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 Pruss