And then that insurrection against the mud-carts--what an insight does it give into the wide-spreading and tangled interests of a modern capital! It was impossible to touch the mud of Paris without periling the subsistence of eighteen hundred persons. What more fit, what more innocuous to all parties, it would seem, than to clear away the mud from the streets--to clear it away as soon as possible, that it should not lie there, exhaling pestilence during the heat of the day? But stop--there are in Paris some eighteen hundred persons who gain their bread out of this mud, groping in it, and extracting from it every article of the least commercial value. With a basket slung upon their back, and a crook in their hand to facilitate their search, these _chiffoniers_ are to be seen in every quarter of the city, congregating wherever there is dirt. And now, if all that is thrown out of the houses of Paris is taken away before these industrious persons have had time to search it, what is to become of the whole profession of _chiffonerie_? These new mud-carts, with their ruthless sweepers, traversing the city at dawn of day, must be broken up and thrown into the Seine; and it was done so accordingly. There is a peculiar charm, we think, in having related to us, for the first time, in the shape of history, what we remember to have read and talked over as the news and gossip of the day. We seem to be present at the making of history. We see facts, as the death of princes, which made so much stir and confusion, sink into the commonplace of the historical record; while anecdotes, which were repeated and forgotten, may stand forward as instructive proofs of the temper of the times, and the spirit of the past age. More than one such anecdote we think we could select from the pages before us; but it is possible we might draw them from a purer source than the work of M. Louis Blanc, to which our readers will perhaps think that we have already given more than sufficient space. FOOTNOTES: {A} _Histoire de Dix Ans_, 1830-1840. Par M. LOUIS BLANC. {B} As well it might, if he had been clambering over barricades in those hot days of July; for the three glorious days were remarkable for their heat. A NIGHT ON THE BANKS OF THE TENNESSEE. "Can you tell us how far we are from Brown's ferry?" said I to a man, who came suddenly and silently upon us from a narrow side-path. We were on the banks of the Tennessee: the evening was drawing in; the fog, that hung over land and river, was each moment thickening. The landscape had a wild chaotic appearance, and it was scarcely possible to distinguish objects at five paces distance. The horseman paused some moments before answering my question. At last he replied, accompanying his words with an ominous shake of the head-- "To Brown's ferry? Perhaps you mean Cox's ferry?" "Well, then--Cox's ferry," said I, rather impatiently.