s, brain-fevered in the centre of it here,
has gone mad; what you call, taken fire.

Behold, the fire slackens not; nor does the Swiss rolling-fire slacken
from within. Nay they clutched cannon, as we saw: and now, from
the other side, they clutch three pieces more; alas, cannon without
linstock; nor will the steel-and-flint answer, though they try it. (Deux
Amis, viii. 179-88.) Had it chanced to answer! Patriot onlookers have
their misgivings; one strangest Patriot onlooker thinks that the Swiss,
had they a commander, would beat. He is a man not unqualified to judge;
the name of him is Napoleon Buonaparte. (See Hist. Parl. (xvii. 56); Las
Cases, &c.) And onlookers, and women, stand gazing, and the witty Dr.
Moore of Glasgow among them, on the other side of the River: cannon
rush rumbling past them; pause on the Pont Royal; belch out their iron
entrails there, against the Tuileries; and at every new belch, the women
and onlookers shout and clap hands. (Moore, Journal during a Residence
in France (Dublin, 1793), i. 26.) City of all the Devils! In remote
streets, men are drinking breakfast-coffee; following their affairs;
with a start now and then, as some dull echo reverberates a note
louder. And here? Marseillese fall wounded; but Barbaroux has surgeons;
Barbaroux is close by, managing, though underhand, and under cover.
Marseillese fall death-struck; bequeath their firelock, specify in which
pocket are the cartridges; and die, murmuring, "Revenge me, Revenge thy
country!" Brest Federe Officers, galloping in red coats, are shot as
Swiss. Lo you, the Carrousel has burst into flame!--Paris Pandemonium!
Nay the poor City, as we said, is in fever-fit and convulsion; such
crisis has lasted for the space of some half hour.

But what is this that, with Legislative Insignia, ventures through the
hubbub and death-hail, from the back-entrance of the Manege? Towards the
Tuileries and Swiss: written Order from his Majesty to cease firing! O
ye hapless Swiss, why was there no order not to begin it? Gladly would
the Swiss cease firing: but who will bid mad Insurrection cease firing?
To Insurrection you cannot speak; neither can it, hydra-headed, hear.
The dead and dying, by the hundred, lie all around; are borne bleeding
through the streets, towards help; the sight of them, like a torch of
the Furies, kindling Madness. Patriot Paris roars; as the bear bereaved
of her whelps. On, ye Patriots: vengeance! victory or death! There are
me