which, measured by the easy test of "copies sold," is not second to the popularity of Scott or the popularity of Byron:

"A brilliant morning shines on the old city. Its antiquities and ruins are surpassingly beautiful, with the lusty ivy gleaming in the sun and the rich trees waving in the balmy air. Changes of glorious light from moving boughs, songs of birds, scents from gardens, woods, and fields or rather from the one great garden. of the whole cultivated island in its yielding time-penetrate into the cathedral, subdue its earthy odour, and preach the Resurrection and the Life. The cold stone tombs of centuries grow warm; and flecks of brightness dart into the sternest marble corners of the building fluttering there like wings.'

LETTER FROM COBLENTZ.

Coblentz, September, 1870.

STILL taking the pen I date from Coblentz, where I am not, but where my thoughts are. I see the town not now in the fulness of summer light, inhale not the perfume which the summer's glow has brought, hear no more the twittering of the swallows. No! Nor do I see it as it was in the beginning of last month, filled with sombre, eager, silent, but ever busy workers, making all ready to aid in the great undertaking to which their country was compelled. But I see it as it was after the bloody and terrible commencement of that undertaking, when close to it, on the fair river lay a fleet of Rhine boats, steamers and others, used only for pleasure six weeks ago, and now freighted with pain-freighted to the full, with pain-nothing but pain. The wounded brought away with difficulty from the battle-ground are there in hundreds, friends and foes mingling their moans. Theirs is the actual physical pain, hard for them to bear; hard for those to contemplate who have them in charge, and who would give them help-the pain of feeling-of humane hearts, is theirs. There are others, unwounded too, who have pain of yet a different kind—pain of heart and mind and soul hardest of all to endure. These are the prisoners of war. To hide what they feel, they, in our phrase, put the best face on it"—in the German phrase make a half face -halb gesicht.

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Conscript of France, when the German was preparing so soberly

for the war to which thou wert coming so boastfully, I said that pity was all that could be bestowed on thee, valiant as thou art! How little did I think that so soon would the time come for bestowing that pity on thee. But one short month in which thou hast done all that thou could do in such circumstances as thine, and compassion is the only meed thy valour has won. Thy conquerors are brave and honest men-they, too, will be compassionate. As yet we cannot ask for more-thou wilt not even ask for that still, thou mayst find that they can be generous too. Sternly the great fortress opposite Coblentz may seem to look down on the pain-laden vessels that come and go with so many sons of Germany maimed and tortured-sternly, as if it would destroy on the instant any one of that army of aggression bringing so much sorrow even to the homes of the victorious who drove it back. But the great fortress is unscathed; the Rhine is free from end to end; the dwellers on its shores have the hearts of men, and they will have Christian pity for the vanquished whom it has cost them so dear to overcome. As yet, too, all has not been won. More losses-perhaps even greater than any they have yet endured -await both combatants. They will both be brave-may they be gentle too!

From Coblentz to Metz, I said last month, perhaps too carelessly, in woman's fashion, thinking of my pleasant days in the one town and the man shut up in the other, who,

Tumbled headlong from the height of life
Might furnish matter for the tragic muse,

but who did not do it. At that time, of the reckless gambler who played with kingdoms for his stakes, we heard nothing-no one knew where he was. From Paris we heard only that his wife went every morning early, before the crowds of grief-stricken. mothers and widows, to pray in the Church of the Virgin of Victories. But it is eighty years since "Notre Dame!" has been a fit rallying cry for the French, and Notre Dame des Victoirés can do as little for them now as an infallible Pope can do for himself.

The names of the two fortress-towns do not to-day bring thoughts connected with any one man. Coblentz seems only to represent to me a people sadly in earnest, girding themselves up to do that which they have not sought, but which has been thrust on them. Metz, on the other hand, represents a rashly confident people-confident solely in "the bubble reputation gained at the cannon's mouth"-and by whom? Not by themselves, but by their fathers. They went forth knowing for what cause they fought; it was one that made despots tremble, and the armies of despots were easily overcome. Is it then for the upholding of one

of the worst of despots that the sons of these fathers are fighting? As yet we cannot answer that question. War continues its bloody course until events will compel them to answer: "We are fighting for our existence as a nation."

Of Metz we hear little now except that it is hemmed in on all sides by the victorious Germans. There seems to be a pause in their movements. If there be, it is such a pause as the lion makes when his victim is within his reach, that he may measure his leap and fall on him more securely.

So far had I written on the 1st of September, and on the next day news came which on the instant inspired a feeling of satisfaction-awoke a hope that the war might soon terminate. The German king had early in the strife declared that against the Emperor Napoleon, not against the French people, he waged war. On the 1st of September the emperor was his prisoner. So well had the leap been measured by the conquering host, that he was pounced upon in Sedan. He surrendered himself a prisoner to the king, with tears in his eyes, for, as he said, not being able to die at the head of his army, he could do nothing else. He the victim of the war! He, dastardly and treacherous to the last! No, not he! France is the victim. His victim even in this last act, so cowardly and so ruining. Not a word for her who had given herself up to the deception of the name by which he ruled. He was the government; he knew there was none other with which the conquerors could treat for the regency was a mockery-yet not a word for the country. It would almost seem as if a fiendish instinct had taught him, in hatred of humanity, to crown his ill deeds by one, the worst for the French-and, added to that, bad for the Prussians.

Can victors who have advanced so far into the land at such a terrible cost, retire with nothing to indemnify them but their miserable prisoners? Can the vanquished, who have at least shown no want of courage in the fight, lay down their arms like him? The future offers only the prospect of work to be done by the two nations as bloody as any that has yet been done. It makes the heart sick-and I throw down the pen.

The tidings of the few days since I last made my passing note of this war, the commencing scene of which I saw in Coblentzthe tidings are not now of battles. They are of what Paris is doing. The republic is proclaimed. A republic not girt with the river, but with the military sword. But have not all republics so sprung into life? Yes-or at least they have done so in France. This time, however, there is something different in the

fourth birth of freedom in Paris from all the others which preceded it. Foreign foes, not tyrants at home, have forced it into existence. Will it have a better fate than its predecessors? That seems scarcely possible. Unhappy France! Yes, but unhappy Prussia too, who finds herself suddenly engaged in a work so much greater than she anticipated-which draws her farther and farther on, and demands still greater sacrifices from her children than those already made. The Germans cannot retreat, the French cannot yield. Let them, then, to the struggle with what heart they have!-and the heart is great on both sides. They look as if meaning a death grapple, but neither nation will die in it-of that only are we assured, so let us, satisfied with our island security, turn to our newspapers with what appetite we may, though in our consciences we cannot be satisfied that we have yet done all which that security and our means demand of us for the wounded and the suffering in consequence of this war.

But

The correspondents of our great journals, not having now a battle to record every day, have time to go back on those that they have recorded, and to enter more minutely into their sanguinary details. Those who can read them, may do so. here, surely among them, are to be found very agreeable little incidents for any one's reading? They relate to the grand prisoner's departure from France into Germany. What sort of vehicle he was in. What carriages his suite was in-they were ten in number, I think. How many fine horses he had, how many fine lackeys. How he was dressed-how he smoked his cigarettewhat sort of hat he had on-how he took it off to the respectful crowd-how calm he was-how that last fine trait arises from his being a fatalist! There are men found to record all this, in the midst of the horrors caused by this man, not in brief as it is here, but at full length. Then, too, they have the satisfaction of adding that the Queen of Prussia has sent to the château to which he has gone her head cook and a sufficient quantity of the best wine from the king's cellar. Well! crowned heads fraternised with this man when he was on a throne, and they may think it right to make this parade of royal politeness, but it seems to me that when the German peasant hears of it there may be at such a time some bitterness in his heart when he recals the hardships of poverty in his little home, now made doubly hard by the sorrow which the war has brought to his hearth. He may, too, when he reads of the calming effect of fatalism on the author of the war, exclaim, in the honest simplicity of his indignation: "Yes! there is a fate for man-the fate of bearing the villain's soul in life, and the villain's reputation after death, for him who refuses to believe in evil in himself, refuses to obey the command, Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good!'"

Alas! poor peasant! Thou mightst not be disposed to take the hand of him whom thou plainly regardest as merely a scoundrel. But dost thou not know that when villanies become enormous and are committed by men in purple, there is a grandeur about them, which, if it do not ennoble them, imperialises them, and he who has once made himself master of a throne belongs to the family of kings, and kings must be respectful to him in his fall. Return thanks to Heaven, even from the depths of thy poverty and thy grief, that thou art not of that family, and that thou hast a mind free to judge of any man, not by what he has been to thee, or by what he has done to thee, but by the quality of his deeds to all men.

Is Paris to be besieged? This is the question first discussed after the capitulation of Sedan. The onward converging march of the German armies, all towards that capital, seemed silently, but ominously, to answer the question. But there was another reply, not of the silent kind. Vehemently, passionately, does the cry come from Paris: Let us be besieged! We will stand the siege. From towers and walls to streets-from streets to houses -from houses to rooms we will defend ourselves. If we perish, let it be on our hearths amid the ruins of the city. Such loud brave words come to us from the other side of the Channel, whilst we on our side say piteously: Oh, surely, Paris will not be besieged-that gay city where we have spent so many of the pleasantest days of our lives, how sad to besiege it!—to destroy so many of its fine buildings, its noble works of art! Can it be? Will it be? No! Let us wait-let us hope.

We have passed the middle of the month, and after reading the day's news hope scemed to die within me, and I felt a strange quivering of the heart. All that imagination pictured as possible before the end of the month was too terrible. It does, then, seem certain that Germany, after all that she has done to humble France, still lives in such terror of her neighbour, that she can in the hour of victory be neither generous nor magnanimous.

No; I will not think thus of the German soldier whom I saw go forth to the war in so quiet, so unboastful a spirit, and of whom I said, all honour be to him! He went to uphold the right of his native country, to be independent, to be unmolested, and valiantly has he upheld it. At that time, too, when glad to give him his full meed of praise, I claimed pity for the French soldier. If he duped, betrayed, trained up in ignorant self-applause by rulers and by priests to be their ready tool-if he merited compassion at the beginning of the war, how much more does he