Shall we say, then:  Wo to Philosophism, that it destroyed Religion, what it called ’extinguishing the abomination (ecraser ‘l’infame)’?  Wo rather to those that made the Holy an abomination, and extinguishable; wo at all men that live in such a time of world-abomination and world-destruction!  Nay, answer the Courtiers, it was Turgot, it was Necker, with their mad innovating; it was the Queen’s want of etiquette; it was he, it was she, it was that.  Friends! it was every scoundrel that had lived, and quack-like pretended to be doing, and been only eating and misdoing, in all provinces of life, as Shoeblack or as Sovereign Lord, each in his degree, from the time of Charlemagne and earlier.  All this (for be sure no falsehood perishes, but is as seed sown out to grow) has been storing itself for thousands of years; and now the account-day has come.  And rude will the settlement be:  of wrath laid up against the day of wrath.  O my Brother, be not thou a Quack!  Die rather, if thou wilt take counsel; ’tis but dying once, and thou art quit of it for ever.  Cursed is that trade; and bears curses, thou knowest not how, long ages after thou art departed, and the wages thou hadst are all consumed; nay, as the ancient wise have written,—­through Eternity itself, and is verily marked in the Doom-Book of a God!

Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.  And yet, as we said, Hope is but deferred; not abolished, not abolishable.  It is very notable, and touching, how this same Hope does still light onwards the French Nation through all its wild destinies.  For we shall still find Hope shining, be it for fond invitation, be it for anger and menace; as a mild heavenly light it shone; as a red conflagration it shines:  burning sulphurous blue, through darkest regions of Terror, it still shines; and goes sent out at all, since Desperation itself is a kind of Hope.  Thus is our Era still to be named of Hope, though in the saddest sense,—­when there is nothing left but Hope.

But if any one would know summarily what a Pandora’s Box lies there for the opening, he may see it in what by its nature is the symptom of all symptoms, the surviving Literature of the Period.  Abbe Raynal, with his lubricity and loud loose rant, has spoken his word; and already the fast-hastening generation responds to another.  Glance at Beaumarchais’ Mariage de Figaro; which now (in 1784), after difficulty enough, has issued on the stage; and ‘runs its hundred nights,’ to the admiration of all men.  By what virtue or internal vigour it so ran, the reader of our day will rather wonder:—­and indeed will know so much the better that it flattered some pruriency of the time; that it spoke what all were feeling, and longing to speak.  Small substance in that Figaro:  thin wiredrawn intrigues, thin wiredrawn sentiments and sarcasms; a thing lean, barren; yet which winds and whisks itself, as through a wholly mad universe, adroitly, with a high-sniffing air:  wherein each, as was hinted, which is the grand secret,