pursuits. From the time it began to fare ill | with the French arms, and to promise the fulfilment of those fears of Léon's which he had so indignantly repudiated, he had commenced studying military science, and had been regularly and privately drilled with some other young men of his acquaintance. His natural quickness and powers of mind enabled him to master all technical difficulties, and on his presenting himself as candidate for election in one of the Mobile regiments, he found no difficulty in passing the necessary examination—which was, indeed, but a mere farce at that time of pressure--and in obtaining a lieutenant's commission. Officers who had any claim to be such were scarce, and Victor only wanted what most were short of experience. Uncle Lucien, too, had taken the position-until then a merely nominal one-he had long held in the National Guards. Augustine, of course, was not thought of by any of us as eligible for military service; and though the time had come when he was to have taken orders, he did not seem inclined to think of it just then. Indeed, it was almost impossible; the minds of men of all classes were wholly occupied with the one engrossing topic. - ing army in the rear, routed and dispersed it. The tidings of the capitulation of Laon, and the subsequent blowing up of the garrison by the French, was received with mingled feelings: some thought it a heroic, others a dangerous and dastardly, deed. Uncle Lucien was startled and perplexed; but his high sense of honour-of French honour before all other-made his mind recoil from the merest suspicion of treachery, and perhaps that made him more ready to coincide with the general belief that the disastrous explosion was wholly the result of accident. Dear Uncle Lucien! how sanguine and buoyant he was in those days. With his uniform of commandant of a battalion of the National Guard, he seemed to have donned new youth. By virtue of age, he might have retired from active service; but his heart was in France and her prestige, and he resisted even my mother's tearful entreaties not to expose himself to the dangers and privations for which the weight of more than sixty years unfitted him. He was so strong in heart and hope-so loyal and true in spirit. Perhaps some who read these pages may smile at the simplicity and readiness of his faith in delusive proclamations and vain boasts, which, in the strong light cast upon them by after experience, seem so empty and absurd. But I think dear Uncle Lucien may stand for a typical Frenchman of the good old type-brave, generous, sanguine, high-hearted, with unlimited faith in the superiority of France over all nations, and in Paris as the centre and source of the world's refinement and civilization; therefore credulous as a child in all that concerned their glory, almost utterly incapable of believing anything that tended to their dishonour. That France— misguided, betrayed, and duped-had been led into a struggle for which she was unprepared, he admitted; but that she was about to retrieve gloriously the past disastrous weeks, he fully believed. He believed in the heroic devotion of the gallant defenders of Strasburg and of Metz But though preparations were being made in every possible way for the defence of the city under investment and assault, even to the ruthless destruction of the beautiful Bois de Boulogne and the demolition of bridges and houses, it appeared as though it were impossible for the minds of the people to take in the reality of our position. Paris,—beautiful, imperial Paris!—the star of the world, and queen of civilization,-about to be besieged bombarded disfigured! The possibility was too monstrous. Public opinion would rise against it, and compel the Prussians to retire before the indignant protest of all Europe, even ere the armies forming in the provinces could come to the rescue. So, buoyed with illusive hopes, strong in fancied strength and imaginary resources, we waited for the foe. And onwards-slowly, steadily, surely-they-in the vast armies that the rising spirit of the came. We heard much of the exploits of the bands of francs-tireurs in harassing and impeding their march, and from time to time vague rumours of "glorious Bazaine" having broken out of Metz, attacked the invad nation was collecting in the provinces-in the strong forts and ramparts of Paris-in the National Guards that were to man them-in the brave Breton Mobile regiments-in the reorganized troops of the line-in the heroism and -- resolution of the Parisians—in the sympathy and intervention of foreign nations in General -in General Trochu, his personal friend-in the weakness and disaffection of the united German forces-in everything, in short, but in the ruin, and disgrace, and dismemberment of France. And there is, to me, at least, something noble and touching in this simple, child-like faith, unreasoning and ignorant though it may be. The German loves the "Fatherland" with an unflinching devotion; the Englishman, the peaceful shores of his sea-girt home; the Italian, the blue skies and myrtle groves of his sunny southern land;---but the feeling of a true Frenchman for France is, I think, different from them all. To him "la Patrie" is not "country" merely, but a goddess-a divinity-an embodiment of all that is high and noble and glorious, sitting throned in regal superiority over all the nations of the earth! And it takes many and hard lessons to dethrone a nation's ideal from the pinnacle it has occupied for ages. That of France has not fallen even yet. Veiled in trappings of woe, stained with blood and tears, shrouded in storm and gloom, it is standing still; and when the sun breaks forth from the mantling clouds of misfortune and suffering that envelop it now, it will shine out as before, only brighter, and with new lustre, gained by patient endurance, indomitable energy, and gallant breasting of the overwhelming tide of disaster and distress. I, a Frenchwoman, write and speak thus, not because I look forward to vengeance-to the dark day of reckoning to come, of which so many of my countrymen talk even now. Oh! far-far from it. With heart bleeding and bereaved with home rifled and desolated-how could I think of that? No; but my hope is strong that dear, stricken France may come forth from this terrible furnace purified, refined, strengthened, with less of dross mingling with the true metal. Those amongst us who can judge best think she will. They think the galling of this terrible chain of humiliation and agony was necessary to bring her to a sense of the degeneracy and torpor that had been in sensibly stealing over her for years; and when she throws it off, as she will do-not at the sword's point, but in the strength of chastened wisdom gained in this bitter school-she will rise to a pitch of prosperity and honour to which she has never hitherto attained. And now I have come to the last days that passed ere the curtain was raised, and the eyes of Europe fascinated on the wonderful drama that was being enacted. Yes, being enacted, in this nineteenth century! A great city, full of weak women and helpless children, girt in by an army of men who had left their distant homes desolate that ours might be made desolate too. Bands of men who last year might have grasped hands like brothers, seeking each other's death— not savagely, not cruelly-only as means to an end. And that end-what? The German would have answered, "Für Vaterland; Frenchman, "Pour la Patrie." So the Fatherland was filled with widows and orphans; La Patrie with desolation and with graves. That was the end. It appears to me that I shall better fulfil my purpose of handing down a faithful picture of our lives during the dreary months, from henceforth to be memorable in history as those of the "Siege of Paris," if I cease to write of the past in the light of the present, cease to interpret the echoes of memory with the key of experience-to look back through the clear morning air on the path trodden in the mist and obscurity of night-a night without stars, lurid only with meteors. For to what besides can the bright flashes of vain delusive hopes that alone cheered our gloom be compared? Therefore, from the first bright autumn day, a Sunday, on which we understood that we were indeed shut up--prisoners "within iron walls," walls that to so many were to be a tomb of life, of love, of hope,-I will cease to blend the thoughts and lights of the present with the records and memories of the past, as I have hitherto done. My diary shall speak for itself. At many a vain hope, at many a blind folly, at many an error, many a delusion, my lips will smile mournfully, and my heart wail its "Ichabod; " but it will be real-it will be true. We always judge differently of the past and of the present, of the then and the now. More wisely, more truly, often more kindly,—still differently. And it is what we felt, and thought, and suffered, and hoped in those days, I wish to record; and not we, only and simply, but we as one househoid out of the many, one family out of the thousands, of Paris. That there are some over whose thoughtless heads and unchastened hearts those days passed lightly, I know well; that there are some again before whose bitter sufferings and utter desolation our own grows pale, I doubt not. But I think that is well. There are two sides to all life's pictures. Besides, probably, none but those to whom the names of these pages are household words will read my simple story; it is for such only I write it. To other and less interested readers there would be little to attract in its homely details; but we reverently gather a common flower that blossoms on hallowed grave or soil-we treasure a handful of earth or fragment of rough stone brought from old historic spot or shrine-and that is why I know, when these pages grow yellow with age, they will be guarded by careful hands. Often, to avoid repetition, I shall curtail the records of one day, and sometimes draw upon the stores of memory to fill up the gaps of others, and supply missing links. There are many days against which no entry is made, because hand and head and heart alike failed me. But those were days whose events were not written on sand, but with letters of fire on heart and brain, whose traces are seared in with an ineffaceable stamp-a brand-mark of pain through time, but perchance a halo of glory for eternity. "For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us." "For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." prayers, and offerings-not the torturing ordeal of purgatorial flames,—but the purgatorial flames,-but the "one offering" of the " one Sacrifice," "once and "for ever" and "for all," is all my hope, all my trust now. But had the old life gone on, had France been free and prosperous still, had the sunlight of my home shone on with undimmed brightness, had no graves been filled in my heart's inmost sanctuary,-might not I, and not I only, but those dearer to me than myself, been content with the old husks still, and been even now "without hope and without God in the world," having for our faith "a lie," and for our hope "strong delusion"? Was it not the helplessness of pain, the intolerable anguish of suspense, the utter desolation of bereavement, the bitter blighting of earthly happiness and affection, that caused us to raise our streaming eyes heavenwards, and opened our ears to the voice of Him who is love, whom we had hitherto known only as Creator and Judge? When the sea is calm, and the sky bright, and the wind favourable, the mariner heeds not that there is no pilot on board; when the path is smooth, and the sunshine bright, and the flowers sweet and fair, the child casts aside his father's proferred hand; when the pulses beat true, and the step is light, and the whole frame vigorous and strong, the physician's bitter draught is spurned. But when the waves of life's sea toss and roar, and the fragile human bark drives helpless through midnight storm and gloom-when the road is rough and stony-when clouds gather, and thorns and briers take the place of flowers-when heart and body and spirit faint and fail with sore sickness,-then is the time for the great Pilot, who is "the way, the truth, and the life," to grasp the helm and whisper, "It is I; be not afraid "for the Father in heaven to take the outstretched feeble hand, saying, "I the Lord thy God will not; I will help thee "-for the good Physician, who came not to "the whole," who "have no need," but "to them that are sick" and have "need of healing "-to draw near with the cup of living water, the draught springing up into "eternal life." So we have found it. Not that now, as in the times of my old dark-hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear ness and blindness, I dare to hope that the sufferings of these poor hearts and bodies in time can, even in the smallest measure, atone for our sin, and fit soul and spirit for eternity. No. "It is the blood that maketh atonement for the soul," and that alone. It is the blood that was freely shed on Calvary that "cleanseth from all sin," and that alone. Not works of merit, and CHAPTER XI. IRON WALLS. "Dark lowers our fate, And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us." JOANNA BAILLIE. September 18.-I awoke this morning with a strange sense of something having happened, or being about to happen-the impression left by Victor's laughing words, called to Nina and me along the corridor last night as we went to our rooms: "Get transformed into heroines during the night, young ladies; you will wake to-morrow in a besieged city, remember." I suppose we spoke and looked very little like it during the conversation he and Uncle Lucien had been holding. The knowledge that we are at last completely shut in from the outer world, that this vast, beautiful city is really only a great prison-house, that the last line of railway has been cut, and that the meshes of war are firmly twined all round us, is chiefly painful to us in the thought that all hopes of tidings of Léon-if any, indeed, are ever to reach us-must be given up until all is over. I know I do not feel at all heroic. I am afraid it was wrong of us allowing ourselves to be persuaded to let mamma remain in Paris. She looks so terribly worn and ill. She, at least, has no hope of seeing Léon again. She does not say so; but I can see it. If the city should be attacked by assault, as so many seem to think it will be, the excitement and terror would almost kill her. And if the siege lasts long, I cannot understand how we are to escape many privations. But there, as Victor says, I am always looking on the dark side, and forgetting that there is no reason to be afraid. Paris is not going to be taken; the forts will have to be captured first, and that will be a hard task, though Victor admits that they are imperfectly armed as yet, few guns mounted, and no casements or bomb-proofs completed. But they will soon be in perfect order, he says. He was impatient when I asked how, as Colonel Labaudière was lamenting, only the other day, the great deficiency in guns and ammunition. And now the lines are all cut, how are we to procure any from without? I wish I could help perplex ing myself about these things. But when one hears so many conflicting opinions, it is hard to know what is the truth. Uncle Lucien says that the state of the forts is wilfully misrepresented in the violent crusade that is going on against the administrators of the Imperial Government-things being exaggerated to make their inefficiency appear more glaring; and that the hard lessons of experience France has lately learned will not be in vain, but almost worth their cost. He has great faith in General Trochu, who is a personal friend and co-patriot, coming like ourselves from Brittany. He is a man of infinite resource, and has repeatedly de│clared he feels himself equal to the occasion. After mass this morning we drove along the quays, across the river, and through the Champs Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe. It was difficult to realize that a hostile army was within a few miles of us. The golden sunshine lay bright on the scarcely changing trees and brilliant autumn flowers; the beautiful Arc de Triomphe stood out clearly defined in the still, pure air; and beyond it, fair and peaceful against the deep blue sky, rose the wooded heights in which the foe is encamped. No token of their presence reached us. At times, indeed, we heard sounds like distant firing; but the strong north-west wind must have borne them away from us. The broad promenade of the Champs Elysées was gay as ever with bright dresses and laughing children; the seats were filled with careless loungers enjoying the holiday sunshine; games and amusements were going on as usual. The only perceptible difference was the absence of carriages and fashionable people, and the prevalence of strange, uncouth figures in half-andhalf uniforms. Was the siege a dream, the presence of the Prussian host a nightmare fancy? It almost seemed so. On our way home we met Victor on horseback; but he rode rapidly past us, doffing his cap with a flashing smile and low bow. When I turned from watching him, with light words upon my lips, mamma's face recalled me to a sense of the true meaning of the uniform he wore, which suited his bright face and slight figure so well. Danger-wounds-it might be death! read them all in mamma's pale face and weary eyes. In the Place de la Concorde a regiment was "manifesting" before the statue of Strasburg; they had bouquets on the ends of their muskets, and as they passed the statue representing the city whose heroic endurance touches all hearts, they presented arms and shouted, "Vive la France." The head, arms, and pedestal of the figure were covered with bouquets and immortelles. Before we reached home, however, we were alarmed by 2 great stir and commotion evident in the dense crowds that thronged the streets. Reports that a terrible disaster had occurred ran from lip to lip. Our troops had been driven in, and the Prussians were already at the gates! Uncle Lucien ordered the coachman to drive us rapidly home, while he hastened to one of the ministries to gain information. The hours of waiting were long and terrible. A note came at last saying, "The misfortune that has befallen us has been greatly exaggerated. Vinoy has been driven out of Châtillon and Clamart; the retreat has been effected in good order; but a panic has seized the people, who persist in believing that all is lost, and that the Prussians are at the gates." Our fears are in measure allayed; but even since Uncle Lucien and Victor (who was witness of the latter part of the action) have returned, we cannot help feeling troubled and terribly anxious. Few will sleep in Paris to-night, for it is really doubtful whether the enemy may not push on their advantage and attack us. Uncle Lucien thinks the forts will keep them off, though he says the confusion and demoralization of the troops, who came in helter-skelter through the Montrouge Gate, must have been seen to be understood. He and Victor are passionately indignant with the cowardice of the Zouave regiments of the line, which caused the disaster by at once taking to flight. But they were all young troops, Victor says, or the very scum of the old army. Uncle Lucien and he are both gone again. Our post must be to watch and pray. September 19.-With the night has passed our terror; the Prussians did not come, and all is as before. This morning Nina and I went to Notre Dame; it was full of Mobiles. Altars and shrines were thronged. It was a touching sight-the great, honest, clumsy fellows in their strange at tempt at uniform, assembling, of their own free will, to hear the early mass. When we told Victor, he said they were making a pilgrimage through all the churches of Paris. They are devout, simple fellows, and will in a few weeks make splendid soldiers; at present they are simply raw peasants. But the countrymen of the noble Du Gnesclin, our own brave ancestor, the men who met the Republican forces, in the time of the First Napoleon, with scythes and pitchforks, and then turned their own weapons upon them, will yet prove their right to their inheritance of fame. Of this Victor is certain. He is proud of his special regiment-men from our own part of Brittany, to many of whom the name of De Laborde is as a password to victory. When I listen to his eager words of confident hope, my spirit rises too. But I cannot shake off a dull weight of depression, a vague presentiment of coming disaster. O Léon, Léon! if I knew thy fate, I could bear the rest! It is the suspense that is so terrible. And how can I best serve him in prayer? I do not know whether to repeat the prayers for the living or for the dead, or if we should not rather be paying for masses for his soul. He may be in purgatory now; he must be in sorrow and suffering, whereever he is. Prisoner or wounded, or in purgatory. Ora pro nobis, Mater. Ora, ora. To-day we distinctly heard the cannon for the first time. Mamma, Nina, and I, were alone when we first caught the sound. Mamma turned pale. Nina hid her face on my shoulder. Even Arnaud grew suddenly still and silent. It brought such a vivid realization of our position to our hearts. Some think the Prussians will attack at once; but Augustine came in and told us it was only the cannon of our own forts we heard, though there was fighting going on round the southern side of the city. We do not know the result. September 20.-Yesterday's fight was unsuccessful. The Prussians have seized the heights of Châtillon and Meudon. Uncle Lucien says it is a serious misfortune for us, and cannot comprehend why the redoubts there were not finished and occupied long ago. The news has depressed. us all except Victor. He insists that Vinoy will retake the position, that the Prussians will not |