Maignet, at Orange in the South; Lebon, at Arras in the North, become world’s wonders.  Jacobin Popular Tribunal, with its National Representative, perhaps where Girondin Popular Tribunal had lately been, rises here and rises there; wheresoever needed.  Fouches, Maignets, Barrases, Frerons scour the Southern Departments; like reapers, with their guillotine-sickle.  Many are the labourers, great is the harvest.  By the hundred and the thousand, men’s lives are cropt; cast like brands into the burning.

Marseilles is taken, and put under martial law:  lo, at Marseilles, what one besmutted red-bearded corn-ear is this which they cut;—­one gross Man, we mean, with copper-studded face; plenteous beard, or beard-stubble, of a tile-colour?  By Nemesis and the Fatal Sisters, it is Jourdan Coupe-tete!  Him they have clutched, in these martial-law districts; him too, with their ‘national razor,’ their rasoir national, they sternly shave away.  Low now is Jourdan the Headsman’s own head;—­low as Deshuttes’s and Varigny’s, which he sent on pikes, in the Insurrection of Women!  No more shall he, as a copper Portent, be seen gyrating through the Cities of the South; no more sit judging, with pipes and brandy, in the Ice-tower of Avignon.  The all-hiding Earth has received him, the bloated Tilebeard:  may we never look upon his like again!—­Jourdan one names; the other Hundreds are not named.  Alas, they, like confused faggots, lie massed together for us; counted by the cartload:  and yet not an individual faggot-twig of them but had a Life and History; and was cut, not without pangs as when a Kaiser dies!

Least of all cities can Lyons escape.  Lyons, which we saw in dread sunblaze, that Autumn night when the Powder-tower sprang aloft, was clearly verging towards a sad end.  Inevitable:  what could desperate valour and Precy do; Dubois-Crance, deaf as Destiny, stern as Doom, capturing their ‘redouts of cotton-bags;’ hemming them in, ever closer, with his Artillery-lava?  Never would that Ci-devant d’Autichamp arrive; never any help from Blankenberg.  The Lyons Jacobins were hidden in cellars; the Girondin Municipality waxed pale, in famine, treason and red fire.  Precy drew his sword, and some Fifteen Hundred with him; sprang to saddle, to cut their way to Switzerland.  They cut fiercely; and were fiercely cut, and cut down; not hundreds, hardly units of them ever saw Switzerland. (Deux Amis, xi. 145.) Lyons, on the 9th of October, surrenders at discretion; it is become a devoted Town.  Abbe Lamourette, now Bishop Lamourette, whilom Legislator, he of the old Baiser-l’Amourette or Delilah-Kiss, is seized here, is sent to Paris to be guillotined:  ‘he made the sign of the cross,’ they say when Tinville intimated his death-sentence to him; and died as an eloquent Constitutional Bishop.  But wo now to all Bishops, Priests, Aristocrats and Federalists that are in Lyons!  The manes of Chalier are to be appeased; the Republic, maddened to the Sibylline pitch, has bared her right arm.