded Ass frightfully recalcitrates.  Of Cities in the South full of heats and jealousies; which will end in crossed sabres, Marseilles against Toulon, and Carpentras beleaguered by Avignon;—­such Royalist collision in a career of Freedom; nay Patriot collision, which a mere difference of velocity will bring about!  Of a Jourdan Coup-tete, who has skulked thitherward, from the claws of the Chatelet; and will raise whole scoundrel-regiments.