rks. I awoke to the rattle of musketry in the
distance--soon, too soon, to be followed by the roar of the cannon.

I am not a fighting man. "'Tis not my vocation, Hal." I am not ashamed to
say that I did _not_ gird my sword on my thigh, and sally out to conquer
or to die; that I did not ensconce myself at a second floor window, and
pick off _a la Charles IX._, the leaders of the enemy below.--Had I been
"our own correspondent," I might have written, in the intervals of
fighting, terrific accounts of the combat on cartridge paper, with a pen
made from a bayonet, dipped in gunpowder and gore. Had I been "our own
artist," I might have mounted a monster barricade--waving the flag of
Freedom with one hand, and taking sketches with the other. But being
neither, I did not do any thing of the kind. I will tell you what I did: I
withdrew, with seven Englishmen as valorous as myself, to an apartment,
which I have reason to believe is below the basement floor; and there, in
company with sundry _carafons_ of particular cognac, and a large box of
cigars, passed the remainder of the day.

I sincerely hope that I shall never pass such another. We rallied each
other, talked, laughed, and essayed to sing; but the awful consciousness
of the horror of our situation hung over us all--the knowledge that within
a few hundred yards of us God's image was being wantonly defaced; that in
the streets hard by, in the heart of the most civilized city of the world,
within a stone's throw of all that is gay, luxurious, splendid, in Paris,
men--speaking the same language, worshiping the same God--were shooting each
other like wild beasts; that every time we heard the sharp crackling of
the musketry, a message of death was gone forth to hundreds; that every
time the infernal artillery--"nearer, clearer, deadlier than before"--broke,
roaring on the ear, the ground was cumbered with corpses. Glorious war! I
should like the amateurs of sham fights, showy reviews, and scientific
ball practice, to have sat with us in the cellar that same Thursday, and
listened to the rattle and the roar. I should like them to have been
present, when venturing up during a lull, about half-past four, and
glancing nervously from our _porte-cochere_, a regiment of dragoons came
thundering past, pointing their pistols at the windows, and shouting at
those within, with oaths to retire from them. I should like the young
ladies who waltz with the "dear Lancers," to have seen _these_