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 utterance, 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 of 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 porte-cochère, 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 jack-
boots—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 continued; and circulation for foot
passengers became tolerably safe, in the
Quartier St. Honoré, 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