only a difference of masters. Defend Paris? defend the property of the rich? A quoi bon? I don't see much good to us in that. Vive la République !"

Meanwhile Paris-that part, I mean, of Paris which struts between the Boulevard Montmartre and the Grand Hôtel, and of which numerous specimens have, no doubt, come to the surface again in Regent Street, and that other part which vegetates between the Faubourg St. Honoré and Quartier St. Antoine,-Paris had surrendered to the charms of the Chinese Dragon, Cousin Montauban de Palikao. The Gaulois, Figaro, Paris-Journal, and all that portion of the Parisian press which is ever ready to kiss a pair of gilt spurs on a pair of military boots, set to work to make matters straight, danced, and howled, and shrieked at the Prussians by way of reviving the patriotism of the boulevards, soothed Parisian susceptibility, explained away defeat, reviled Ollivier and Leboeuf, and held out promises of speedy triumph and revenge with Montauban in Paris and Bazaine at Metz. Day by day we watched the progress of the fortifications; but all this preparation was slow and dilatory, and conveyed an impression of unreality. The new Ministry pampered our fond illusions, revived our drooping confidence with skilfullydrugged telegrams and ingenious compounds of truth and falsehood. We lingered on in this state of somnolence till General Trochu's appointment to the Gover

norship of Paris. Thenceforth, each official bulletin which made matters right at Metz was confronted by some paper of Trochu's, conveying intimation of impending danger to the capital. Trochu and Palikao acted towards each other and towards us, respectively, the parts of Doctor Tant-Pis and Doctor Tant-Mieux -of course we gave the preference to Doctor TantMieux and his physic. Physician Tant-Mieux prescribed confidence, doled out victory in small doses, spoke mysteriously of "plans"—we always believed in "plans;" Physician Tant-Pis shook his head, looked grave, prescribed fortifications, earthworks, huge naval guns, gave orders to level houses, and razed the Bois de Boulogne.

Sunday the fourth of September came-I shall not attempt to describe the tumultuous scenes of the preceding night, for one good reason-I did not witness them; but morning came, a grey dull morning, solemn and un-Parisian, even news-boys hushed with creation into silence on this side-the left, or rive gauche of the Seine. At the Mairie of St. Sulpice, I find the crowd silently scanning the dismal tidings of the night. "Forty Thousand Prisoners. The Emperor Captured in the Fight." These last words a workman fiercely thumbs: "They've got him, so much the better, let them only keep him." We pause before Trochu's and the Cabinet's rival proclamations, both

printed on governmental white paper, pasted in textand-commentary fashion-regardless of each other as text and commentary are sometimes apt to be-on the same two yards of wall, both equally expressive in their silence, unmeaning in their speech. A patriot swears he will "shoulder his musket and march off with his landlord; but first, a clean sweep must be made of priests and seminarists, calotins all.”

Unusual quiet pervaded the Place du Carrousel. The tricolour drooped heavily from its flag-staff on that misconceived Bourbonesque dome which mars the beauty of the Tuileries. Some few stragglers were peering listlessly through the gratings at the Palace before them. Files of private carriages and hackneycoaches wait in ominous attendance at the door. Turba medicorum. What an alarming host of physicians in consultation about the dynasty!

Unmistakable signs of dissolution appear in the peculiar calm which prevails along the Rue de Rivoli, and on the Place de la Concorde. Crowns and garlands of flowers-silent epigrams-deck the statue of the City of Strasburg-" the city which has not surrendered." Men converse in monosyllables. Now and then a few words catch the ear: it is generally understood that the National Guard, i. e., the People in its Sunday-best, is to meet at noon by appointment on the Place of Concord. The Legislature meets at one, to

deliberate within call of the "Sovereign People" upon Jules Favre's motion of Déchéance. The "Sovereign's" way to the Chamber lies across that bridge; in front of it Monsieur Palikao has drawn up a double file of mounted gendarmes, whose yellow belts and glittering sabres look pictorial.

I chanced to spend the next eventful three or four hours at the ambulance of the Palais de l'Industrie, in utter ignorance of what was going on within ten minutes' walk. A wounded man was brought in from the Place du Carrousel; he had been trying to break a stone eagle off one of the palace statues, and the eagle had contused his pate. The doctors were expecting to see him transferred from their hands to the keeping of the police. Sergens de ville strutted about in nooks and corners of the building, fussy and important as was their wont. Towards four we left the "Palace," quite unprepared for the view which the Champs Elysées presented. The avenue seemed to glow with life and colour. Sunshine, and ladies, and gay dresses the flutter, and freshness, and gala of a Parisian Sunday afternoon. Yet the morning had been so gloomy! I remember Gustave Flaubert's inimitable description of the young Republic of '48 sunning itself in the streets of Paris. Yes, 'tis the

:

Republic. To convince myself of the fact, I glance at

the Pont de la Concorde, guarded by gendarmes at noon. The gendarmes had parted on either side, and the crowd went freely to and fro on the bridge. I looked in the direction of the Tuileries and saw no flag. What need of further proof? As one moved up the boulevards, the scene increased in .interest. Extemporised battalions of National Guardsmen bristled at every turn and poured in from every quarter a medley of uniforms and blouses, képis, Tyrolese hats, round hats, hats of all descriptions. Drums were beating and bayonets bristled. As we pass they challenge us with shouts of "Vive la République." We satisfy them as to our republicanism by taking off hats, and pass on. Every third man you meet sports a green bough or a cockade, red, white, and blue. Cockades are selling like flowers at a race-course. Paris is costuming herself "en République." Respectable citizens are giving an airing to their wives and daughters. Strangers shake hands and kiss. "Nous sommes en famille, n'est-ce pas ?" Tears there were, of course, and sentiment: our Gallic fountains of sensibility gush freely on such occasions. How suddenly does everything Imperial vanish from shop-fronts and windows! Here is Dusautoy, Imperial Tailor, who remains a tailor, but ceases to be Imperial. There is the Théâtre Impérial de l'Opéra Comique. A citizen in shirt-sleeves is hammering down the large