Chapter 17

_January 7th._

The attempt of the "Ultras" to force Trochu to resign has been a failure. On Friday bands issuing from the outer Faubourgs marched through the streets shouting "No capitulation!" A manifesto was posted on the walls, signed by the delegates of the 20 arrondissements, calling on the people to rise. At the weekly meeting of the Mayors M. Delescluze, the Mayor of the 19th arrondissement, proposed that Trochu and Le Flô should be called upon to resign, and that a supreme council should be established in which the "civil element should not be subordinated to the military element." M. Gustave Flourens published a letter from his prison suggesting that the people should choose as their leader a young energetic Democrat--that is to say himself. M. Felix Pyat, on the other hand, explained that generals are tyrants, and that the best thing would be to carry on the operations of the siege without one. The "bombardment" is, however, still the absorbing question of the day; and all these incipient attempts at revolution have failed. Trochu issued a proclamation, in which he said, "The Governor of Paris will never capitulate." M. Delescluze has resigned, and several arrests have been made. The Government, however, owes its triumph, not so much to its own inherent merits, as to the demerits of those who wished to supplant it. Everyone complains of Trochu's strange inaction, and distrusts his colleagues, who seem to be playing fast-and-loose with the Commune, and to be anxious by a little gentle violence to be restored to private life. The cry still is, "We will not capitulate!" and the nearer the moment approaches that the provisions must fail, the louder is it shouted. Notwithstanding the bitter experience which the Parisians have had of the vanity of mere words to conjure disaster, they still seem to suppose that if they only cry out loud enough that the Prussians cannot, will not, shall not, enter Paris, their men of war will be convinced that the task is beyond their powers, and go home in despair. We are like a tribe of Africans beating tom-toms and howling in order to avert a threatening storm. Yesterday a great council of war was held, at which not only the generals of division and admirals, but even generals of brigade, were present. Although it is a military dictum that "councils of war never fight," I think that in a few days we shall have a sortie, as that anonymous general "public opinion" insists upon it.

We are still without news from the provinces. The _Gazette Officiale_ to-day publishes an extract from a German paper which hardly seems to bear out the assertion of the Government that the Army of the North is advancing to our succour. As evidence that our affairs are looking up in the provinces _La France_ contains the following: "A foreigner who knows exactly the situation of our departments said yesterday, 'These damned French, in spite of their asinine qualities, are getting the better of the Prussians.'" We are forced to live to-day upon this crumb of comfort which has fallen from the lips of a great unknown. Hope is the last feeling which dies out in the human breast, and rightly or wrongly nine persons out of ten believe that Chanzy will shortly force the Prussians to raise the siege. The bombardment is supposed to mask their having been obliged to send heavy reinforcements to Frederick Charles, who regularly every morning is either killed, wounded, or taken prisoner.

It is almost needless to say that the newspapers are filled with wondrous tales respecting the bombardment; with denunciations against the Prussians for their sacrilege in venturing upon it; and with congratulations to the population on their heroism in supporting it. The number of persons who have been all but hit by shells is enormous. I went to the left bank of the Seine in order to see myself the state of affairs. At Point-du-Jour there is a hot corner sparsely inhabited. The Prussians are evidently here firing at the viaduct which crosses the river. From there I followed the ramparts as close as I could as far as Montrouge. I heard of many shells which had fallen, but except at Point-du-Jour I did not myself either see any fall, or hear any whiz through the air. I then went to the Observatory, where according to the _Soir_ the shells were falling very freely. A citizen who was sweeping before the gate told me that he knew nothing about them. In the Rue d'Enfer, just behind, there was a house which had been struck during the night, and close by there was a cantinière, on her way to be buried, who had been killed by one. At the garden of the Luxembourg and at the artesian well near the Invalides I heard of shells, but could not find out where they had struck. As far as I can make out, the Prussians aim at the bastions, and occasionally, but rarely, at some public building. Probably about 50 shells have been sent with malice prepense inside the town. Just behind a bastion it is a little dangerous; but in Grenelle, Vaugirard, and Montrouge, the risk to each individual is not so great as it would be to go over a crowded crossing in London. In these quarters I saw a few people moving away with their goods and chattels; but the population generally seemed rather pleased than otherwise with what was going on. Except close in by the ramparts, there was no excitement. Almost the whole of the portion of the town on the left bank of the Seine is now under fire; but even should it be seriously bombarded, I doubt if the effect will be at all commensurate with the expense of powder and projectiles. When shells fall over a very large area, the odds against each separate person being hit by them are so large that no one thinks that--happen what may to others--he will be wounded.

_January 11th._

The spy mania, which raged with such intensity at the commencement of the siege, has again broken out. Every day persons are arrested because they are supposed, by lighted candles and other mysterious devices, to be in communication with the enemy. Sergeant Hoff, who used to kill his couple of brace of Germans every day, and who disappeared after Champigny, it is now said was a spy; and instead of mourning over his wife, who had been slain by the Prussians, kept a mistress in splendour, like a fine gentleman. Foreigners are looked upon suspiciously in the streets. Very black looks are cast upon the Americans who have established and kept up the best ambulance there is in Paris at their own cost. Even the French ambulances are suspected, since some of their members, during a suspension of arms, broke bread with the Prussians; for it is held that any one who does not hate a German must be in the pay of Bismarck. But this is not all: the newspapers hint that there are spies at headquarters. General Schmitz has a valet who has a wife, and this wife is a German. What more clear than that General Schmitz confides what passes at councils of war to his valet--generals usually do; that the valet confides it to his wife, who, in some mysterious manner, confides it to Bismarck. Then General Trochu has an aide-de-camp, a Prince Bibesco. He is a Wallachian, and a son of an ex-Hospodar--I never yet heard of a Wallachian who was not more or less. Can a doubt exist in the mind of any reasonable being that this young gentleman, a harmless lad, who had passed the greater part of his existence dancing cotillons at Paris, is in direct communication with the Prussians outside? A day or two ago two National Guards were exchanging their strategical views in a café, when they observed a stranger write down something. He was immediately arrested, as he evidently intended to transmit the opinions of these two military sages to General Moltke. I was myself down at Montrouge yesterday, when I was requested by two National Guards to accompany them to the nearest commissary. I asked why, and was told that a woman had heard me speak German. I replied that I was English. "Zat ve saal soon zee," said one of my captors. "I spek Anglish like an Anglishman, address to me the vord in Anglish." I replied that the gentleman spoke English with so perfect an accent that I thought he must be a fellow-countryman. The worthy fellow was disarmed by the compliment, and told a crowd which had collected round us to do prompt justice on the spy, that I not only was an Englishman, but _un Cockné_; that is to say, he explained, an inhabitant of London. He shook me by the hand; his friend shook me by the hand; and several ladies and gentlemen also shook me by the hand; and then we parted. Yesterday evening on the Boulevards there were groups discussing "the traitors." Some said that General Schmitz had been arrested; others that he ought to be arrested. A patriot observed to me that all foreigners in Paris ought, as a precautionary measure, to be extirpated. "Parbleu," I replied, and you may depend upon it I rolled my eyes and shrugged my shoulders in true Gallic fashion. This morning General Trochu has published a proclamation, denouncing all attacks upon his staff, and making himself responsible for its members. It is an honest, manly protest, and by far the best document which this prolific writer has issued for some time. Another complaint is made against the generals who damp the popular enthusiasm by throwing doubts upon ultimate victory. In fact, we have got to such a condition that a military man dares not venture to express his real opinion upon military matters for fear of being denounced. We are, indeed, still in a most unsurrendering mood. I was talking to-day to a banker--a friend who would do anything for me except cash my bill. In business he is a clear-headed, sensible man. I asked him what would occur if our provisions gave out before the armies of the provinces arrived to our succour. He replied that the Government would announce the fact, and call upon all able-bodied men to make a dash at the Prussian lines; that 300,000 at least would respond to that call, and would either be killed or force their way out. This will give you an idea of the present tone of the population. Nine men out of ten believe that we have enough provisions to last at least until the end of February. The only official utterance respecting the provisions is contained in a paragraph in the _Journal Officiel_ to-day, in which we are informed that there are 15,000 oxen and 40,000 sheep in Bordeaux waiting for marching orders to Paris. This is much like telling a starving man in the Strand that figs are plentiful in Palestine, and only waiting to be picked.

The bombardment has diminished in intensity. The Government has put the Prussian prisoners in the ambulances on the left bank of the Seine. It appears to me that it would have been wiser to have moved the ambulances to the right bank. By day few shells fall into the town beyond the immediate vicinity of the ramparts. At night they are more plentiful, and seem to be aimed promiscuously. I suppose about ten people are hit every twenty-four hours. Now as above fifty people die every day in Paris of bronchitis, there is far more danger from the latter than from the batteries of the disciples of Geist outside. It is not worse to die by a bomb than of a cold. Indeed I am by no means sure that of two evils the latter is not the least; yet a person being suddenly struck down in the streets of a capital by a piece of iron from a cannon will always produce a more startling effect upon the mind than a rise in the bills of mortality from natural causes. Those who are out of the reach of the Prussian guns are becoming accustomed to the bombardment. "You naughty child," I heard a woman who was walking before me say to her daughter, "if you do not behave better I will not take you to see the bombardment." "It is better than a vaudeville," said a girl near me on the Trocadero, and she clapped her hands. A man at Point-du-Jour showed me two great holes which had been made in his garden the night before by two bombs close by his front door. He, his wife, and his children seemed to be rather proud of them. I asked him why he did not move into the interior of the town, and he said that he could not afford it. In a German paper which recently found its way in, it was stated that the bombardment of Paris would commence when the psychological moment had arrived. We are intensely indignant at this term; we consider it so cold-blooded. It is like a doctor standing by a man on the rack, and feeling his pulse to see how many more turns of the screw he can bear. All the forts outside are still holding their own against the Prussian batteries. Issy has had as yet the greatest amount of attention paid to it by the besiegers. There is a battery at Meudon which seems never to tire of throwing shells into it. It is said, however, that the enemy is endeavouring to establish breaching guns at a closer range, in order to make his balls strike the ground and then bound into the fort--a mode of firing which was very successful at Strasburg.

The sensation news of to-day is that Faidherbe has driven Manteuffel across the Belgian frontier, and that Frederick Charles, who always seems to come to life after being killed, has been recalled from Orleans to Paris. The funds rose to-day one per cent. upon these rumours. Our chief confidence, however, just now is in Bourbaki; we think that he has joined Garibaldi, and that these two will force the Prussians to raise the siege by throwing themselves on their communications. I only hope they may.

Mr. Washburne has not been allowed to send out his weekly bag. I presume, however, that this embargo will not be kept up. The Government has not yet announced its intention with respect to M. Jules Favre proceeding to London to represent France in the conferences on the Eastern Question. Most of the newspapers seem to be of opinion that until the Republic has been officially recognised, it is not consistent with her dignity to take part in any European Conference. The diplomatists, who have been a little thrown in the background of late, by wars and generals, must be delighted to find their old friend, the "Eastern Question," cropping up. The settlement of the Schleswig-Holstein question was a heavy blow to them; but for many a year they will have an opportunity to prose and protocol over Turkey. An Austrian wit--indeed the only wit that Austria ever produced--used to say that Englishmen could only talk about the weather, and that if by some dispensation of Providence there ever should be no such thing as weather, the whole English nation would become dumb. What the weather is to Englishmen the Eastern Question is to diplomatists. For their sakes, let us hope that it never will be satisfactorily settled. Diplomatists, like many other apparently useless beings, must live.

_January 15th._

Yesterday we were made comparatively happy by a report that the Prussian funds had fallen 3 per cent. at Berlin. To-day we are told that Bourbaki has gained a great victory, raised the siege of Belfort, and is about to enter Germany. German newspapers up to the 7th have been seized at the advanced posts, but whatever in them tells against us we put down to a general conspiracy on the part of Europe to deceive us. It is somewhat curious to watch the transmutations of the names of English statesmen after they have passed through a German and a French translation. Thus the latest news from London is that Mr. Hackington is made Irish Secretary, and that Mr. Floresko is Minister of Commerce.

The diplomatists and consuls still at Paris have sent a collective note to Count Bismarck, complaining that the notice of the bombardment was not given, and asking him to afford them the means to place the persons and the property of their respective countrymen out of danger. The minnows sign with the whales. Mr. Washburne's name is inserted between that of the representative of Monaco and that of the Chargé d'Affaires of Honduras.

The bombardment still continues. The cannon now make one continuous noise. Each particular discharge cannot be distinguished. The shells fall on the left bank to a distance of about a mile from the ramparts. A return of the _Official Journal_ gives 138 wounded and 51 killed up to the 13th. Among the killed are 18 children and 12 women; among the wounded, 21 children and 45 women. Waggons and hand-carts packed with household goods are streaming in from the left to the right bank. In the bombarded quarters many shops are closed. Some householders have made a sort of casemate reaching to the first story of their houses; others sleep in their cellars. The streets are, however, full of people, even in the most exposed districts; and all the heights from which a view is to be had of the Prussian batteries are crowded with sightseers. Every now and then one comes across some house through which a shell has passed. The public buildings have, as yet, suffered very slightly. The dome of the Panthéon, which we presume is used as a mark for the aim of the Prussian artillerymen, has been hit once. The shell has made a round hole in the roof, and it burst inside the church. In the Jardin des Plantes all the glass of the conservatories has been shattered by the concussion of the air, and the orchids and other tropical plants are dying. Although war and its horrors are thus brought home to our very doors, it is even still difficult to realise that great events are passing around us which history will celebrate in its most solemn and dignified style. Distance in battles lends grandeur to the view. Had the charge of Balaclava taken place on Clapham Common, or had our gallant swordsmen replaced the donkeys on Hampstead Heath, even Tennyson would have been unable to poetise their exploits. When one sees stuck up in an omnibus-office that omnibuses "will have to make a circuit from _cause de bombardement_;" when shells burst in restaurants and maim the waiters; when the trenches are in tea-gardens; and when one is invited for a sou to look through a telescope at the enemy firing off their guns, there is a homely domestic air about the whole thing which is quite inconsistent with "the pomp and pride of glorious war."

On Friday night there was an abortive sortie at Clamart. Some of the newspapers say that the troops engaged in it were kept too long waiting, and that they warmed their feet by stamping, and made so much noise that the Prussians caught wind of the gathering. Be this as it may, as soon as they got into Clamart they were received with volleys of musketry, and withdrew. I am told that the marching battalions of the National Guard, now in the trenches, are doing their work better than was expected. The generals in command are satisfied with them, but whether they will be of any great use for offensive operations, is a question yet to be solved. The clubs still keep up their outcry for "La Commune," which they imagine will prove a panacea for every evil. In the club of the Rue Arras last night, a speaker went a step still further, and demanded "the establishment of anarchy as the ruling power." Trochu is still either attacked, or feebly defended, in the newspapers. The French are so accustomed to the State doing everything for them, that their ruler is made responsible for everything which goes wrong. The demand for a sortie _en masse_ is not so strong. Every one is anxious not to surrender, and no one precisely knows how a surrender is to be avoided. Successes on paper have so long done duty for successes in the field, that no one, even yet, can believe that this paper currency has been so depreciated that bankruptcy must ensue. Is it possible, each man asks, that 500,000 armed Frenchmen will have to surrender to half the number of Germans? And as they reply that it is impossible, they come to the conclusion that treason must be at work, and look round for the traitor. Trochu, who is as honest and upright as a man as he is incompetent as a general, will probably share the fate of the "Man of Sedan" and the "Man of Metz," as they are called. "He is a Laocoon," says M. Felix Pyat in his newspaper, with some confusion of metaphor, "who will strangle the Republic."

We hear now that Government is undertaking an inquiry to discover precisely how long our stock of provisions will last. Matters are managed so carelessly, that I doubt whether the Minister of Commerce himself knows to within ten days the precise date when we shall be starved out. The rations of meat now amount to 1-27th of a pound per diem for each adult. At the fashionable restaurants the supply is unlimited, and the price as unlimited. Two cutlets of donkey cost 18 francs, and everything else in the way of animal food is in proportion. The real vital question, however, is how long the bread will last. In some arrondissements the supply fails after 8 o'clock in the morning; at others, each resident receives 1 lb. upon production of a _carte de subsistance_. The distribution has been thrown into disorder by the people from the bombarded quarters flocking into the central ones, and wanting to be fed. The bread itself is poor stuff. Only one kind is allowed to be manufactured; it is dark in colour, heavy, pasty, and gritty. There is as little corn in it as there is malt in London beer when barley is dear. The misery among the poorer classes is every day on the increase. Most of the men manage to get on with their 1fr. 50c. a day. In the morning they go to exercise, and afterwards loll about until night in cafés and pothouses, making up with liquids for the absence of solids. As for doing regular work, they scoff at the idea. Master tailors and others tell me that it is almost impossible to get hands to do the few orders which are now given. They are warmly clad in uniforms by the State, and except those belonging to the marching battalions really doing duty outside, I do not pity them. With the women and children the case is different. The latter, owing to bad nourishment and exposure, are dying off like rotten sheep; the former have but just enough food to keep body and soul together, and to obtain even this they have to stand for hours before the doors of the butchers and bakers, waiting for their turn to be served. And yet they make no complaints, but patiently suffer, buoyed up, poor people, by the conviction that by so doing they will prevent the Prussians from entering the town. If one of them ventures to hint at a capitulation, she is set on by her neighbours. Self-assertion, however, carries the day. Jules and Jaques will hereafter quaff many a petit verre to their own heroism; and many a story will they inflict upon their long-suffering friends redounding to their own special glory. Their wives will be told that they ought to be proud to have such men for husbands. But Jules and Jacques are in reality but arrant humbugs. Whilst they boozed, their wives starved; whilst they were warmly clad, their wives were in rags; whilst they were drinking confusion to their enemies in some snug room, their wives were freezing at the baker's door for their ration of bread. In Paris the women--I speak of those of the poorer classes--are of more sterling stuff than the men. They suffer far more, and they repine much less. I admire the crowd of silent, patient women, huddling together for warmth every morning, as they wait until their pittance is doled out to them, far more than the martial heroes who foot it behind a drum and a trumpet to crown a statue, to visit a tomb, and to take their turn on the ramparts; or the heroes of the pen, who day after day, from some cosy office, issue a manifesto announcing that victory is certain, because they have made a pact with death.

_January 16th._

If I am to believe the Paris papers, the Fort of Issy is gradually extinguishing the guns of the Prussian batteries which bear on it. If I am to believe my eyes, the Fort of Issy is not replying at all to these said guns; and if I am to believe competent military authorities, in about eighteen days from now at the latest the Fort of Issy will cease to be a fort. The batteries at Meudon appeared to-day to be of opinion that its guns were effectually silenced; shells fell thick and fast on the bastions at Point-du-Jour; and so well aimed were they, that between the bastions a looker-on was in comparative safety. The noise, however, of the duel between the bastions and the batteries was so deafening, that it was literally impossible for two persons to hear each other speak at a few feet distance; the shells, too, which were passing to the right and left, seemed to give the whole air a tremulous motion. At the bastions the artillerymen were working their guns, but the National Guards on duty were under cover. The houses, on both sides of the Seine, within the city, for about half a mile from the viaduct are deserted; not above a dozen of them, I should imagine, are still inhabited. Outside, in the villages of Vanvres and Issy, several fires have broken out, but they have been promptly extinguished, and there has been no general conflagration. The most dangerous spot in this direction is a road which runs behind the Forts of Vanvres and Montrouge; as troops are frequently marching along it the Prussians direct their guns from Clamart and Chatillon on it. In the trenches the danger is not great, and there are but few casualties; the shells pass over them. If anyone, however, exposes himself, a ball about the size of an egg, from a _canon de rampart_, whizzes by him, as a gentle reminder to keep under cover. The area of the bombardment is slightly extending, and will, I presume, very soon reach the right bank. More people are killed in the daytime than at night, because they will stand in groups, notwithstanding every warning, and stare at any house which has been damaged.

The bill of mortality for the week ending January 13th, gives an increase on the previous week of 302; the number of deaths registered is 3982. This is at the rate of above twenty per cent. per annum, and it must be remembered that in this return those who die in the public hospitals, or of the direct effect of the war, are not included. Small-pox is about stationary, bronchitis and pneumonia largely on the increase.

Bourbaki, we are told to-day, is at Freiburg, in the Grand Duchy of Baden. The latest German papers announce that Mézières has fallen, and it seems to occur to no one that Gambetta's last pigeon despatch informed us that the siege of this place had been raised. _La Liberté_ thus sums up the situation:--"Nancy menaced; Belfort freed; Baden invaded; Hamburg about to be bombarded. This is the reply of France to the bombardment of Paris. The hour has arrived; the Prussians brought to bay, hope to find refuge in Paris. This is their last hope; their last resource."

In order to encourage us to put up with our short commons, we are now perpetually being told that the Government has in reserve vast stores of potted meats, cheese, butter, and other luxuries, of which we have almost forgotten the very taste; and that when things come to the worst we shall turn the corner, and enter into a period of universal abundance. These stores seem to me much like the mirage which lures on the traveller of the desert, and which perpetually recedes as he advances. But the great difficulty of the moment is to procure fuel. I am ready, as some one said, to eat the soles of my boots for the sake of my country; but then they must be cooked. All the mills are on the Marne, and cannot be approached. Steam mills have been put up, but they work slowly; and whatever may be the amount of corn yet in store, it is almost impossible to grind enough of it to meet the daily requirements.

A good deal of discussion is going on as to the time which it will take to revictual Paris; it is thought that it can be done in seven days, but I do not myself see how it is to be done in anything like this time. One of the principal English bankers here has, I understand, sent an agent by balloon to buy boats of small draught in England, in order to bring provisions up the Seine. As a speculation, I should imagine that the best plan would be to amass them on the Belgian or Luxemburg frontier. About two-thirds of the population will be without means to buy food, even if the food were at their doors. Trade and industry will not revive for some time; they will consequently be entirely dependent upon the State for their means of subsistence. Even if work is offered to them, many of them not be able at once to reassume their habits of daily industry; the Bohemian life which they have led for the last four months, and which they are still leading, is against it. A siege is so abnormal a condition of things, that the State has been obliged to pay them for doing practically nothing, as otherwise they would have fallen into the hands of the anarchists; but this pottering about from day to day with a gun, doing nothing except play at billiards and drink, has been very demoralising, and it will be long before its effect ceases to be felt.

The newspapers are somewhat irreverent over the diplomatic protest against the bombardment. They say that while Paris is deserted by the Great European Powers, it is a source of pleasure to think that the Principality of Monaco and the Republics of San Marino and Honduras still stand by her. They suggest that M. Jules Favre should go to Andorre to endeavour to induce that republic also to reason with the Prussians upon the bombardment. I am told that the "proud young porter," who now the sheep is dead, represents alone the Majesty of England at the British Embassy is indignant at not having been invited to add his signature to the protest. He considers--and justly I think--that he is a far more important personage than the Plenipotentiary of his Highness of Monaco; a despot who exercises sway over about 20 acres of orange trees, 60 houses, and two roulette tables. The diplomatists are not, however, alone in their protest. Everybody has protested, and is still protesting. If it is a necessity of war to throw shells into a densely populated town like this; it is--to say the least--a barbarous necessity; but it seems to me that it is but waste of time and paper to register protests against it; and if it be thought desirable to do so, it would be far more reasonable to protest against human beings--women and children--being exposed to its effects, than to indite plaintive elegies about the possibility of the Venus de Milo being damaged, or the orchids in the hot-houses being killed. I know that, for my part, I would rather that every statue and every plant in the world were smashed to atoms by shells, than that I were. This, in an æsthetical point of view, is selfish; but it is none the less true. _Chacun pour soi._ The Panthéon was struck yesterday. What desecration! everyone cries; and I am very sorry for the Panthéon, but very glad that it was the Panthéon, and not me. The world at large very likely would lose more by the destruction of the Panthéon than of any particular individual; but each particular individual prefers his own humble self to all the edifices that architects have raised on the face of the globe.

I have been endeavouring to discover, whether in the councils of our rulers, the question as to what is to be done in the possible contingency of a capitulation becoming necessary, has been raised. As far as I can hear, the contingency is not yet officially recognised as within the realms of possibility, and it has never been alluded to. General Trochu has officially announced "that the Governor of Paris will never capitulate." His colleagues have periodically said much the same thing. The most practical of them, M. Ernest Picard, has, I believe, once or twice endeavoured to lead up to the subject, but he has failed in the attempt. Newspaper articles and Government proclamations tell the population every day that they only have to persevere in order ultimately to triumph. If the end must come, it is difficult to see how it will come. I have asked many intelligent persons what they think will happen, but no one seems to have a very distinct notion respecting it. Some think the Government will issue some day a notice to say that there are only provisions for a week longer; and that at the end of this time the gates of the city will be opened, and the Prussians told that, if they insist upon entering, there will be nothing to prevent them. Others think that the Government will resign their power into the hands of the mayors, as the direct representatives of Paris. Trochu rides about a good deal outside, and says to the soldiers, "Courage, my children, the moment is coming." But to what moment he alludes no one is aware. No word is more abused in the French language than "sublime." To call a folly a sublime folly is considered a justification of any species of absurdity. We call this refusal to anticipate a contingency which certainly is possible, if not probable, sublime. We are proud of it, and sleep on in our fool's paradise as though it were to last for ever.