For the rest, Non-jurant Priests, and the repression of them, will distract the King’s conscience; Emigrant Princes and Noblesse will force him to double-dealing:  there must be veto on veto; amid the ever-waxing indignation of men.  For Patriotism, as we said, looks on from without, more and more suspicious.  Waxing tempest, blast after blast, of Patriot indignation, from without; dim inorganic whirl of Intrigues, Fatuities, within!  Inorganic, fatuous; from which the eye turns away.  De Stael intrigues for her so gallant Narbonne, to get him made War-Minister; and ceases not, having got him made.  The King shall fly to Rouen; shall there, with the gallant Narbonne, properly ‘modify the Constitution.’  This is the same brisk Narbonne, who, last year, cut out from their entanglement, by force of dragoons, those poor fugitive Royal Aunts:  men say he is at bottom their Brother, or even more, so scandalous is scandal.  He drives now, with his de Stael, rapidly to the Armies, to the Frontier Towns; produces rose-coloured Reports, not too credible; perorates, gesticulates; wavers poising himself on the top, for a moment, seen of men; then tumbles, dismissed, washed away by the Time-flood.

Also the fair Princess de Lamballe intrigues, bosom friend of her Majesty:  to the angering of Patriotism.  Beautiful Unfortunate, why did she ever return from England?  Her small silver-voice, what can it profit in that piping of the black World-tornado?  Which will whirl her, poor fragile Bird of Paradise, against grim rocks.  Lamballe and de Stael intrigue visibly, apart or together:  but who shall reckon how many others, and in what infinite ways, invisibly!  Is there not what one may call an ‘Austrian Committee,’ sitting invisible in the Tuileries; centre of an invisible Anti-National Spiderweb, which, for we sleep among mysteries, stretches its threads to the ends of the Earth?  Journalist Carra has now the clearest certainty of it:  to Brissotin Patriotism, and France generally, it is growing more and more probable.

O Reader, hast thou no pity for this Constitution?  Rheumatic shooting pains in its members; pressure of hydrocephale and hysteric vapours on its Brain:  a Constitution divided against itself; which will never march, hardly even stagger?  Why were not Drouet and Procureur Sausse in their beds, that unblessed Varennes Night!  Why did they not, in the name of Heaven, let the Korff Berline go whither it listed!  Nameless incoherency, incompatibility, perhaps prodigies at which the world still shudders, had been spared.

But now comes the third thing that bodes ill for the marching of this French Constitution:  besides the French People, and the French King, there is thirdly—­the assembled European world? it has become necessary now to look at that also.  Fair France is so luminous:  and round and round it, is troublous Cimmerian Night.  Calonnes, Breteuils hover dim, far-flown; overnetting Europe with intrigues.  From Turin to Vienna;