This morning the bread was rationed all over the city. No one is to have more than 300 grammes per diem; children only 150. I recommend anyone who has lived too high to try this regime for a week. It will do him good. No costermonger's donkey is so overloaded as the stomachs of most rich people. The Government on December 12 solemnly announced that the bread never would be rationed. This measure, therefore, looks to me very much like the beginning of the end. A perquisition is also being made in search of provisions in the apartments of all those who have quitted Paris. Another sign of the end. But it is impossible to know on how little a Frenchman can live until the question has been tested. I went yesterday into the house of a friend of mine, in the Avenue de l'Imperatrice, which is left in charge of a servant, and found three families, driven out of their homes by the bombardment, installed in it—one family, consisting of a father, a mother, and three children, were boiling a piece of horse meat, about four inches square, in a bucket full of water. This exceedingly thin soup was to last them for three days. The day before they had each had a carrot. The bread is scarce because the supply ceases before the demand in most quarters, so that those who come last get none. My friend's servant was giving a dinner to the English coachman. The sole dish was a cat with mice round it. I tasted one of the latter, crunching the bones as if it had been a lark. I can recommend mice, when nothing more substantial is to be obtained.

I hear that a pigeon has arrived this evening. Its despatch has not yet been published. The "traitor-mania" still rages. Last night at the Belleville Club an orator announced an awful discovery—the bread was being poisoned by traitors. The Correspondent of one of your contemporaries, having heard that he had been accused of being a Prussian spy, went to-day to the Prefect of the Police. This august being told him that he did not suspect him, and then showed him a file of papers duly docketed relating to each London paper which is represented here. For my part, although I have not failed to blame what I thought blameable, and although I have not gone into ecstacies over the bombastic nonsense which is the legacy of the vile despotism to which the French were foolish enough to submit for twenty years, and which has vitiated the national character, I have endeavoured in my correspondence to be, as far as was consistent with truth, "to all their virtues very kind, to all their faults a little blind."

January 20th.

This morning several fresh regiments of National Guards were ordered to march out to the Peninsula of Gennevilliers. I accompanied one of them; but when we got into Neuilly a counter-order came, and they were marched back. Every house in Neuilly and Courbevoie was full of troops, and regiments were camping out in the fields, where they had passed the night without tents. Many of the men had been so tired that they had thrown themselves down in the mud, which was almost knee-deep, and thus fallen asleep with their muskets by their sides. Bitter were the complaints of the commissariat. Bread and eau de vie were at a high premium. Many of the men had thrown away their knapsacks, with their loaves strapped to them, during the action, and these were now the property of the Prussians. It is impossible to imagine a more forlorn and dreary scene. Some of the regiments—chiefly those which had not been in the action—kept well together; but there were a vast number of stragglers wandering about looking for their battalions and their companies. At about twelve o'clock it became known that the troops were to re-enter Paris, and that the battle was not to be renewed; and at about one the march through the gate of Neuilly commenced, colours flying and music playing, as though a victory had been won. I remained there some time watching the crowd that had congregated at each side of the road. Most of the lookers on appeared to be in a condition of blank despair. They had believed so fully that the grand sortie must end in a grand victory, that they could hardly believe their eyes when they saw their heroes returning into Paris, instead of being already at Versailles. There were many women anxiously scanning the lines of soldiers as they passed by, and asking every moment whether some relative had been killed. As I came home down the Champs Elysees it was full of knots of three and four soldiers, who seemed to consider that it was a waste of time and energy to keep up with their regiments.

In the evening papers the despatch announcing the defeat of Chanzy has been published, and a request from Trochu to General Schmitz to apply at once for an armistice of two days to bury the dead. "The fog," he adds, "is very dense," and certainly this fog appears to have got into the worthy man's brain. Almost all the wounded have already been picked up by the French and the Prussian ambulances. Nearly all the dead are in what are now the Prussian lines, and will no doubt be buried by them. In the afternoon, as a suspension of arms for two hours was agreed to, our ambulances pushed forward, and brought back a few wounded, but not many. Most of those who had fallen in the Prussian lines had already been moved, their officers said, to St. Germain and St. Cloud, where they would be cared for. At three P.M. Jules Favre summoned the Mayors to a consultation, and General Trochu also came in to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for half an hour, and then returned to Valerien. The feeling against him is very strong. It is said that he has offered to resign; and I think it very probable that he will be the Jonah thrown out to the whale. But will this sacrifice save the ship? All the Generals are roundly abused. Indeed, in France there is no medium between the Capitol and the Tarpeian Rock. A man who is not a victor must be a traitor. That undisciplined National Guards fresh from their shops, should be unable to carry by assault batteries held by German troops, is a thing which never can be admitted. If they fail to do this, it is the fault of their leaders. Among those who were killed yesterday is M. Regnault, the painter who obtained at the last salon, the gold medal for his picture of "Salome." He went into action with a card on his breast, on which he had written his name and the address of the young lady to whom he was engaged to be married. When the brancardiers picked him up, he had just strength to point to this address. Before they could carry him there he was dead. But the most painful scene during the battle was the sight of a French soldier who fell by French balls. He was a private in the 119th Battalion, and refused to advance. His commander remonstrated. The private shot him. General Bellemare, who was near, ordered the man to be killed at once. A file was drawn up and fired on him; he fell, and was supposed to be dead. Some brancardiers soon afterwards passing by, and thinking that he had been wounded in the battle, placed him on a stretcher. It was then discovered that he was still alive. A soldier went up to him to finish him off, but his gun missed fire. He was then handed another, when he blew out the wretched man's brains. From all I can learn from the people connected with the different ambulances, our loss yesterday does not amount to above 2000 killed and wounded. Most of the newspapers estimate it far higher. At Buzenval, where the only really sharp fighting took place, an officer who was in command tells me that there were about 300 killed. For the sake of humanity, it is to be hoped that we shall have no more of these blind sorties. The French get through the first Prussian lines; they are then arrested by the fire of the batteries from the second line; reinforcements are brought up by the enemy; and the well-known movement to the rear commences. "Our losses," say the official reports the next morning, "are great; those of the enemy enormous. Our troops fought with distinguished valour, but——"

January 21st.

It was so wet last night that there were but few groups of people on the Boulevards. At the clubs Trochu was universally denounced. Almost every one is now in despair. Of what use, they say, are the victories of Bourbaki; he cannot be here in time. We had pinned our faith on Chanzy, and the news of his defeat, coupled with our own, has almost extinguished every ray of hope in the breasts even of the most hopeful. The Government, it is thought, is preparing the public mind for a capitulation. La Liberte, until now its strongest supporter, bitterly complains that it should publish the truth! Chandordy's despatch went first to Jules Favre. He stood over the man who was deciphering it. When he read the opening sentence, "Un grand malheur," he refused to read more, and sent it undeciphered to Trochu. When it reached the Governor, no one on his staff could decipher it, so it had to be returned to the Foreign-office. The moment for the quacks is at hand. A "General" offers to raise the siege if he be given 50,000 men. A magician offers a shell which will destroy the Prussians root and branch. M. Felix Pyat, in his organ, observes that Sparta never was taken, and that the Spartans used to eat in common. He proposes, therefore, as a means to free Paris, that a series of public suppers should be inaugurated. I can only say that I hope that they may be, for I certainly shall attend. Even Spartan broth would be acceptable. The bread is all but uneatable. If you put it in water, straw and bits of hay float about. A man, who ought to know, solemnly assured me this morning that we had only food for six days; but then men who ought to know are precisely those who know nothing. I do not think that we are so badly off as this; but the end is a question no longer of months, but of days, and very soon it will be of hours. Those who desire a speedy capitulation are called les capitulards, and they are in a majority of nine to one. There are still many who clamour for a grand sortie, but most of those who do so, are persons who, by no possibility, can themselves share in the operation. The street orators are still at poor Jonah Trochu, and their hearers seem to agree with them. These sages, however, do not explain who is to replace him. Some of the members of the Government, I hear, suggest an admiral; but what admiral would accept this damnosa haereditas? Among the generals, each has his partisans, and each seems to be of opinion that he himself is a mighty man of war, and all the others fools. Both Vinoy and Ducrot declined to attend the Council of War which sat before the late sortie. They were generals of division, they said, and they would obey orders, but they would accept no further responsibilities. Ducrot, who was the fidus Achates of Trochu, is no longer in his good graces. The Reveil of this afternoon, which is usually well-informed on all matters which concern our Mayors, gives the following account of the meeting of yesterday: "At three o'clock the meeting took place in the presence of all the members of the Government. M. Trochu declared formally that he would fight no more. M. Favre said that the Government was 'disappearing.' M. Favre proposed that the Government should give up its power to the Mayors. The Mayors refused. The discussion was very violent. Several propositions, one more absurd than another, were brought forward by some of the members of the Government. They were not discussed. As usual, the meeting broke up without any result." The best man they have is Vinoy; he is honest, disinterested, and determined. It is to be hoped that if Trochu resigns, he will take his place.

January 22nd.

So poor Jonah has gone over, and been swallowed up by the whale. He still remains the head of the civil government, but it only is as a figure-head. He is an upright man; but as a military chief he has proved himself a complete failure. He was a man of plans, and never could alter the details of these plans to suit a change of circumstances. What his grand plan was, by which Paris was to be saved, no one now, I presume, ever will know. The plans of his sorties were always elaborately drawn up; each divisional commander was told in the minutest details what he was to do. Unfortunately, General Moltke usually interfered with the proper development of these details—a proceeding which always surprised poor Trochu—and in the account the next day of his operations, he would dwell upon the fact as a reason for his want of success. That batteries should be opened upon his troops, and that reinforcements should be brought up against them, were trifles—probable as they might seem to most persons—which filled him with an indignant astonishment. At the last sortie Ducrot excuses himself for being late at La Malmaison because he found the road by which he had been ordered to advance occupied by a long line of artillery, also there by Trochu's orders. General Vinoy, who has replaced him, is a hale old soldier about seventy years old. He has risen from the ranks, and in the Crimea was a very intimate friend of Lord Clyde. When the latter came, a few years before his death, to Paris, the English Ambassador had prepared a grand breakfast for him, and had gone to the station to meet him. On the platform was also Vinoy, who also had prepared breakfast for his old comrade in arms; and this breakfast, very much to the disgust of the diplomatist, Lord Clyde accepted. General Vinoy has to-day issued a proclamation to the troops, which in its plain, simple, modest language contrasts very favourably with the inflated bombast in which his predecessor was so great an adept.

The newspapers are already commencing to prove to their own satisfaction that the battle of last Thursday was not a defeat, but an "incomplete victory." As for the National Guard, one would suppose that every one of them had been in the action, and that they were only prevented from carrying everything before them by the timidity of their generals. The wonderful feats which many of these heroes have told me they performed would lead one to suppose that Napoleon's old Guard was but a flock of sheep in comparison with them. I cannot help thinking that by a certain indistinctness of recollection they attribute to themselves every exploit, not only that they saw, but that their fertile imaginations have ever dreamt to be possible. In all this nonsense they are supported by the newspapers, who think more of their circulation than of truth. To read the accounts of this battle one would suppose that neither the Line nor the Mobiles had been in it. A caricature now very popular represents a lion in the uniform of a National Guard held back by two donkeys in the uniforms of generals, and vainly endeavouring to rush upon a crowd of terrified Germans. As a matter of fact—about 5,000 National Guards were in the thick of it—the men behaved tolerably well, and many of the officers very well. The great majority of the marching battalions which were in the peninsula "did not give," to use the French phrase; and some of them, notwithstanding the efforts of their officers, were unable to remain steady as soon as the Prussian bombs reached them. This sic vos non vobis which, is meted out to the Mobiles and the Line makes me indignant. As for the sailors, they are splendid fellows—and how we always manage to beat them afloat increases my admiration of the British tars. They are kept under the strictest discipline by their captains and admirals, one of whom once said to me when I asked him whether his men fraternized with the soldiers, "If I saw one of them associating with such canaille, I would put him under arrest for twenty-four hours." In the forts they are perfectly cool under the heaviest fire, and both at Le Bourget and at Chatillon they fought like heroes. "Ten thousand of them," observed a general to me the other day, "are worth more than the whole National Guards."

The bombardment still continues. Bombs fall into the southern part of the town; but habit in this world is everything, and no one troubles himself much about them. At night the Trocadero has become a fashionable lounge for the cocottes, who still honour us with their presence. The line of the Prussian batteries and the flash of their guns can be seen. The hissing, too, of the bombs can be heard, when the cocottes crouch by their swains in affected dread. It is like Cremorne, with its ladies and its fireworks. Since yesterday morning, too, St. Denis has been bombarded. Most of its inhabitants have taken refuge in Paris, but it will be a pity if the cathedral, with the tombs of all the old French Kings, is damaged. St. Denis is itself a species of fort. Its guns are not, a friend tells me who has just come from there, replying with vigour. The Prussians are firing on it from six separate batteries, and it is feared that it will fall. Our attention to-day has been diverted from the Prussians outside by a little domestic quarrel at home, and we have been shooting each other, as though the Prussian missiles were not enough for our warlike stomachs, and death were not raging around our prison.

Between twelve and one this morning a band of armed patriots appeared before the prison of Mazas, and demanded the release of Flourens and the political prisoners who were shut up there. The director, instead of keeping the gate shut, allowed a deputation to enter. As soon as the gate was opened, not only the deputation, but the patriots rushed in, and bore off Flourens and his friends in triumph. With the Mayor at their head, they then went to the Mairie of the 20th Arrondissement, and pillaged it of all the rations and bread and wine which they found stored up there. Then they separated, having passed a resolution to go at twelve o'clock to the Hotel de Ville, to assist their "brothers" in turning out the Government. I got myself to the Place of the Hotel de Ville at about two o'clock. There were then about 5000 persons there. The gates were shut. Inside the rails before them were a few officers; and soldiers could be seen at all the windows. Some few of the 5000 were armed, but most of them were unarmed. Close in by the Hotel de Ville there seemed to be some sort of military order in the positions occupied by the rioters. I took up my stand at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli. Every moment the crowd increased. It was composed partly of sightseers, for on Sunday every one is out of doors; partly of sympathisers. These sympathisers were not, as on October 31, working men, but mainly what Count Bismarck would call the populace. Their political creed may be summed up by the word "loot;" their personal appearance by the word "hangdog." I found myself in the midst of a group of hangdogs, who were abusing everyone and everything. On one side of me was a lady of expansive figure, whose breath showed that she had partaken lately of ardent spirits, and whose conversation showed that if she was a "matron of Cornelia's mien," her morals were better than her conversation. "The people are slaves," she perpetually yelled, "they will no longer submit to traitors; I say it to you, I, the mother of four children." The maternal vantage ground which she assumed evidently gave her opinions weight, for her neighbours replied, "Oui, elle a raison, la mere." A lean, bilious-looking fellow, who looked as though through life he had not done an honest day's work, and whose personal charms were not heightened by a grizzled beard and a cap of cat-skin, close by the matron, was bawling out, "The Hotel de Ville belongs to us, I am a taxpayer;" whilst a youth about fifteen years old, hard by, explained in a shrill treble the military errors which Trochu and the generals had committed. At a little after three o'clock, a fresh band, all armed, with a drum, beating the charge, appeared, and as they neared the chief entrance of the Hotel de Ville, just one shot, and then a number of shots were fired. Everybody who had a gun then shot it off with an eager but general idea of doing something, as he fled, like a Parthian bowman. The stampede soon became general; numbers of persons threw themselves on the ground. I saw the mother of four children sprawling in the mire, and the bilious taxpayer fall over her, and then I followed the youthful strategist into an open door. Inside were about twenty people. The door was shut to, and for about twenty minutes we heard muskets going off. Then, as the fight seemed over, the door was opened and we emerged. The Place had been evacuated by the mob, and was held by the troops. Fresh regiments were marching on it along the quay and the Rue de Rivoli. Wounded people were lying about or crawling towards the houses. Soon some brancardiers arrived and picked up the wounded. One boy I saw evidently dying—the blood was streaming out of two wounds. The windows of the Hotel de Ville were broken, and the facade bore traces of balls, as did some of the houses round the Place. I remained until dusk. Even when I left the streets were full of citizens. Each man who had rolled in the mire, and whose clothes showed traces of it, was the centre of a group of sympathisers and non-sympathisers, to whom he was explaining how the Breton brigands had fired on him, a poor innocent lamb, who had done no harm. The non-sympathisers, however, were in the majority, and "served him right" seemed to be the general verdict on those who had been shot, or who had spoilt their clothes. Every now and then some window would slam or a cart would rumble by, when there would be a general scamper for a few yards. After dinner I again returned to the Hotel de Ville. The crowd had dispersed, and the Place was militarily occupied; so we may suppose that this little domestic episode is over.

January 23rd, morning.

The clubs are closed, and the Reveil and the Combat suppressed. Numbers of people are coming in from St. Denis, where the bombardment is getting very hot. Bombs last night fell in one of the islands on the Seine; so the flood is mounting, and our dry ground is every day diminishing. I see in an extract from a German paper, that it has been telegraphed to England that the village of Issy has been entirely destroyed by the Prussian fire. This is not the case. I was there the other day, and the village is still there. It is not precisely the spot where one would wish one's property to be situated, but most of the houses are, as yet, intact.



CHAPTER XVIII.

January 27th.

I write this, as I hear that the last balloon is to start to-night. How lucky for the English public that, just when the siege of Paris ceases, the conscript fathers of the nation will furnish them with reading at their breakfast tables. The light, airy wit of Professor Fawcett, and the pleasant fancy of Mr. Newdegate, will be served up for them with their hot rolls every morning instead of the bulletins of Count Moltke—lucky public!

Most of us here are much like heirs at a rich man's funeral. We have long faces, we sigh and we groan, but we are not quite so unhappy as we look. The Journal Officiel of this morning announces that Paris will not be occupied, and that the National Guard will not go to Germany. This is, we say, very different from a capitulation—it is a political incident; in a few days I expect to hear it called a victory. The editor of the Liberte—why is this gentleman still alive? for the last three months he has been making pacts with death—explains that Paris never would have and never will capitulate, but that an armistice is a very different sort of thing. Last night, notwithstanding the cold which has again set in, the Boulevard was blocked up with groups of patriots and wiseacres discussing the state of things, and explaining what Paris would agree to and what she would not agree to. Occasionally some "pure"—a "pure" is an Ultra—threw out that the Parisians themselves were only reaping what they had sown; but the pure, I need hardly say, was soon silenced, and it seemed to be generally agreed that Paris has been sublime and heroic, but that if she has been neither, it has been the fault of the traitors to whom she has confided her destinies. Some said that the admirals had stated that they would blow up their forts rather than surrender them; but if the worthies who vouched for this had been informed by the admirals of their intentions, I can only say that these honest tars had chosen strange confidants.

Paris, as I have already said more than once, has been fighting as much for her own supremacy over the provinces as for victory over the Prussians. The news—whether true or false I know not—that Gambetta, who is regarded as the representative of Paris, has been replaced by a sort of Council of Regency, and that this Council of Regency is treating, has filled everyone here with indignation. Far better, everyone seems to think, that Alsace should be lost to France, than that France should be lost to Paris. The victories of Prussia have been bitter to Frenchmen, because they had each of them individually assumed a vicarious glory in the victories of the First Empire; but the real patriotism of the Parisians does not extend farther than the walls of their own town. If the result of this war is to cause France to undertake the conduct of its own affairs, and not to allow the population of Paris and the journalists of Paris to ride roughshod over her, the country will have gained more than she has lost by her defeats, no matter what may be the indemnity she be called upon to pay. The martial spirit of the National Guard has of course been lauded to the skies by those newspapers which depend for their circulation on these braves. The question what they have done may, however, be reduced to figures. They number above 300,000. According to their own statements they have been fighting for nearly five months, and I venture to say that during the whole campaign they have not lost 500 men. They have occasionally done duty in the trenches, but this duty has been a very brief one, and they have had very long intervals of repose. I do not question that in the National Guard there are many brave men, but one can only judge of the fighting qualities of an army by comparison, and if the losses of the National Guard be statistically compared with those of the Line, of the Mobiles, and of the sailors, it will be shown that—to use an Americanism—their record is a bad one. The soldiers and the sailors have fought, and the women have suffered during the siege. The male population of Paris has done little more than bluster and drink and brag.

To-day there is no firing, and I suppose that the last shell has fallen into Paris. I went out yesterday to St. Denis. Along the road there were a few people coming into Paris with their beds and tables in hand-carts. In the town the bombardment, although not so heavy as it had been, was far too heavy to be pleasant. Most of the people still remaining have established themselves in their cellars, and every moment one came against some chimney emerging from the soil. Some were still on the ground-floor of their houses, and had heaped up mattresses against their windows. The inhabitants occasionally ran from one house to another, like rabbits in a warren from hole to hole. All the doors were open, and whenever one heard the premonitory whistle which announced the arrival of one of the messengers of our psychological friends outside, one had to dodge into some door. I did not see any one hit. The houses were a good deal knocked about; the cathedral, it was said, had been hit, but as shells were falling in the Place before it, I reserved investigations for a more quiet moment. Some of the garrison told me that the forts had been "scratched," but as to how far this scratching process had been carried I cannot say from personal observation, as I thought I might be scratched myself if I pushed my reconnaissance farther. I am not a military man, and do not profess to know anything about bombs technically, but it seems to me, considering that it is their object to burst, and considering the number of scientific persons who have devoted their time to make them burst, it is very strange how very few do burst. I am told that one reason for this is the following:—when they lose the velocity of the impelling force they turn over in the air, and as the percussion cap is on the lighter end, the heavier one strikes the ground. Many of these, too, which have fallen in the town, and which have burst, have done no mischief, because the lead in which they are enveloped has kept the pieces together. The danger, indeed, to life and limb of a bombardment is very slight. I would at any time prefer to be for 24 hours in the most exposed portion of a bombarded town, than walk 24 times across Oxford Street in the middle of the day. A bomb is a joke in comparison with those great heavy wagons which are hurled at pedestrians by their drivers in the streets of London.

January 28th.

The Government has not yet made up its mind to bell the cat, and to let us know the terms of the armistice or capitulation, whichever it is to be called. We hear that it is expected that trains will run to England on Tuesday or Wednesday, and by the first train I for one shall endeavour to get out of this prison. It will be such a relief to find oneself once more among people who have glimpses of common sense, who are not all in uniform, and who did not insist so very strongly on their sublime attitude. Yesterday evening there were a series of open-air clubs held on the Boulevards and other public places. The orators were in most instances women or aged men. These Joans of Arc and ancient Pistols talked very loudly of making a revolution in order to prevent the capitulation; and it seemed to me that among their hearers, precisely those who whilst they had an opportunity to fight thought it wise not to do so, were most vociferous in their applause. The language of the National Guard is indeed most warlike. Several hundred of their officers have indulged in the cheap patriotism of signing a declaration that they wish to die rather than yield. This morning many battalions of the National Guard are under arms, and are hanging about in the streets with their arms stacked before them. Many of the men, however, have not answered to the rappel, and are remaining at home, as a mode of protesting against what is passing. General Vinoy has a body of troops ready to act, and as he is a man of energy I do not anticipate serious disturbances for the moment. As for the soldiers and the Mobiles, they are wandering about in twos and threes without arms, and do not affect to conceal that they are heartily glad that all is over. Poor fellows, their torn and tattered uniforms contrast with the spick and span military gear of the National Guard. They have had during the siege hard work, and they have done good duty, with but little thanks for it. The newspapers are one and all down on the Government. It is of course held to be their fault that the lines of the besiegers have not been forced. General Trochu is not a military genius, and his colleagues have not proved themselves better administrators than half a dozen lawyers who have got themselves elected to a legislative assembly by the gift of the gab were likely to be; but still this system of sacrificing the leaders whenever any disaster takes place, and accusing them of treachery and incompetence, is one of the worst features in the French character. If it continues, eventually every man of rank will be dubbed by his own countrymen either a knave or a fool.

January 31st.

Finita la Comedia. Let fall the curtain. The siege of Paris is over; the last balloon has carried our letters through the clouds; the last shot has been fired. The Prussians are in the forts, and the Prussian armies are only not in the streets because they prefer to keep watch and guard outside the vanquished city. What will be the verdict of history on the defence? Who knows! On the one hand the Parisians have kept a powerful army at bay far longer than was anticipated; on the other hand, every sortie that they have made has been unsuccessful—every attempt to arrest the approach of the besiegers has failed. Passively and inertly they have allowed their store of provisions to grow less and less, until they have been forced to capitulate, without their defences having been stormed, or the cannon silenced. The General complains of his soldiers, the soldiers complain of their General; and on both sides there is cause of complaint. Trochu is not a Todleben. His best friends describe him as a sort of military Hamlet, wise of speech, but weak and hesitating in action—making plans, and then criticising them instead of accomplishing them. As a commander, his task was a difficult one; when the siege commenced he had no army; when the army was formed, it was encompassed by earthworks and redoubts so strong that even better soldiers would have failed to carry them. As a statesman, he never was the master of the situation. He followed rather than led public opinion, and subordinated everything to the dread of displeasing any section of a population, which, to be ruled—even in quiet times—must be ruled with a rod of iron. Success is the criterion of ability in this country, and poor Trochu is as politically dead as though he never had lived. His enemies call him a traitor; his friends defend him from the charge by saying that he is only a vain fool.

As regards the armed force, the sailors have behaved so well that I wonder at the ease with which our own tars have always beaten them. They have been kept under a rigid discipline by their naval commanders. The line, composed of depot battalions, and of the regiments which Vinoy brought back from Mezieres, without being equal to old seasoned troops, have fought creditably. Their great defect has been an absence of strict discipline. The Mobiles, raw peasants fresh from their homes, have shown themselves brave in action, and have supported the hardship of lengthy outpost duty without a murmur. Unfortunately they elected their own officers, and this weakened their efficiency for offensive purposes. When the siege commenced, every citizen indiscriminately assumed the uniform of the National Guard. Each battalion of this motley force elected its officers, and both men and officers united in despising discipline as a restraint to natural valour. The National Guard mounted guard occasionally on the ramparts, and the rest of their time they passed in parading the streets, drinking in the pothouses, and discussing the conduct of their military superiors. General Trochu soon discovered that this force was, for all purposes of war, absolutely useless. He called for volunteers, and he anticipated that 100,000 men would answer to the appeal; not 10,000 did so. He then ordered a marching company to be formed from each battalion. Complaints innumerable arose. Instead of a generous emulation to fight, each man sought for an excuse to avoid it. This man had a mother, that man a daughter; one had weak lungs, and another weak legs. At length, by dint of pressure and coaxing, the marching battalions were formed. Farewell suppers were offered them by their comrades. They were given new coats, new trousers, and new saucepans to strap on their haversacks. They have done some duty in the trenches, but they were always kept away from serious fighting, and only gave a "moral support" to those engaged in the conflict, until the fiasco in the Isthmus of Gennevilliers a fortnight ago. Then, near the walls of Buzanval, the few companies which were in action fought fairly if not successfully, whilst in another part of the field of battle, those who formed the reserves broke and fled as soon as the Prussian bombs fell into their ranks. The entire National Guard, sedentary and marching battalions, has not, I imagine, lost 500 men during its four months' campaign. This can hardly be called fighting to the death pro aris et focis, and sublimity is hardly the word to apply to these warriors. If the 300 at Thermopylae had, after exhausting their food, surrendered to the Persian armies, after the loss of less than one per cent. of their number—say of three men, they might have been very worthy fellows, but history would not have embalmed their act. Politically, with the exception of the riot on October 31, the Government of National Defence has met with no opposition since September last. There are several reasons for this. Among the bourgeoisie there was little of either love or confidence felt in Trochu and his colleagues, but they represented the cause of order, and were indeed the only barrier against absolute anarchy. Among the poorer classes everyone who liked was clothed, was fed, and was paid by Government for doing nothing, and consequently many who otherwise would have been ready to join in a revolt, thought it well not to disturb a state of things so eminently to their satisfaction. Among the Ultras, there was a very strong distaste to face the fire either of Prussians or of Frenchmen. They had, too, no leaders worthy of the name, and many of them were determined not to justify Count Bismarck's taunt that the "populace" would aid him by exciting civil discord. The Government of September, consequently, is still the Government of to-day, although its chief has shown himself a poor general, and its members, one and all, have shown themselves wretched administrators. In unblushing mendacity they have equalled, if not surpassed, their immediate predecessor, the virtuous Palikao. The only two of them who would have had a chance of figuring in England, even as vestrymen, are M. Jules Favre and M. Ernest Picard. The former has all the brilliancy and all the faults of an able lawyer—the latter, although a lawyer, is not without a certain modicum of that plain practical common sense, which we are apt to regard as peculiarly an English characteristic.

The sufferings caused by the dearth of provisions and of fuel have fallen almost exclusively on the women and children. Among the well-to-do classes, there has been an absence of many of those luxuries which habit had made almost necessaries, but this is all. The men of the poorer classes, as a rule, preferred to idle away their time on the 1fr. 50c. which they received from the Government, rather than gain 4 or 5fr. a day by working at their trades; consequently if they drank more and ate less than was good for them, they have had only themselves to thank for it. Their wives and children have been very miserable. Scantily clad, ill fed, without fuel, they have been obliged to pass half the day before the bakers' doors, waiting for their pittance of bread. The mortality and the suffering have been very great among them, and yet, it must be said to their credit, they have neither repined nor complained.

Business has, of course, been at a standstill since last September. At the Bourse the transactions have been of the most trifling description, much to the disgust of the many thousands who live here by peddling gains and doubtful speculations in this temple of filthy lucre. By a series of decrees payment of rent and of bills of exchange has been deferred from month to month. Most of the wholesale exporting houses have been absolutely closed. In the retail shops nothing has been sold except by the grocers, who must have made large profits. Whether the city has a recuperative power strong enough to enable it to recover from this period of stagnation, and to pay its taxation, which henceforward will be enormous, has yet to be seen. The world is the market for articles de Paris, but then to preserve this market, the prices of these articles must be low. Foreigners, too, will not come here if the cost of living is too exorbitant, and yet I do not see how it is to be otherwise. The talk of the people now is, that they mean to become serious—no longer to pander to the extravagances of strangers, and no longer to encourage their presence amongst them. If they carry out these intentions, I am afraid that, however their morals may be improved, their material interests will suffer. Gambling tables may not be an advantage to Europe, but without them Homburg and Baden would go to the wall. Paris is a city of pleasure—a cosmopolitan city; it has made its profit out of the follies and the vices of the world. Its prices are too high, its houses are too large, its promenades and its public places have cost too much for it to be able to pay its way as the sober, decent capital of a moderate-sized country, where there are few great fortunes. If the Parisians decide to become poor and respectable, they are to be congratulated upon the resolve, but the present notion seems to be that they are to become rich and respectable—a thing more difficult. Paris—the Paris of the Empire and of Haussmann—is a house of cards. Its prosperity was a forced and artificial one. The war and the siege have knocked down the cards, and it is doubtful whether they will ever serve to build a new house.

As regards public opinion, I cannot see that it has changed one iota for the better since the fall of the Empire, or that common sense has made any headway. There are of course sensible men in Paris, but either they hold their tongues, or their voices are lost in the chorus of blatant nonsense, which is dinned into the public ears. Mutatis mutandis the newspapers, with some few exceptions, are much what they were when they worshipped Caesar, chronicled the doings of the demi-monde, clamoured for the Rhine, and invented Imperial victories. Their ignorance respecting everything beyond the frontiers of France is such, that a charity-schoolboy in England or Germany would be deservedly whipped for it. La Liberte has, I am told, the largest circulation at present. Every day since the commencement of the siege I have invested two sous in this journal, and I may say, without exaggeration, that never once—except one evening when it was burnt on the boulevard for inadvertently telling the truth—have I been able to discover in its columns one single line of common sense. Its facts are sensational—its articles gross appeals to popular folly, popular ignorance, and popular vanity. Every petty skirmish of the National Guard has been magnified into a stupendous victory; every battalion which visited a tomb, crowned a statue, or signed some manifesto pre-eminent in its absurdity, has been lauded in language which would have been exaggerated if applied to the veterans of the first Napoleon. The editor is, I believe, the author of the "pact with death," which has been so deservedly ridiculed in the German newspapers. The orators of the clubs have not been wiser than the journalists. At the Ultra gatherings, a man who says that he is a republican is regarded as the possessor of every virtue. The remedy for all the ills of France has been held to be, to copy exactly what was done during the First Revolution. "Citizens, we must have a Commune, and then we shall drive the Prussians out of France," was always received with a round of sympathetic applause, although I have never yet found two persons to agree in their explanation of what is meant by the word "Commune." At the Moderate clubs, the speeches generally consisted of ignorant abuse of Germany, attempts to disprove well-established facts, and extravagant self-laudation. I have attended many clubs—Ultra and Moderate—and I never heard a speaker at one of them who would have been tolerated for five minutes by an ordinary English political meeting.

The best minister whom the Parisians have, is M. Dorian. He is a manufacturer, and as hard-headed and practical as a Scotsman. Thanks to his energy and business qualities, cannon have been cast, old muskets converted into breechloaders, and ammunition fabricated. He has had endless difficulties to overcome, and has overcome them. The French are entirely without what New Englanders call shiftiness. As long as all the wheels of an administration work well, the administrative coach moves on, but let the smallest wheel of the machine get out of order, and everything stands still. To move on again takes a month's discussion and a hundred despatches. A redoubt which the Americans during their civil war would have thrown up in a night has taken the Parisians weeks to make. Their advanced batteries usually were without traverses, because they were too idle to form them. Although in modern sieges the spade ought to play as important a part as the cannon, they seem to have considered it beneath their dignity to dig—500 navvies would have done more for the defence of the town than 500,000 National Guards did do. At the commencement of October, ridiculous barricades were made far inside the ramparts, and although the generals have complained ever since that they impeded the movements of their troops, they have never been removed.

I like the Parisians and I like the French. They have much of the old Latin urbanitas, many kindly qualities, and most of the minor virtues which do duty as the small change of social intercourse. But for the sake of France, I am glad that Paris has lost its prestige, for its rule has been a blight and a curse to the entire country; and for the sake of Europe, I am glad that France has lost her military prestige, for this prestige has been the cause of most of the wars of Europe during the last 150 years. It is impossible so to adapt the equilibrium of power, that every great European Power shall be co-equal in strength. The balance tips now to the side of Germany. That country has attained the unity after which she has so long sighed, and I do not think she will embroil the continent in wars, waged for conquest, for an "idea," or for the dynastic interests of her princes. The Germans are a brave race, but not a war-loving race. Much, therefore, as I regret that French provinces should against the will of their inhabitants become German, and strongly as I sympathise with my poor friends here in the overthrow of all their illusions, I console myself with the thought that the result of the present war will be to consolidate peace. France will no doubt look wistfully after her lost possessions, and talk loudly of her intention to re-conquer them. But the difficulty of the task will prevent the attempt. Until now, to the majority of Frenchmen, a war meant a successful military promenade, a plentiful distribution of decorations, and an inscription on some triumphal arch. Germany was to them the Germany of Jena and Austerlitz. Their surprise at seeing the Prussians victors at the doors of Paris, is much that which the Americans would feel if a war with the Sioux Indians were to bring these savages to the suburbs of New York. The French have now learnt that they are not invincible, and that if war may mean victory, it may also mean defeat, invasion, and ruin. When, therefore, they have paid the bill for their a Berlin folly, they will think twice before they open a fresh account with fortune.

I would recommend sightseers to defer their visit to Paris for the present, as during the armistice it will not be a very pleasant residence for foreigners. I doubt whether the elections will go off, and the decisions of the National Assembly be known without disturbances. The vainest of the vain, irritable to madness by their disasters, the Parisians are in no humour to welcome strangers. The world has held aloof whilst the "capital of civilisation" has been bombarded by the "hordes of Attila," and there is consequently, just now, no very friendly feeling towards the world.

Of news, there is very little. We are in a state of physical and moral collapse. The groups of patriots which invested the Boulevards on the first announcement of the capitulation have disappeared; and the gatherings of National Guards, who announced their intention to die rather than submit, have discontinued their sittings, owing it, as they said, to their country to live for her. No one hardly now affects to conceal his joy that all is over. Every citizen with whom one speaks, tells you that it will be the lasting shame of Paris that with its numerous army it not only failed to force the Prussians to raise the siege, but also allowed them whenever they pleased to detach corps d'armee against the French generals in the provinces. This, of course, is the fault of the Government of Trochu and of the Republic, and having thus washed his hands of everything that has occurred, the citizen goes on his way rejoicing. The Mobiles make no secret of their delight at the thought of getting back to their homes. Whatever the Parisians may think of them, they do not think much of the Parisians. The army, and more particularly the officers, are very indignant at the terms of the armistice. They bitterly say that they would far rather have preferred to have been made prisoners of war at once, and they feel that they are in pawn in Paris, a pledge that peace will be made. M. Jules Ferry was treated so coldly the other day by General Vinoy's staff, when he went upon some business to the headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief, that he asked the cause, and was told in plain terms that he and his colleagues had trifled with the honour of the army. The armistice was, as you are aware, concluded by M. Jules Favre in person. It was then thought necessary to send a General to confer with Count Moltke on matters of detail. General Trochu seized upon this occasion to assert himself, and requested to be allowed to send a General of his choice, saying that his book which he published in 1867 must be so well known at the German headquarters, that probably his envoy would meet with peculiar respect. To this General Vinoy acceded, but Count Moltke refused to treat with Trochu's General, who was drunk, and the chief of General Vinoy's staff had to be substituted. General Ducrot is still here. He resigned his command, not as is generally supposed, because the Prussians insisted upon it in consequence of his evasion from Sedan, but because General Vinoy on assuming the command of the army gave him a very strong hint to do so. "I did not"' observed Vinoy, "think your position sufficiently en regle to serve under you, and so——"

The question of the revictualling is the most important one of the moment. The railroad kings, who had an interview with Count Bismarck at Versailles, seem to be under the impression that this exceedingly wide-awake statesman intends to throw impediments in the way of Paris getting provisions from England, in order that the Germans may turn an honest penny by supplying the requirements of the town. He has thrown out hints that he himself can revictual us for a short time, if it really be a question of life and death. Even when the lines are opened to traffic and passengers, the journey to England, via Amiens, Rouen, and Dieppe will be a tedious one. The Seine, we learn, has been rendered impassable by the boats which have been sunk in it.

We have as yet had no news from outside. The English here find the want of a consul more than ever. The Foreign Office has sent in an acting commission to Mr. Blount, a gentleman who may be an excellent banker, but knows nothing of consular business, notwithstanding his courtesy. As whenever any negotiation is to take place at a foreign court a Special Envoy is sent, and, as it now appears, whenever a Consul is particularly wanted in a town a Special Consul is appointed, would it not be as well at once to suppress the large staff of permanent ambassadors, ministers, and consuls who eat their heads off at a heavy cost to the country. I should be curious to know how many years it would take to reduce the intelligence of an ordinary banker's clerk to the level of a Foreign Office bureaucrat. How the long-suffering English public can continue to support the incompetency and the supercilious contempt with which these gentry treat their employers is to me a mystery. Bureaucrats are bad enough in all conscience, but a nest of fine gentleman bureaucrats is a public curse, when thousands are subjected to their whims, their ignorance, and their airs.

The Republic is in very bad odour just now. It has failed to save France, and it is rendered responsible for this failure. Were the Comte de Paris a man of any mark, he would probably be made King. As it is, there is a strong feeling in favour of his family, and more particularly in favour of the Duc d'Aumale. Some talk of him as President of the Republic, others suggest that he should be elected King. The Bonapartists are very busy, but as regards Paris there is no chance either for the Emperor or the Empress Regent. As for Henri V., he is, in sporting phraseology, a dark horse. Among politicians, the general opinion is that a moderate Republic will be tried for a short time, and that then we shall gravitate into a Constitutional Monarchy.

Little heed is taken of the elections which are so close at hand. No one seems to care who is elected. As it is not known whether the National Assembly will simply register the terms of peace proposed by Germany, and then dissolve itself, or whether it will constitute itself into an Assemblee Constituante, and decide upon the future form of government, there is no Very great desire among politicians to be elected to it. Several Electoral Committees have been formed, each of which puts forward its own list—that which sits under the Presidency of M. Dufaure, an Orleanist, at the Grand Hotel, is the most important of them. Its list is intended to include the most practical men of all parties; the rallying cry is to be France, and in theory its chiefs are supposed to be moderate Republicans.

The ceremony of the giving up of the forts has passed over very quietly. The Prussians entered them without noise or parade. At St. Denis, the mayor of which said that no Prussian would be safe in it, friends and foes, I am told by a person who has just returned, have fraternised, and are pledging each other in every species of liquor. The ramparts are being dismantled of their guns; the National Guard no longer does duty on them, and crowds assemble and stare vaguely into the country outside. During the whole siege Paris has not been so dismal and so dreary as it is now. There is no longer the excitement of the contest, and yet we are prisoners. The only consolation is that a few weeks will put an end to this state of things.



CHAPTER XIX.

February 1st.

The Government of National Defence has almost disappeared from notice. It has become a Committee to preside over public order. The world may calumniate us, they said in a proclamation the other day. It would be impossible, replied the newspapers. Trochu and Gambetta, once the idols of the Parisians, are now the best abused men in France. Trochu (a friend of his told me to-day) deserted by all, makes speeches in the bosom of his family. No more speeches, no more lawyers; is the cry of the journals. And then they spin out phrases of exaggerated Spartanism by the yard, and suggest some lawyer as the rising hope of the country.

The cannon have been taken from the ramparts. The soldiers—Line and Mobile—wander about unarmed, with their hands in their pockets, staring at the shop-windows. They are very undemonstrative, and more like peaceful villagers than rough troopers. They pass most of their time losing their way and trying to find it again; and the Mobiles are longing to get back to their homes. It appears now that there was an error in the statistics published by the Government respecting the stock of grain in hand. Two accounts, which were one and the same, were added together. The bread is getting less like bread every day. Besides peas, rice, and hay, starch is now ground up with it. In the eighth arrondissement yesterday, there were no rations. The Northern Company do not expect a provision train from Dieppe before Friday, and do not think they will be able to carry passengers before Saturday. We are in want of fuel as much as of food. A very good thing is to be made by any speculator who can manage to send us coal or charcoal.

More than 23,000 persons have applied for permits to quit Paris, on the ground that they are provincial candidates for the Assembly. Of course this is a mere pretext. A commission, as acting British Consul, has been sent to Mr. Blount, a banker. Will some M.P. move that the Estimates be reduced by the salary of the Consul, who seems to consider Paris in partibus infidelium?

The only outsider who has penetrated through the double cordon of Prussians and French, is your Correspondent at the Headquarters of the Crown Prince of Saxony. He startled us quite as much as Friday did Robinson Crusoe. He was enthusiastically welcomed, for he had English newspapers in one pocket, and some slices of ham in the other.

VERSAILLES, February 6th.

I am not intoxicated, but I feel so heavy from having imbibed during the last twenty-four hours more milk than I did during the first six months which I passed in this planet, that I have some difficulty in collecting my thoughts in order to write a letter. Yesterday I arrived here in order to breathe for a moment the air of freedom. In vain my hospitable friends, who have put me up, have offered me wine to drink, and this and that delicacy to eat—I have stuck to eggs, butter, and milk. Pats of butter I have bolted with a greasy greediness which would have done honour to Pickwick's fat boy; and quarts of milk I have drunk with the eagerness of a calf long separated from its maternal parent.

Although during the last few months I have seen but two or three numbers of English papers, I make no doubt that so many good, bad, and indifferent descriptions of every corner and every alley in this town have appeared in print, that Londoners are by this time as well acquainted with it as they are with Richmond or Clapham. Versailles must, indeed, be a household word—not to say a household nuisance—in England. It has been a dull, stupid place, haunted by its ancient grandeurs; with too large a palace, too large streets, and too large houses, for many a year; and while the presence of a Prussian army and a Prussian Emperor may render it more interesting, they fail to make it more lively. Of the English correspondents, some have gone into Paris in quest of "phases" and impressions; many, however, still remain here, battening upon the fat of the land, in the midst of kings and princes, counts and Freiherrs. I myself have seldom got beyond a distant view of such grand beings. What I know even of the nobility of my native land, is derived from perusing the accounts of their journeys in the fashionable newspapers, and from the whispered confidences of their third cousins. To find myself in familiar intercourse with people who habitually hobnob at Royal tables, and who invite Royal Highnesses to drop in promiscuously and smoke a cigar, almost turns my head. To-morrow I shall return to Paris, because I feel, were I to remain long in such grand company, I should become proud and haughty; and, perhaps, give myself airs when restored to the society of my relatives, who are honest but humble. There is at present no difficulty in leaving Paris. A pass is given at the Prefecture to all who ask for one, and it is an "open sesame" to the Prussian lines. I came by way of Issy, dragged along by an aged Rosinante, so weak from low living that I was obliged to get out and walk the greater part of the way, as he positively declined to draw me and the chaise.

This beast I have only been allowed to bring out of Paris after having given my word of honour that I would bring him back, in order, if necessary, to be slain and eaten, though I very much doubt whether a tolerably hungry rat would find meat enough on his bones for a dinner.

I have been this morning sitting with a friend who, under the promise of the strictest secrecy, has given me an account of the condition of affairs here. I trust, therefore, that no one will mention anything that may be found in this letter, directly or indirectly relating to the Prussians. The old King, it appears, is by no means happy as an Emperor. He was only persuaded to accept this title for the sake of his son, "Our Fritz," and he goes about much like some English squire of long descent, who has been induced to allow himself to be converted into a bran new peer, over-persuaded by his ambitious progeny. William is one of that numerous class of persons endowed with more heart than brains. Putting aside, or regarding rather as the delusion of a diseased brain, his notion that he is an instrument of Heaven, and that he is born to rule over Prussian souls by right divine, the old man is by no means a bad specimen of a good-natured, well-meaning, narrow-minded soldier of the S.U.S.C. type; and between Bismarck and Moltke he has of late had by no means an easy time. These two worthies, instead of being, as we imagined in Paris, the best of friends, abominate each other. During the siege Moltke would not allow Bismarck to have a seat at any council of war; and in order to return the compliment, Bismarck has not allowed Moltke to take any part in the negotiations respecting the armistice, except on the points which were exclusively military. Bismarck tells the French that had it not been for him, Paris would have been utterly destroyed, while Moltke grumbles because it has not been destroyed; an achievement which this talented captain somewhat singularly imagines would fittingly crown his military career. But this is not the only domestic jar which destroys the harmony of the happy German family at Versailles. In Prussia it has been the habit, from time immemorial, for the heir to the throne to coquet with the Liberals, and to be supposed to entertain progressive opinions. The Crown Prince pursues this hereditary policy of his family. He has surrounded himself with intelligent men, hostile to the present state of things, and who understand that in the present age 110 country can be great and powerful, where all who are not country gentlemen, chamberlains, or officers, are excluded from all share in its government. Bismarck, on the other hand, is the representative, or rather the business man, of the squirearchy and of the Vons—much in the same way as Mr. Disraeli is of the Conservatives in England; and, like the latter, he despises his own friends, and scoffs at the prejudices, a pretended belief in which has served them as a stepping-stone to power. The consequence of this divergency of opinion is, that Bismarck and "Our Fritz" are very nearly what schoolboys call "cuts," and consequently when the old King dies, Bismarck's power will die with him, unless he is wise enough to withdraw beforehand from public life. "Our Fritz," I hear, has done his best to prevent the Prussian batteries from doing any serious damage to Paris, and has not concealed from his friends that he considers that the bombardment was, in the words of Fouche, worse than a crime—an error.

I find many of the Prussian officers improved by success. Those with whom I have come in personal contact have been remarkably civil and polite, but I confess that—speaking of course generally—the sight of these mechanical instruments of war, brought to the highest state of perfection in the trade of butchery, lording it in France, is to me most offensive. I abhor everything which they admire. They are proud of walking about in uniform with a knife by their side. I prefer the man without the uniform and without the knife. They despise all who are engaged in commercial pursuits. I regard merchants and traders as the best citizens of a free country. They imagine that the man whose ancestors have from generation to generation obscurely vegetated upon some dozen acres, is the superior of the man who has made himself great without the adventitious aid of birth; I do not. When Jules Favre met Bismarck over here the other day, the latter spoke of Bourbaki as a traitor, because he had been untrue to his oath to Napoleon. "And was his country to count for nothing?" answered Favre. "In Germany king and country are one and the same," replied Bismarck. This is the abominable creed which is inculcated by the military squires who now hold the destinies of France and of Germany in their hands; and on this detestable heresy they dream of building up a new code of political ethics in Europe. Liberalism and common sense are spreading even in the army; but take a Tory squire, a Groom of the Chamber, and a Life-guardsman, boil them down, and you will obtain the ordinary type of the Prussian officer. For my part, I look with grim satisfaction to the future. The unity of Germany has been brought about by the union of Prussian Feudalists and German Radicals. The object is now attained, and I sincerely hope that the former will find themselves in the position of cats who have drawn the chestnuts out of the fire for others to eat. If "Our Fritz," still following in the steps of his ancestors, throws off his Liberalism with his Crown Princedom, his throne will not be a bed of roses; it is fortunate, therefore, for him, that he is a man of good sense. I am greatly mistaken if the Germans will long submit to the horde of squires, of princes, of officers, and of court flunkeys, who together, at present, form the ruling class. Among the politicians here there is a strong feeling of dislike to the establishment of a Republic in France. If they could have their own way they would re-establish the Empire. But those who imagine that this is possible understand very little of the French character. The Napoleonic legend was the result of an epoch of military glory; the capitulation of Sedan not only scotched it, but killed it. A Frenchman still believes in the military superiority of his race over every other race, as firmly as he believes in his own existence. If a French army is defeated, it is owing to the treachery or the incapacity of the commander. If a battle be lost, the General must pay the penalty for it; for his soldiers are invincible. It is Napoleon, according to the received theory, who has succumbed in the present war; not the French nation. If Napoleon be restored to power, the nation will accept the responsibility which they now lay to his door. The pride and vanity of every Frenchman are consequently the strongest securities against an Imperial Restoration. Were I a betting man, I would bet twenty to one against the Bonapartes; even against a Republic lasting for two years; and I would take five to one against the Comte de Paris becoming King of the French, and three to one against the Duc d'Aumale being elected President of the Republic. This would be my "book" upon the political French Derby.

The Prussians are making diligent use of the armistice to complete their engineering work round Paris, and they appear to consider it possible that they may yet have trouble with the city. If this be their opinion I can only say that they are badly served by their spies. The resistance a outrance men in Paris, who never did anything but talk, will very possibly still threaten to continue the struggle; but they will not fight themselves, and most assuredly they will not find others to fight for them. If the preliminaries of peace be signed at Bordeaux, Paris will not protest; if they are rejected, Paris will not expose itself to certain destruction by any attempt at further resistance, but will capitulate, not as the capital of France, but as a besieged French town. General Vinoy is absolute master of the situation; he is a calm, sensible man, and will listen to no nonsense either from the "patriots," or his predecessors, or from Gambetta. From the tone of the decree of the latter of the 3rd instant, he seems to be under the impression that he is still the idol of the Parisians. Never did a man labour under so complete a delusion. Before by a lucky speech he was pitchforked into the Corps Legislatif, he was a briefless lawyer, who used to talk very loudly and with vast emphasis at the Cafe de Madrid. He is now regarded as a pothouse politician, who ought never to have been allowed to get beyond the pothouse.

The Germans appear to be carrying on the war upon the same principles of international law which formed many thousand years ago the rule of conquest among the Israelites. They are spoiling the Egyptians with a vengeance. Even in this town, under the very eyes of the King, there is one street—the Boulevard de la Reine—in which almost every house is absolutely gutted. This, I hear, was done by the Bavarians. The German army may have many excellent qualities, but chivalry is not among them. War with them is a business. When a nation is conquered, there is no sentimental pity for it, but as much is to be made out of it as possible. Like the elephants, which can crush a tree or pick up a needle, they conquer a province and they pick a pocket. As soon as a German is quartered in a room he sends for a box and some straw; carefully and methodically packs up the clock on the mantelpiece, and all the stray ornaments which he can lay his hands on; and then, with a tear glistening in his eye for his absent family, directs them either to his mother, his wife, or his lady-love. In vain the proprietor protests; the philosophical warrior utters the most noble sentiments respecting the horrors of war; ponderously explains that the French do not sufficiently appreciate the blessings of peace; and that he is one of the humble instruments whose mission it is to make these blessings clear to them. Then he rings the bell, and in a mild and gentle voice, orders his box of loot to be carried off by his military servant. Ben Butler and his New Englanders in New Orleans might have profitably taken lessons from these all-devouring locusts. Nothing escapes them. They have long rods which they thrust into the ground to see whether anything of value has been buried in the gardens. Sometimes they confiscate a house, and then re-sell it to the proprietor. Sometimes they cart off the furniture. Pianos they are very fond of. When they see one, they first sit down and play a few sentimental ditties, then they go away, requisition a cart, and minstrel and instrument disappear together. They are a singular mixture of bravery and meanness. No one can deny that they possess the former quality, but they are courageous without one spark of heroism. After fighting all day, they will rifle the corpses of their fallen foes of every article they can lay their hands on, and will return to their camp equally happy because they have won a great victory for Fatherland, and stolen a watch from one of the enemies of Fatherland. They have got now into such a habit of appropriating other people's property, that I confess I tremble when one of them fixes his cold glassy eye upon me. I see that he is meditating some new philosophical doctrine, which, some way or other, will transfer what is in my pocket into his. His mind, however, fortunately, works but slowly, and I am far away from him before he has elaborated to his own satisfaction a system of confiscation applicable to my watch or purse.[2]

PARIS, February 7th.

Rosinante has brought me back with much wheezing from Versailles to Paris; and with me he brought General Duff, U.S.A., and a leg of mutton. At the gate of Versailles we were stopped by the sentinels, who told us that no meat could be allowed to leave the town. I protested; but in vain. Mild blue-eyed Teutons with porcelain pipes in their mouths bore off my mutton. The General protested too, but the protest of the citizen of the Free Republic fared like mine. I followed my mutton into the guard-house, where I found a youthful officer, who looked so pleasant that I determined to appeal to the heart which beat beneath his uniform. I attacked the heart on its weak side. I explained to him that it was the fate of all to love. The warrior assented, and heaved a great sigh to his absent Gretchen. I pursued my advantage, and passed from generalities to particulars. "My lady love," I said, "is in Paris. Long have I sighed in vain. I am taking her now a leg of mutton. On this leg hang all my hopes of bliss. If I present myself to her with this token of my affection, she may yield to my suit. Oh, full-of-feeling, loved-of-beauteous-women, German warrior, can you refuse me?" He "gazed on the joint that caused his shame; gazed and looked, then looked again." The battle was won; the vanquished victor stalked forth, forgetting the soldier in the man, and gave order that the General, the Englishman, and the leg of mutton should be allowed to go forth in peace. Rosinante toiled along towards Paris; we passed through St. Cloud, now a heap of ruins, and we arrived at the Bridge of Neuilly. Here our passes were examined by a German official, who was explaining every moment to a French crowd in his native language that they could not be allowed to pass into Paris without permits. The crowd was mainly made up of women, who were carrying in bags, pocket handkerchiefs, and baskets of loaves, eggs, and butter to their beleaguered friends. "Is it not too bad of him that he will pretend not to understand French?" said an old lady to me. "He looks like a fiend," said another lady, looking up at the good-natured face of the stolid military gaoler. The contrast between the shrieking, gesticulating, excited French, and the calm, cool, indifferent air of the German, was a curious one. It was typical of that between the two races. Having reached Paris, I consigned poor old long Rosinante to his fate—the knackers, and, with my leg of mutton under my arm, walked down the Boulevard. I was mobbed, positively mobbed. "Sir," said one man, "allow me to smell it." With my usual generosity I did so. How I reached my hotel with my precious burthen in safety is a perfect mystery. N.B. The mutton was for a friend of mine; Gretchen was a pious fraud; all being fair in love and war.

In the quarter in which I live I find that the rations have neither been increased nor diminished. They still remain at 3-5ths lb. of bread, and 1-25th lb. of meat per diem. In some other districts a little beef has been distributed. Some flour has come in from Orleans, and it is expected that in the course of a few days the bread will cease to be made of the peas, potatoes, and oats which we now eat. In the restaurants, beef—real beef—is to be obtained for little more than three times its normal price. Fish, too, in considerable quantities has been introduced by some enterprising speculator. The two delegates, also, of the Lord Mayor's Relief Fund have arrived with provisions, &c. This evening they are to telegraph to London for more. These gentlemen are somewhat at sea with respect to what is wanted, and by what means it is to be distributed. One of them did me the honour to consult me this afternoon on these two points. With respect to the first, I recommended him to take the advice of Mr. Herbert—to whose energy it is due that during the siege above one thousand English have not been starved—and of the Archbishop of Paris, who is a man of sterling benevolence, with a minimum of sectarianism. With respect to the latter, I recommended Liebig, milk, and bacon. The great point appears to me to be that the relief should be bestowed on the right persons. The women and children have been the greatest sufferers of late. The mortality is still very great among them; not because they are absolutely without food, for the rations are distributed to all; but because they are in want of something more strengthening than the rations. Coal is wanted here as much as food. The poorer classes are without the means of cooking whatever meat they may obtain, and it is almost impossible for them, on account of the same reason, to make soup. If I might venture a suggestion to the charitable in England, it would be to send over a supply of fuel.

I had some conversation with a gentleman connected with the Government this evening respecting the political situation. He tells me that Arago, Pelletan, and Garnier Pages were delighted to leave Paris, and that it was only the absolute necessity of their being as soon as possible at Bordeaux, that induced General Vinoy to consent to their departure. As for Gambetta, he says, it is not probable that he has now many adherents in the provinces; and it is certain that he has very few here. When a patient is given up by the faculty a quack is called in; if the quack effects a cure he is lauded to the skies; if he fails, he is regarded as a charlatan, and this is now the case with M. Gambetta. My informant is of opinion that a large number of Ultra-Radicals will be elected in Paris; this will be because the Moderates are split up into small cliques, and each clique insists upon its own candidates being supported, whereas the Internationale commands 60,000 votes, which will all be cast for the list adopted by the heads of that society, and because the National Guard are averse to all real work, and hope that the Ultras will force the National Assembly to continue to pay them the 1f. 50c. which they now receive, for an indefinite period. Gambetta, in his desire to exclude from political power a numerous category of his fellow-citizens, has many imitators here. Some of the journals insist that not only the Bonapartists, but also the Legitimists and the Orleanists should be disfranchised. They consider that as a preliminary step to electing a National Assembly to decide whether a Republic is henceforward to be the form of government of the country, it is desirable, as well as just, to oblige all candidates to swear that it shall be. The fact is, the French, no matter what their opinions may be, seem to have no idea of political questions being decided by a majority; or of a minority submitting to the fiat of this majority. Each citizen belongs to a party; to the creed of this party, either through conviction or personal motives, he adheres, and regards every one who ventures to entertain other views as a scoundrel, an idiot, or a traitor. I confess that I have always regarded a Republican form of government as the best, wherever it is possible. But in France it is not possible. The people are not sufficiently educated, and have not sufficient common sense for it. Were I a Frenchman a Republic would be my dream of the future; for the present I should be in favour of a Constitutional Monarchy. A Republic would soon result in anarchy or in despotism; and without any great love for Kings of any kind, I prefer a Constitutional Monarch to either Anarchy or a Caesar. One must take a practical view of things in this world, and not sacrifice what is good by a vain attempt to attain at once what is better.

Will the Prussians enter Paris? is the question which I have been asked by every Frenchman to whom I have mentioned that I have been at Versailles. This question overshadows every other; and I am fully convinced that this vain, silly population would rather that King William should double the indemnity which he demands from France than march with his troops down the Rue Rivoli. The fact that they have been conquered is not so bitter to the Parisians as the idea of that fact being brought home to them by the presence of their conquerors even for half-an-hour within the walls of the sacred city. I have no very great sympathy with the desire of the Prussians to march through Paris; and I have no great sympathy with the horror which is felt by the Parisians at their intention to do so. The Prussian flag waves over the forts, and consequently to all intents and purposes Paris has capitulated. A triumphal march along the main streets will not mend matters, nor mar matters. "Attila, without, stands before vanquished Paris, as the Cimbrian slave did before Marius. The sword drops from his hand; awed by the majesty of the past, he flees and dares not strike," is the way in which a newspaper I have just bought deals with the question. It is precisely this sort of nonsense which makes the Prussians determined that the Parisians shall drink the cup of humiliation to its last dregs.

I was told at Versailles that St. Cloud had been set on fire on the morning after the last sortie, and that although many houses were still burning when the armistice was signed, none had subsequently been either pillaged or burnt. This act of vandalism has greatly incensed the French, and I understand that the King of Prussia himself regrets it, and throws the blame of it on one of his generals, who acted without orders. A lady who was to-day at St. Cloud tells me that she found Germans eating in every room of her house. Both officers and men were very civil to her. They told her that she might take away anything that belonged to her, and helped to carry to her carriage some valuable china; which, by good luck, had not been smashed. With respect to the charge of looting private property, which is brought by the French against their invaders, no unprejudiced person can, after looking into the evidence, doubt that whilst in the German Army there are many officers, and even privates, who have done their best to prevent pillage, many articles of value have disappeared from houses which have been occupied by the German troops, and much wanton damage has been committed in them. I assert the fact, without raising the question whether or not these are the necessary consequences of war. It is absurd for the Germans to pretend that the French Francs-tireurs are the culprits and not they. Francs-tireurs were never in the Boulevard de la Reine at Versailles, and yet the houses in this street have been gutted of everything available.

I venture to repeat a question which I have already frequently asked—Where is the gentleman who enjoys an annual salary as British Consul at Paris? Why was he absent during the siege? Why is he absent now? Why is a banker, who has other matters to attend to, discharging his duties? I am a taxpayer and an elector; if "my member" does not obtain a reply to these queries from the official representative of the Foreign Office in the House of Commons, I give him fair notice that he will shake me by the hand, ask after my health, and affect a deep interest in my reply, in vain at the next general election; he will not have my vote.

The Electeur Libre, the journal of M. Picard, has put forth a species of political programme, or rather a political defence of the wing of the Government of National Defence to which that gentleman belongs. For a French politician to praise himself in his own organ, and to say under the editorial "we" that he intends to vote for himself, and that he has the greatest confidence in his own wisdom, is regarded here as nothing but natural.

PARIS, February 9th.

"We have been conquered in the field, but we have gained a moral victory." What this phrase means I have not the remotest idea; but as it consoles those who utter it, they are quite right to do so. For the last two days long lines of cannon have issued from the city gates, and have been, without noise or parade, handed over to the Prussians at Issy and Sevran. Few are aware of what has taken place, or know that their surrender had been agreed to by M. Jules Favre. Representations having been made to Count Bismarck that 10,000 armed soldiers were insufficient for the maintenance of the peace of the capital, by an additional secret clause added to the armistice the number has been increased to 25,000. The greatest ill-feeling exists between the Army and the National Guards in the most populous quarters. A general quartered in one of the outer faubourgs went yesterday to General Vinoy, and told him that if he and his men were to be subjected to insults whenever they showed themselves in the streets, he could not continue to be responsible for either his or their conduct. Most persons of sense appear to consider that the armistice was an error, and that the wiser policy would have been to have surrendered without conditions. M. Jules Favre is blamed for not having profited by the occasion, to disarm the National Guards. Many of their battalions, as long as they have arms, and receive pay for doing nothing, will be a standing danger to order. The sailors have been paid off; and the fears that were entertained of their getting drunk and uproarious have not been confirmed. They are peaceably and sentimentally spending their money with the "black-eyed Susans" of their affections. The principal journalists are formally agitating the plan of a combined movement to urge the population to protest against the Prussian triumphal march through the city, by absence from the streets through which the invading army is to defile. Several are, however, opposed to any action, as they fear that their advice will not be followed. Curiosity is one of the strongest passions of the Parisians, and it will be almost impossible for them to keep away from the "sight." Even in Coventry one Peeping Tom was found, and here there are many Peeping Toms. Mr. Moore and Colonel Stuart Wortley, the delegates of the London Relief Fund, have handed over 5,000l. of provisions to the Mayors to be distributed. They could scarcely have found worse agents. The Mayors have proved themselves thoroughly inefficient administrators, and most of them are noisy, unpractical humbugs. Colonel Stuart Wortley and Mr. Moore are very anxious to find means to approach what are called here les pauvres honteux; that is to say, persons who are in want of assistance, but who are ashamed to ask for it. From what they told me yesterday evening, they are going to obtain two or three names of well-known charitable persons in each arrondissement, and ask them to make the distribution of the rest of their provisions in store here, and of those which are expected shortly to arrive. Many families from the villages in the neighbourhood of Paris have been driven within its walls by the invaders, and are utterly destitute. In the opinion of these gentlemen they are fitting objects for charity. The fact is, the difficulty is not so much to find people in want of relief, but to find relief for the thousands who require it. Ten, twenty, or thirty thousand pounds are a mere drop in the ocean, so wide spread is the distress. "I have committed many sins," said a Bishop of the Church of England, "but when I appear before my Maker, and say that I never gave to one single beggar in the streets they will be forgiven." There are many persons in England who, like this prelate, are afraid to give to beggars, lest their charity should be ill applied. No money, no food, no clothes, and no fuel, if distributed with ordinary discretion, can be misapplied at present in Paris. The French complain that all they ever get from England is good advice and sterile sympathy. Now is the moment for us to prove to them that, if we were not prepared to go to war in order to protect them from the consequences of their own folly, we pity them in their distress; and that our pity means something more than words and phrases which feed no one, clothe no one, and warm no one.

The Prussian authorities appear to be deliberately setting to work to render the armistice as unpleasant to the Parisians as possible, in order to force them to consent to no matter what terms of peace in order to get rid of them; and I must congratulate them upon the success of their efforts. They refuse now to accept passes signed by the Prefect of the Police, and only recognise those bearing the name of General Valdan, the chief of the Staff. To-morrow very likely they will require some fresh signature. Whenever a French railroad company advertises the departure of a train at a particular hour, comes an order from the Prussians to alter that hour. Every Frenchman who quits Paris is subjected to a hundred small, teasing vexations from these military bureaucrats, and made to feel at every step he takes that he is a prisoner on leave of absence, and only breathes the air of his native land by the goodwill of his conquerors. The English public must not forget that direct postal communications between Paris and foreign countries are not re-established. Letters from and to England must be addressed to some agent at Versailles or elsewhere, and from thence re-addressed to Paris. As in a day or two trains will run pretty regularly between Paris and London, had our diplomatic wiseacres been worth in pence what they cost us in pounds, by this time they would have made some arrangement to ensure a daily mailbag to England leaving Paris.

News was received yesterday that Gambetta had resigned, and it has been published this morning in the Journal Officiel. A witness of the Council at which it was agreed to send the three old women of the Government to Bordeaux to replace him, tells me that everybody kissed and hugged everybody for half an hour. The old women were ordered to arrest Gambetta if he attempted resistance. It was much like telling a street-sweeper to arrest a stalwart Guardsman. "Do not be rash," cried Trochu. "We will not," replied the old women; "we will remain in one of the suburbs of Bordeaux, until we learn that we can enter it with safety." This reply removed from the minds of their friends any fear that they would incur unnecessary risks in carrying out their mission.

Provisions are arriving pretty freely. All fear of absolute famine has disappeared. To-day the bread is far better than any we have had of late. Some sheep and oxen were seen yesterday in the streets.

The walls are covered with the professions of faith of citizens who aspire to the honour of a seat in the National Assembly. We have the candidate averse to public affairs, but yielding to the request of a large number of supporters; the candidate who feels within himself the power to save the country, and comes forward to do so; the candidate who is young and vigorous, although as yet untried; the candidate who is old and wise, but still vigorous; the man of business candidate; the man of leisure candidate, who will devote his days and nights to the service of the country; then there is the military candidate, whose name, he modestly flatters himself, has been heard above the din of battle, and typifies armed France. I recommend to would-be M.P.'s at home, the plan of M. Maronini. He has as yet done nothing to entitle him to the suffrages of the electors beyond making printing presses, which are excellent and very cheap; so he heads his posters with a likeness of himself. Why an elector should vote for a man because he has an ugly face, I am not aware; but the Citizen Maronini seems to be under the impression that, from a fellow-feeling at least, all ugly men will do so; and perhaps he is right. Another candidate commences his address: "Citoyens, je suis le representant du go ahead." In the clubs last night everyone was talking, and no one was listening. Even the Citizen Sans, with his eternal scarlet shawl girt round his waist, could not obtain a hearing. The Citizen Beaurepaire in vain shouted that, if elected, he would rather hew off his own arm than sign away Alsace and Lorraine. This noble figure of rhetoric, which has never been uttered by a club orator during the siege without eliciting shouts of applause, was received with jeers. The absurdity of the proceedings at this electoral gathering is, that a candidate considers himself insulted if any elector ventures to ask him a question. The president, too, loses his temper half a dozen times every hour, and shakes his fist, screams and jabbers, like an irate chimpanzee, at the audience. If the preliminary electoral meetings are ridiculous, the system of voting, on the other hand, is perfect in comparison with ours. Paris to-day in the midst of a general election is by far more orderly than any English rotten village on the polling-day. Three days ago each elector received at his own house a card, telling him where he was to vote. Those who were entitled to the suffrage, and by accident did not get one of these cards, went the next day to their respective mairies to obtain one. I have just come from one of the rooms in which the votes are taken. I say rooms; for the Parisians do not follow our silly example, and build up sheds at the cost of the candidate. At one end of this room was a long table. A box was in the middle of it, and behind the box sat an employe. To his right sat another. The elector went up to this latter, gave in his electoral card, and wrote his name; he then handed to the central employe his list of names, folded up. This the employe put into the box. About thirty National Guards were on duty in or about the room. The box will remain on the table until to-night, and the National Guards during this time will not lose sight of it; they will then carry it to the Hotel de Ville, where it, and all other voting boxes, will be publicly opened, the votes counted up, and the result, as soon as it is ascertained, announced. How very un-English, some Briton will observe. I can only say that I regret it is un-English. Our elections are a disgrace to our civilisation, and to that common-sense of which we are for ever boasting that we possess so large a share. Last year I was in New York during a general election; this year I am in Paris during one; and both New York and Paris are far ahead of us in their mode of registering the votes of electors.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 2: Several complaints having been received from Germans respecting these charges against the German armies, the following extract from an Article—quoted by the Pall Mall Gazette—in his new paper Im Neuen Reich, by the well-known German author, Herr Gustav Freytag, will prove that they are not unfounded:—"Officers and soldiers," he says, "have been living for months under the bronze clocks, marble tables, damask hangings, artistic furniture, oil-paintings, and costly engravings of Parisian industry. The musketeers of Posen and Silesia broke up the velvet sofas to make soft beds, destroyed the richly inlaid tables, and took the books out of the book-cases for fuel in the cold winter evenings.... It was lamentable to see the beautiful picture of a celebrated painter smeared over by our soldiers with coal dust, a Hebe with her arms knocked off, a priceless Buddhist manuscript lying torn in the chimney grate.... Then people began to think it would be a good thing to obtain such beautiful and tasteful articles for one's friends. A system of 'salvage' was thus introduced, which it is said even eminent and distinguished men in the army winked at. Soldiers bargained for them with the Jews and hucksters who swarm at Versailles; officers thought of the adornment of their own houses; and such things as could be easily packed, such as engravings and oil-paintings, were in danger of being cut out of their frames and rolled up for home consumption." Herr Freytag then points out that these articles are private property, and that the officers and soldiers had no right to appropriate them to their own use. "We are proud and happy," he concludes, addressing them, "at your warlike deeds; behave worthily and honourably also as men. Come back to us from this terrible war with pure consciences and clean hands."]



CHAPTER XX.

CALAIS, February 10th.

At 4 o'clock p.m. on Wednesday I took my departure from Paris, leaving, much with the feelings of Daniel when he emerged from the lions' den, its inhabitants wending their way to the electoral "urns;" the many revolving in their minds how France and Paris were to manage to pay the little bill which their creditor outside is making up against them; the few—the very few—still determined to die rather than yield, sitting in the cafes on the boulevard, which is to be, I presume, their "last ditch." Many correspondents, "special," "our own," and "occasional," had arrived, and were girding up their loins for the benefit of the British public. Baron Rothschild had been kind enough to give me a pass which enabled me to take the Amiens train at the goods station within the walls of the city, instead of driving, as those less fortunate were obliged to do, to Gonesse. My pass had been signed by the proper authorities, and the proper authorities, for reasons best known to themselves—I presume because they had elections on the brain—had dubbed me "Member of the House of Commons, rendering himself to England to assist at the conferences of the Parliament." I have serious thoughts of tendering this document to the doorkeeper of the august sanctuary of the collective wisdom of my country, to discover whether he will recognise its validity.