Is not La Vendee still blazing;—­alas too literally; rogue Rossignol burning the very corn-mills?  General Santerre could do nothing there; General Rossignol, in blind fury, often in liquor, can do less than nothing.  Rebellion spreads, grows ever madder.  Happily those lean Quixote-figures, whom we saw retreating out of Mentz, ’bound not to serve against the Coalition for a year,’ have got to Paris.  National Convention packs them into post-vehicles and conveyances; sends them swiftly, by post, into La Vendee!  There valiantly struggling, in obscure battle and skirmish, under rogue Rossignol, let them, unlaurelled, save the Republic, and ‘be cut down gradually to the last man.’ (Deux Amis, xi. 147; xiii. 160-92, &c.)

Does not the Coalition, like a fire-tide, pour in; Prussia through the opened North-East; Austria, England through the North-West?  General Houchard prospers no better there than General Custine did:  let him look to it!  Through the Eastern and the Western Pyrenees Spain has deployed itself; spreads, rustling with Bourbon banners, over the face of the South.  Ashes and embers of confused Girondin civil war covered that region already.  Marseilles is damped down, not quenched; to be quenched in blood.  Toulon, terrorstruck, too far gone for turning, has flung itself, ye righteous Powers,—­into the hands of the English!  On Toulon Arsenal there flies a Flag,—­nay not even the Fleur-de-lys of a Louis Pretender; there flies that accursed St. George’s Cross of the English and Admiral Hood!  What remnants of sea-craft, arsenals, roperies, war-navy France had, has given itself to these enemies of human nature, ‘ennemis du genre humain.’  Beleaguer it, bombard it, ye Commissioners Barras, Freron, Robespierre Junior; thou General Cartaux, General Dugommier; above all, thou remarkable Artillery-Major, Napoleon Buonaparte!  Hood is fortifying himself, victualling himself; means, apparently, to make a new Gibraltar of it.

But lo, in the Autumn night, late night, among the last of August, what sudden red sunblaze is this that has risen over Lyons City; with a noise to deafen the world?  It is the Powder-tower of Lyons, nay the Arsenal with four Powder-towers, which has caught fire in the Bombardment; and sprung into the air, carrying ‘a hundred and seventeen houses’ after it.  With a light, one fancies, as of the noon sun; with a roar second only to the Last Trumpet!  All living sleepers far and wide it has awakened.  What a sight was that, which the eye of History saw, in the sudden nocturnal sunblaze!  The roofs of hapless Lyons, and all its domes and steeples made momentarily clear; Rhone and Saone streams flashing suddenly visible; and height and hollow, hamlet and smooth stubblefield, and all the region round;—­heights, alas, all scarped and counterscarped, into trenches, curtains, redouts; blue Artillery-men, little Powder-devilkins, plying their hell-trade there, through the not ambrosial night!  Let the darkness cover it again; for it pains the eye.  Of a truth, Chalier’s death is costing this City dear.  Convention Commissioners, Lyons Congresses have come and gone; and action there was and reaction; bad ever growing worse; till it has come to this:  Commissioner Dubois-Crance, ’with seventy thousand men, and all the Artillery of several Provinces,’ bombarding Lyons day and night.