I was once in love. The object of my affections had many amiable qualities. I remember I thought her an angel; but when she was crossed, she used to go up into her room and say that she would remain there without eating until I yielded the point at issue between us. As I was invariably right and she was invariably wrong, I could not do this; but, pitying the weakness of her sex, and knowing its obstinacy, I usually managed to arrange matters in a way which allowed her to emerge from her retreat without any great sacrifice of _amour propre_. The Parisians remind me of this sentimental episode of my existence; they have mounted a high pedestal, and called upon the world to witness that no matter what may be the danger to which they are exposed, they will not get off it, unless they obtain what they want; that they will obtain it, they find is most improbable, and they are anxiously looking around for some one to help them down, without being obliged absolutely "to swallow their own words." They had hoped that the armistice which was proposed by the neutrals would in some way get them out of their difficulty; and, as the siege still continues, they are exceedingly indignant with their kind friends. "They have," say the papers, "loosened our mainspring of sacrifice. We had fully determined to perish, rather than yield; if we do not, it will be the fault of Russia, Austria, and England." Be the cause what it may, the "mainspring of sacrifice" most assuredly is not only loosened, but it has run down, and, unless some wonderful success occurs shortly, it will never be wound up again. As long as it could be supposed that cannon and musketry would only do their bloody work outside the exterior forts, and that Paris might glory in a "heroic attitude" without suffering real hardships or incurring real danger, the note of defiance was loud and bold. As it is, the Government is obliged to do its utmost to keep their courage up to the sticking point. These foolish people really imagined that, like them, the world regarded their city as a species of sacred Jerusalem, and that public opinion would never allow the Prussians either to bombard it, or to expose the high priests of civilization who inhabit it to the realities of war. It is necessary to live here to understand the strength of this feeling. In England, little attention is paid to the utterances of French newspapers, but the Parisians, more profoundly ignorant of foreign politics than the charity school boys of an English village, were under the flattering delusion that we, in common with every other nation, lived alone to merit their favourable opinion. They find now, to their profound astonishment, that beyond a barren sympathy, founded upon a common humanity, no one regards Paris as different to any other great city, and that, if they choose to convert it into an intrenched camp for their armies, they must meet the consequences. Either they must accept