And lo, finally! at Verdun on Sunday the 2d of September 1792, Brunswick is here.  With his King and sixty thousand, glittering over the heights, from beyond the winding Meuse River, he looks down on us, on our ’high citadel’ and all our confectionery-ovens (for we are celebrated for confectionery) has sent courteous summons, in order to spare the effusion of blood!—­Resist him to the death?  Every day of retardation precious?  How, O General Beaurepaire (asks the amazed Municipality) shall we resist him?  We, the Verdun Municipals, see no resistance possible.  Has he not sixty thousand, and artillery without end?  Retardation, Patriotism is good; but so likewise is peaceable baking of pastry, and sleeping in whole skin.—­Hapless Beaurepaire stretches out his hands, and pleads passionately, in the name of country, honour, of Heaven and of Earth:  to no purpose.  The Municipals have, by law, the power of ordering it;—­with an Army officered by Royalism or Crypto-Royalism, such a Law seemed needful:  and they order it, as pacific Pastrycooks, not as heroic Patriots would,—­To surrender!  Beaurepaire strides home, with long steps:  his valet, entering the room, sees him ‘writing eagerly,’ and withdraws.  His valet hears then, in a few minutes, the report of a pistol:  Beaurepaire is lying dead; his eager writing had been a brief suicidal farewell.  In this manner died Beaurepaire, wept of France; buried in the Pantheon, with honourable pension to his Widow, and for Epitaph these words, He chose Death rather than yield to Despots.  The Prussians, descending from the heights, are peaceable masters of Verdun.

And so Brunswick advances, from stage to stage:  who shall now stay him,—­covering forty miles of country?  Foragers fly far; the villages of the North-East are harried; your Hessian forager has only ’three sous a day:’  the very Emigrants, it is said, will take silver-plate,—­by way of revenge.  Clermont, Sainte-Menehould, Varennes especially, ye Towns of the Night of Spurs; tremble ye!  Procureur Sausse and the Magistracy of Varennes have fled; brave Boniface Le Blanc of the Bras d’Or is to the woods:  Mrs. Le Blanc, a young woman fair to look upon, with her young infant, has to live in greenwood, like a beautiful Bessy Bell of Song, her bower thatched with rushes;—­catching premature rheumatism. (Helen Maria Williams, Letters from France (London, 1791-93), iii. 96.) Clermont may ring the tocsin now, and illuminate itself!  Clermont lies at the foot of its Cow (or Vache, so they name that Mountain), a prey to the Hessian spoiler:  its fair women, fairer than most, are robbed:  not of life, or what is dearer, yet of all that is cheaper and portable; for Necessity, on three half-pence a-day, has no law.  At Saint-Menehould, the enemy has been expected more than once,—­our Nationals all turning out in arms; but was not yet seen.  Post-master Drouet, he is not in the woods, but minding his Election; and will sit in the Convention, notable King-taker, and bold Old-Dragoon as he is.