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 Aristocrats; proud old Nobles, not yet emigrated.  Arles has its ‘Chiffonne,’ so, in symbolical cant, they name that Aristocrat Secret-Association; Arles has its pavements piled up, by and by, into Aristocrat barricades.  Against which Rebecqui, the hot-clear Patriot, must lead Marseilles with cannon.  The Bar of Iron has not yet risen to the top in the Bay of Marseilles; neither have these hot Sons of the Phoceans submitted to be slaves.  By clear management and hot instance, Rebecqui dissipates that Chiffonne, without bloodshed; restores the pavement of Arles.  He sails in Coast-barks, this Rebecqui, scrutinising