Have but little confidence in the newspaper reports of the dead, wounded, etc. Day before yesterday I passed along the rue Saint Antoine, where I saw many windows shattered by cannon and fronts of shops injured; but, except for this, the destruction is not as great as I had supposed or as has been reported. These are the most extraordinary things I saw, which I shall describe briefly, in order to go to bed: 1. The prison has been defended for several hours by the National Guard, and surrounded by insurgents. They said to the National Guard: “Do not fire on us, and we will not fire on you. Take care of the prisoners.” 2. I entered a house on the corner of the _Place de la Bastille_: it had just been captured from the insurgents. I asked the residents there: “Did they take much from you?” “Nothing was stolen,” was the reply. Add to this that I took to prison a woman who was cutting off the heads of the militiamen with her kitchen-knife, and a man whose arms were red with blood from having bathed them in the gore of a wounded man, whose body he had ripped open, and you will have some conception, will you not, of this glorious nation? One thing is certain, and that is that we are going to the dogs! When do you mean to return? The fighting will be over in six weeks at the most. CXXVII PARIS, _July 2, 1848_. I need very much to see you to cheer me up a little after the painful experiences of last week, and it is with the keenest pleasure that I learn of your intended return, sooner than I had dared to hope. Paris is quiet, and will continue so for some time to come. I do not think the civil war, or rather the socialist war, is over, but another battle as horrible as the last seems to me impossible. It was brought on by an incalculable number of circumstances, which can not occur again. You will find, when you return, few of the hideous traces of the battle which your imagination probably pictures to you. The larger part of them have been effaced by the glazier and the house-painter. Still I can readily imagine that you will find us all with long faces, and much sadder than when you left. Well, how can we help it? It is the fashion of the day, and we must accustom ourselves to it. We shall gradually reach the point when we shall cease to look forward to the morrow, and consider ourselves fortunate when we wake in the morning and find ourselves alive. What I really miss more than anything else in Paris is yourself, and if you were here, I believe all the other conditions would be more supportable. It has rained for the last three days. At present I watch it as it falls with the utmost indifference; but I should not care to have it continue too long.