is assuredly better than being shot at in the city. But the Bois is a perfect desert; no one throughout the whole length and breadth of it except two grooms exercising horses. Not a waiter or a boy to hold horses at Madrid, so little hope have they of any company to-day.

My brother-in-law rejoins me at dinner. From a friend's fourth story on the Boulevards he has seen some sharp fighting, plenty of insurgents shot, and a few officers unhorsed. Later in the day he came near experiencing more of the revolution than he wanted. A despatch rider had gone over a child near the Rue de la Paix, killing it on the spot. The people around naturally expressed much indignation, which was proceeding to manifest itself in something stronger than words, when a charge of lancers swept the streets, trampling down everything in the way without mercy, and the biggest man of the troop made a point of riding over Henry. But an American is not used to this sort of thing in his own country, and not at all disposed to take it quietly. Hal collared the lancer at once, that is to say he caught the horse by the curb, and very nearly jerked the lancer over, horse and all. At that time these soldiers did not carry their pistols ready cocked as they did afterwards, and the distance was too close to use the lance; so while the man was trying to shorten his weapon with one hand. and fumbling at his holster with the other, Henry dodged under the nose of another horse, and made his escape down a passage where several other noncombatants had already taken refuge. No sooner was he there than he discovered it to be a cul de sac. and the pleasant reflection flashed upon him that the soldiers might spit them all at their ease. Luckily they were contented with clearing the street, and did not attempt to pursue the fugitives into corners.

Fortified by a good dinner, I sally out again in the evening. There is some difficulty in getting to the Boulevards from the number of sentinels in this quarter, but when once there you may walk up and down them all night without meeting anything remarkable. I did for two good hours. There were many little knots of people, but as they gave no symptoms of violence, no notice was taken of them by the troops. One young man in a blouse is defending the soldiery to a tolerably attentive

audience. He has been a soldier himself, and knows that soldiers must obey orders. It is their pleasure as well as their duty. "If you had a patron that supported you, would you be so base as not to do what he told you?" His logic may not be first-rate, but his earnestness is indisputable. Patries are selling at various prices, from half a franc to a franc, and the purchasers anxiously reading them by twilight. Nobody seems to believe any of the reports from the provinces; the official announcement, and the Socialist reports, meet with about equally general discredit. Lancers with cocked pistols guard the Rue St. Fiacre, and all the Boulevards above are occupied by the troops, but there is no sign of fighting or firing.

Friday, Dec. 5th. A misty and threatening day, quite enough to dissipate any possible chance of the insurgents rallying. I read the account of yesterday's fight in Galignani, and then ride up to the Boulevards. They are nearly full of cavalry, but carriages are permitted to pass, and are passing. A broken fourgon lies near the Maison Dorée shivered windows and shotmarks on the houses. We must come back on foot and examine it more closely. We do so after breakfast. There is a great crowd; the sentinel lancers, with their cocked pistols, two at each corner, will not allow any person to stop a moment, so you have to look as you walk. It is singular that the three Cafés (Paris, Tortoni and Maison Dorée) about which and in which there was so much fighting, show scarcely a mark of it. The first house

that looks at all the worse for the row, is the Petite Jeannette, where I used to buy gay cravats; after that, the large building just beyond the Variétés. This house, partly occupied by the Fraternal Insurance against Fire and Explosions, whose chrysographed title extends all across the front of it, has been pretty well exploded, as far as its windows are concerned, and the fire of the artillery has knocked a pretty big hole in the second story. People are staring at this hole as well as the soldiers will let them, while from one of the seventhstory windows a gentleman in a seedy dressing-gown looks down upon the crowd with an air that says, “I had a finger in yesterday's pie." The worst marks of the conflict are on the Poissonnière, just before the Rue

St. Fiacre. Billecoq's shawl warehouse has a large hole in its front, and the house next below (separated from it by a passage) nearly as large a one in its side. I had almost forgotten a bit of unintentional allegory at that great ready-made clothing shop, Le Frophète, on the upper end of the Montmartre. The ornamented blinds representing the different personages of Meyerbeer's opera, had been all rolled up out of the way. Only a little bit of one of them hung down, enough to let you read the legend "Couronnement du Prophète."

The military still prevent you from going past the Rue St. Fiacre, so I go down it, and then along the villanous looking and most inappropriately named Beauregard, quite at my leisure, and with plenty of company. The soldiers stop us again before we reach the Boulevards, but let us come near enough to observe the debris of the St. Denis barricade, the scattered paving stones, the bare places in the pavement. In returning I note one house in the Rue Petit Carreau, just out of the Beauregard, which has evidently been the scene of a sharp conflict. The front, newly painted of a deep red, throws out the white shot-marks with startling distinctness.

I stay quietly at home to-night filling my journal. Another French friend drops in, and tells me, among various items of gossip, that at least twelve hundred people have lost their lives in the thirty-six hours preceding to-day, many of them innocent citizens, but que diable allèrent-ils faire dans cette galère? That would have been my epitaph if the sentinel or the Socialist had shot me yesterday.

At nine o'clock James comes Saturday, Dec. 5th. to see me with a long face, to say that his French helper is missing, and has probably been arrested, but where or for what, or how he is to be got at, or what is to become of him, nobody knows. After several fruitless speculations we try the laisser aller, which answers in this instance; the boy makes his appearance at eleven. He slept last night in a house suspected of Socialism. The police made a descent about five in the morning, and took up all who were not regular lodgers, and some who were. Having been taken up without any particular reason, he was now discharged without any particular examination or caution. Pay some visits. All my

countrymen appear to have been shot at, but none of them confess to have been in the least degree frightened. The restriction on the circulation of vehicles is officially removed this morning: it was unofficially removed yesterday. Ride out at 3. The Bois de Boulogne is recovering its wonted crowd and gaiety. Remember that I forgot to pay for my liquor the other day in Madrid, and turn in there to discharge that ceremony. No end of compatriots on the ground; Dicky Bleecker and Harry Masters, and the Colonel and Edwards, and two or three more of "the boys." Masters has "been around a few" the last three days, and is "gassing" not a few about women run over, and houses invaded, and two hundred men massacred by the troops, and so on, when suddenly a little dark man whom nobody noticed, rises up before him from a corner. "Sare, I understand English; I am a French officer; you say what is not true."

Mouvemens divers in the assembly. "And do you think," says Harry, turning short upon the interrupter, and swelling up to and over him like a high-actioned trotter, till he seems about to fall on him, and crush him to the earth, "do you think I will let any Frenchman or any other man, tell me in public that Ï say what is not true? Donnez-moi votre adresse, Monsieur; voici la mienne;" and he nearly gives the officer point in the face with his card.

The Frenchman is very cool, for a Frenchman; he begs Masters to talk English that the people of the house may not understand him, and takes him aside in the yard, not out of sight, however, or altogether out of hearing, for by and by there is something said about police, and then Harry gives the other an immense shove, "Allez-vous en, canaille! Je croyais causer avec un officier et en gentilhomme, et vous me parlez de la police? Then returning to our party, he begins to swear in all the languages he knows, and to pour out much Lingua Franca on the enormity of his opponent's reference, addressing himself in his excitement chiefly to the waiter. The waiter seems disposed to stand by his best customers, for the Americans are great patrons of the Madrid brandy. My Kilkenny groom, and Harry's groom," (another "American citizen,") hang about, watching and hoping for a signal to pitch into some one. For a few minutes everybody

talks at once; then there is a lull; the French officer and our officer, the Colonel, who speaks the best French of the party, having been talking apart; they come forward again, and the Frenchman makes his excuses. It is all owing to his imperfect knowledge of English, and Harry's imperfect knowledge of French. He only meant at first to tell our countryman he was mistaken: he was wrong to have told him even that in public. The reference to the police was merely for the official returns of killed and wounded to fortify his statement. So we are all satisfied, and Masters asked him to take a drink, which he declines, and slides off very rapidly. Well he may, being rather in the minority here, for there are eight Americans on the ground, and only one other Frenchman, who has remained in a corner, looking very shaky through the whole affair.

Among other disastrous effects of the revolution, Laborde's is shut up (the great dancing-school of all Paris now; Edwards says it "knocks" Cellarius). To console "the boys" under this calamity, I ask them to an extempore supper. Young Empson the artist drops in. He has his story to tell.

"You know my atelier is close to the Rue Faubourg Montmartre, and I usually come to the Boulevards that way. Having been hard at work all Thursday morning, I did not get out till two, and was then surprised to find the usually crowded street utterly deserted and silent as the grave. Very soon a party of soldiers warned me back with guns presented. But I could n't stop on any account (I was going to see a real live patron who had given me an order for fifteen hundred francs' worth of picture), so I opened my Talma to show there were no arms under it, and approached them boldly. They allowed me to pass on, hearing my story; but after I had passed, whether they thought I did not move fast enough or whether it was only a bit of deviltry on their part, three of them levelled their pieces at me. Then I showed them a specimen of tall walking."

This mild narrative of the painter's sets every one's tongue agoing. Those who have not been shot at or half run over themselves know some one who has.

"Did anybody see Ludlow lately?" asked the Colonel. "He got into a nice fix, he did. Gerald had been