were occupied by the military; and, to us English, they whispered even of a park of artillery in the Rue Vivienne, and of a Government proof-reader in the printing-office of "Galignani's Messenger," striking out obnoxious paragraphs by the dozen. The provisions were in a state of siege; the milk was out, and no one would volunteer to go to the crêmier's for more; the cabs, the commissionaires with their trucks, were besieged; the very gas was slow in coming from the main, as though the pipes were in a state of siege. Nobody could think or speak of anything but this confounded siege. Thought itself appeared beleaguered; for no one dared to give it anything but a cautious and qualified utterance. The hotel was full of English ladies and gentlemen, who would have been delighted to go away by the first train on any of the railways: but there might just as well have been no railways, for all the good they were, seeing that it was impossible to get to or from the termini. with safety. The gentlemen were valorous, certainlythere was a prevalence of "who's afraid" sentiments: but they read the French Bradshaw earnestly, and gazed at the map of Paris with nervous interest-beating, meanwhile, the devil's tatoo. As for the ladies, dear creatures, they made no secret of their extreme terror and despair. The one old lady, who is frightened at everything, and who will not even travel in an omnibus, with a sword in a case, for fear it should go off, was paralyzed with fear, and could only ejaculate," Massacre !" The strong-minded lady of a certain age, who had longed for the "pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war," had taken refuge in that excellent collection of tracts, of which "The Dairyman's Daughter" is one; and gave short yelps of fear whenever the door opened. Fear, like every other emotion, is contagious. Remarking so many white faces, so much subdued utter

ance, so many cowed and terrified looks, I thought it very likely that I might get frightened, too. So, having been up all the previous night, I went to bed.

I slept; I dreamt of a locomotive engine blowing up, and turning into the last scene of a pantomime, with "state of siege" displayed in coloured fires. I dreamt I lived next door to an undertaker, or a trunk-maker, or a manufacturer of fire-works. I awoke to the rattle of musketry in the distance-soon, too soon, to be followed by the roar of the cannon.

I am not a fighting man. "'Tis not my vocation, Hal," I am not ashamed to say that I did not gird my sword on my thigh, and sally out to conquer or to die; that I did not ensconce myself at a second-floor window, and pick off, à la Charles IX., the leaders of the enemy below. Had I been "our own correspondent," I might have written, in the intervals of fighting, terrific accounts of the combat on cartridge paper, with a pen made from a bayonet, dipped in gunpowder and gore. Had I been "our own artist," I might have mounted a monster barricade-waving the flag of Freedom with one hand, and taking sketches with the other. But being neither, I did not do anything of the kind. I will tell you what I did :— -I withdrew, with seven Englishmen as valorous as myself, to an apartment, which I have reason to believe is below the basement floor, and there, in company with sundry carafons of particular cognac, and a large box of cigars, passed the remainder of the day.

I sincerely hope that I shall never pass such another. We rallied each other, talked, laughed, and essayed to sing; but the awful consciousness of the horror of our situation hung over us all—the knowledge that within a few hundred yards of us God's image was being wantonly defaced; that

in the streets hard by, in the heart of the most civilised city in the world, within a stone's throw of all that is gay, luxurious, splendid, in Paris, men-speaking the same language, worshipping the same God-were shooting each other like wild beasts; that every time we heard the sharp crackling of the musketry, a message of death was gone forth to hundreds; that every time the infernal artillery-" nearer, clearer, deadlier than before"-broke, roaring on the ear, the ground was cumbered with corpses. Glorious war! I should like the amateurs of sham fights, showy reviews, and scientific ball practice, to have sat with us in the cellar that same Thursday, and listened to the rattle and the roar. I should like them to have been present, when, venturing up during a lull, about half-past-four, and glancing nervously from our portecochère, a regiment of dragoons came thundering past, pointing their pistols at the windows, and shouting at those within, with oaths, to retire from them. I should like the young ladies who waltz with the "dear Lancers," to have seen these Lancers, in stained white cloaks, with their murderous weapons couched. I should like those who admire the Horse Guards-the prancing steeds, the shining casques and cuirasses, the massive epaulettes and dangling sabres, the trim moustache, irreproachable buckskins, and dazzling jackboots to have seen these cuirassiers gallop by their sorry horses, covered with mud and sweat; their haggard faces blackened with gunpowder; their shabby accoutrements and battered helmets. The bloody swords, the dirt, the hoarse voices, unkempt beards. Glorious war! I think the sight of those horrible troopers would do more to cure its admirers than all the orators of the Peace Society could do in a twelvemonth!

We dined-without the ladies, of course-and sat up until very late; the cannon and musketry roaring meanwhile, till nearly midnight. Then it stopped

To recommence again, however, on the next (Friday) morning. Yesterday they had been fighting all day on the Boulevards, from the Madeleine to the Temple. To-day, they were murdering each other at Belleville, at La Chapelle St. Denis, at Montmartre. Happily the firing ceased at about nine o'clock, and we heard no more.

I do not, of course, pretend to give any account of what really took place in the streets on Thursday; how many barricades were erected, and how they were defended or destroyed. I do not presume to treat of the details of the combat myself, confining what I have to say to a description. of what I really saw of the social aspect of the city. The journals have given full accounts of what brigades executed what manœuvres, of how many were shot to death here, and how many bayoneted there.

On Friday at noon, the embargo on the cabs was removed although that on the omnibuses continned; and circulation for foot passengers became tolerably safe, in the Quartier St. Honore, and on the Boulevards. I went into an English chemist's shop in the Rue de la Paix, for a bottle of soda-water. The chemist was lying dead up-stairs, shot. He was going from his shop to another establishment he had in the Faubourg Poissonière, to have the shutters shut, apprehending a disturbance. Entangled for a moment on the Boulevard, close to the Rue Lepelletier, among a crowd of well-dressed persons, principally English and Americans, an order was given to clear the Boulevard. A charge of Lancers was made, the men firing their pistols wantonly among the flying crowd; and the chemist was shot dead. Scores of similar incidents took place on that dreadful Thursday afternoon. Friends, acquaintances, of my own, had friends, neighbours, relations, servants, killed. Yet it was all accident, chance-medley-excusable, of course.

How were the soldiers to distinguish between insurgents. and sight-seers? These murders were, after all, but a few of the thorns to be found in the rosebush of glorious

war!

From the street which in old Paris times used to go by the name of the Rue Royale, and which I know by the token that there is an English pastry-cook's on the righthand side, coming down; where in old days I used (a small lad then at the Collége Bourbon) to spend my half-holidays in consuming real English cheesecakes, and thinking of home —in the Rue Royale, now called, I think, Rue de la Republique; I walked on to the place, and by the Boulevard de la Madeleine, des Italiens, and so by the long line of that magnificent thoroughfare, to within a few streets of the Porte St. Denis. Here, I stopped, for the simple reason, that a hedge of soldiery bristled ominously across the road, close to the Rue de Faubourg Montmartre, and that the commanding officer would let neither man, woman, nor child pass. The Boulevards were crowded, almost impassable in fact, with persons of every grade, from the "lion" of the Jockey Club, or the English nobleman, to the pretty grisette in her white cap, and the scowling, bearded citizen, clad in blouse and calotte, and looking very much as if he knew more of a barricade than he chose to aver. The houses on either side of the way bore frightful traces of the combat of the previous day. The Maison Dorée, the Café Anglais, the Opéra Comique, Tortoni's, the Jockey Club, the Belle Jardinière, the Hôtel des Affaires Etrangères, and scores, I might almost say hundreds of the houses had their windows smashed, or the magnificent sheets of plateglass starred with balls; the walls pock-marked with bullets seamed and scarred and blackened with gunpowder. A grocer, close to the Rue de Marivaux, told me that he had