the Butcher down!"--and Jourdan has to whisk himself through secret
passages, and instantaneously vanish.

Be the mystery of iniquity laid bare then! A Hundred and Thirty Corpses,
of men, nay of women and even children (for the trembling mother,
hastily seized, could not leave her infant), lie heaped in that
Glaciere; putrid, under putridities: the horror of the world. For three
days there is mournful lifting out, and recognition; amid the cries and
movements of a passionate Southern people, now kneeling in prayer, now
storming in wild pity and rage: lastly there is solemn sepulture, with
muffled drums, religious requiem, and all the people's wail and tears.
Their Massacred rest now in holy ground; buried in one grave.

And Jourdan Coupe-tete? Him also we behold again, after a day or two:
in flight, through the most romantic Petrarchan hill-country; vehemently
spurring his nag; young Ligonnet, a brisk youth of Avignon, with Choisi
Dragoons, close in his rear! With such swollen mass of a rider no nag
can run to advantage. The tired nag, spur-driven, does take the River
Sorgue; but sticks in the middle of it; firm on that chiaro fondo di
Sorga; and will proceed no further for spurring! Young Ligonnet dashes
up; the Copper-face menaces and bellows, draws pistol, perhaps even
snaps it; is nevertheless seized by the collar; is tied firm, ancles
under horse's belly, and ridden back to Avignon, hardly to be saved from
massacre on the streets there. (Dampmartin, ubi supra.)

Such is the combustion of Avignon and the South-West, when it becomes
luminous! Long loud debate is in the august Legislative, in the
Mother-Society as to what now shall be done with it. Amnesty, cry
eloquent Vergniaud and all Patriots: let there be mutual pardon and
repentance, restoration, pacification, and if so might any how be, an
end! Which vote ultimately prevails. So the South-West smoulders and
welters again in an 'Amnesty,' or Non-remembrance, which alas cannot
but remember, no Lethe flowing above ground! Jourdan himself remains
unchanged; gets loose again as one not yet gallows-ripe; nay, as we
transciently discern from the distance, is 'carried in triumph through
the cities of the South.' (Deux Amis vii. (Paris, 1797), pp. 59-71.)
What things men carry!

With which transient glimpse, of a Copper-faced Portent faring in this
manner through the cities of the South, we must quit these regions;--and
let them smoulder. They want not their Aristocr