"They are coming, they are come!" was in everybody's mouth.

This was, indeed, the most trying moment for the temper of a people so feverish, so fitful, so femininely impatient of suspense, severed from all its pleasures, and startled, as if awakening from a dream, by the hollowness of its own existence. But now the great concert of artists, poets, philosophers, with all the minor fiddles of the press, swelled in full chorus to soothe our agonies of silence. The Place de la Concorde, with its great memories of the past, became the centre of Parisian life, and, as it were, a kind of openair patriotic theatre, in which Parisians felt the double charm of being both actor and spectator. The walls blushed with proclamations of many colours; scarlet, magenta, rose-pink, lilac, for Republicans of different hues; with dull, old-maidish green for Positivists, and Government white paper, on which speak the sages, and lord of multitudes, Hugo, the poet-king, striking the Pindaric lyre with burning minstrel fingers.

"Let the land flame and kindle, let the woods roar and thunder; peal forth church-bells - tocsin ! tocsin ! from each house let a soldier sally, let each suburb become a regiment, the town become an army. . . . . March Lyons, and take thy musket; Bordeaux, take thy carbine; Rouen, draw thy sword; and thou, Marseilles, sing thy dread song, and come in thy ter

rible might. . . . . Roll down great rocks, pile up the paving-stones of the streets, turn ploughshares into swords, take in your hands the stones of our holy land, stone the invaders with the bones of our mother France. . . . . Let the streets of the cities devour the foe, let the tombs cry out; behind each wall let God and the people be felt, let flames shoot out from the earth, and each tuft of heather become a burning bush. And as for Europe, what is she to us? Let her look on, if she has eyes to see."

Well had it been for Paris if she could have remained content with such artistic expression of patriotic feeling. Unfortunately, the ridiculous usurped on the sublime. The statue of Strasburg soon became grotesque with her shapeless coiffure of wreaths and garlands; the gamin performed his tumbles about her arms and hips; excited old gentlemen mounted on the pedestal, endeavouring to gain an audience: there was Figaro, too, with his tribute of praise, proposing to confer on the idol the cross of the Legion of Honour. Paris is in the feverish state of a man about to fight a duel we puff at our cigar, flourish riding-whips, tipple liqueurs, look at ourselves in the glass, and ask our seconds "if they ever saw us so cool." M. Alfred Assollant, a writer in the Paris Journal, is ready with the answer. I hardly know whether I shall be believed, but Paris never was so cheerful as to-day."

We are impatient of silence, it kills our courage, we must make a noise, move about, appear to be doing something. When soldiers feel the death-qualm come over them, they empty their cartridge-boxes at imaginary foes; and we fire off whole volleys of abuse. "We shall burn Paris, we shall blow it up. The catacombs are mined, and Paris shall be the grave of her enemies." Couple with this our strong conviction of our own invincibility, our sanguineness of hope, our short and easy method of explaining away defeat to our own advantage, our belief in changing of names, in prestige, and prestidigitation. By the great mass the Republic has been accepted as the Deus ex machiná of victory. It is not France, but the Empire, that has suffered defeat; but now, "nous avons changé tout cela;" our armies are republican, and we make a fresh start. We live fast, and our imagination is quick to colour men and things alike in the hues of our newest fancies: a patch of rouge here, and a puff of powder there, and Paris appears in a new character, -her siege-toilet completed, her Phrygian bonnet cocked resolutely on one side-waiting for the foe, and counting the minutes on the clock.

CHAPTER II.

HOW WE SIMMERED IN OUR OWN GRAVY."

Tuesday, September 20th.-Yesterday, we heard in our quiet avenue the first authentic peal of cannon, so long and anxiously expected. Reports of fighting in the direction of Clamart were in circulation all the morning. A little before noon we saw the cuirassiers returning, at a slow pace, to their quarters in the Champ de Mars. We looked in vain amongst them for traces of the fight, as they sat their wellgroomed chargers with the supreme indifference of old troopers their bright helmets and cuirasses glittering quite new in the sunshine. But the sight was soon to change. A crowd of fugitives came pouring down the main avenues which lead from Montrouge and Chatillon to the quarters of the left bank. Mingled with them, in wild confusion, a troop of mounted gendarmes dashed furiously through a long train of military carts and ambulance-waggons filled with wounded men; they spurred onwards to arrest the flight of the infantry,

themselves joining in the general flight. Disbanded Zouaves were explaining to the people, with much gesticulation, how they had "retreated "-not from want of courage, that was simply impossible, but because they had fallen short of ammunition; and some had the barefacedness to show their cartridgeboxes, which, on closer examination, generally proved to be quite full. Young Linesmen held forth to crowds of compassionating women; all told one tale: "Nous sommes trahis; Trochu has led us to the slaughter. The Prussians have taken our mitrailleuses; they will be in to-night; the Fort of Vanves is going to be blown up."

the women would say, with the

"Poor things,"

unlimited pity

of the female heart, and they would straightway supply the betrayed heroes with all manner of food and drink. But National Guards come up blustering and march off poor Dumanet to the nearest guard-house. Some of the fugitives are said to have given away their cartridges, and even their rifles to ruffians from the faubourgs, who, certainly, do not intend to use them against the Prussians. The lower classes are singularly keen in improving each opportunity to arm themselves against society. Towards three o'clock, on the Boulevard St. Michel, the panic seemed to have reached its height, when a long file of artillery-caissons came clattering down