body of horse who were posted in the Persian left wing nearest to the centre, quitted their station, and rode off to help their comrades in the cavalry fight, that still was going on at the extreme right of Alexander's wing against the detachments from his second line. This made a huge gap in the Persian array, and into this space Alexander instantly charged with his guard and all the cavalry of his wing; and then pressing towards his left, he soon began to make havoc in the left flank of the Persian centre. That centre was now charged in front by the Macedonian phalanx, and soon broke beneath the double shock. Darius hurried from the field; and the news that the king had fled rapidly spread through the Persian army, and all their host, exccpt their right wing, was soon in full flight from the field. Alexander's eager pursuit of his rival was checked that he might return and relieve his left wing, which had been weakened in order to enable him to gain his advantages on the right and in the centre. That wing had been seriously jeopardized; the Persian right having outflanked and severely pressed it, and a large column of Indian horsemen having actually ridden through the double line of the Macedonian infantry in this quarter of the field, and forced their way to Alexander's camp, which they forthwith plundered, instead of wheeling round to attack other parts of their adversary's army. Still the steady valour of the troops under Parmenio bore up against the heavy pressure of superior numbers, and the approach of their victorious comrades and king, and the news that Darius had fled, soon made the triumph of the European army complete. Slaughtered helplessly, or chased unresistingly, like sheep, Asia's thousands and tens of thousands fell or fled along the encumbered plain. And the night, that closed on that scene of carnage, closed also on the last day of Persian dominion or independence. THE GERMAN HEART. FROM E. M. ARNDT. "Deutscher Herz versage nicht, Thu was dein Gewissen spricht, To southerns leave the assassin's blow; Plain, simple Truth is thy best praise. German freedom, German God, These, these shall fight through all at Let danger, death, or ruin pail, Then rouse, brave heart! quail not! be true! Do all that conscience bids thee do! So shall Almighty Nature hold W. DIARY OF A NON-COMBATANT DURING THE FOUR DAYS' BATTLE OF PARIS. BY THE AUTHOR OF "MELTON DE MOWBRAY." Rue de Grenelle, Faubourg St. Germains. FRIDAY, JUNE 23rd.-The too-well known rappel broke upon my slumbers at an early hour. The idle cry of "wolf" had been so often raised, and there was such general discontent with the aspect of affairs, that the call to arms was but languidly answered. The National Guard either shrugged his shoulders in silence, or with a muttered "bah!" turned a deaf ear to the drum. The crafty cunning of the Communist had not worked in vain; the National Guard had been harassed, wearied, and worn out for no one good obtained: suspicion, doubt, and despondency was in every heart. The movement of troops, however, and the hurried galloping of aides-de-camp, soon told there was no false alarm this time. I left home about two o'clock, and finding the coast pretty clear, followed the river as far as the Pont Neuf, crossed to the Quai de l'Horloge, and sought a shop where I had some matter of business. There I learnt that there had been fighting on the Place du Châtelet, but that it was now clear, and that the Ports St. Denis and St. Martin, with their immediate neighbourhood, were the fountain-head of the blood which was to flow. I crossed the Pont Neuf and made direct to the Rue St. Honoré. La Place du Châtelet had been inoculated with a few bullet-marks. Every shop was closed; dense groups were collected at every door; and at every window anxious faces of men, women, and children were to be seen. As I turned towards the Rue de la Paix the crowds gradually diminished, until at length the street was clear as usual, though countless heads from countless windows were looking out for the signs which had threatened in the distance. By three o'clock large bodies of the line and Garde Mobile were marching by the Place Vendôme towards the Boulevart St. Denis. My course lay by the Rue Neuve des Capucines, and while there I saw a regiment of cuirassiers go by at full gallop with les sabres levés. I then went by the streets de l'Arcade and St. Lazare as far as the street Jean Gonjon, in the Champs Elysées. There I remarked several brigades of National workmen busied, as usual, in doing nothing. The drums were beating to arms: the men gave me a nod, smiled, and said, "C'est la générale." As I returned home by the Pont des Invalides, I witnessed an imposing force in front and on every side of the Assemblée Nationale. There was fighting at the Ports St. Denis and St. Martin, and it was said the insurgés had hung a poor little drummer from the former. This was the first dark act of the fearful atrocities which followed. From time to time the rappel was renewed the line and Mobile marched past-the Garde Nationale increased in number-firing was heard in the distance things looked every moment more and more serious, and coming night only added to the universal alarm. Saturday 24th.-The horrors of civil war multiplied in a thousand directions. Cannon mingled with musketry-barricades sprang up women joined in the fight-the home of man became a fortress-windows poured forth their fire-hundreds and hundreds fell, and thousands were carried off wounded. My wife's femme-de-chambre was in a dreadful state of anxiety, her husband having been last seen at a barricade, and neither seen nor heard of since for forty-eight hours. I offered to accompany her to the Rue d'Anjou. We started about five, crossed the Pont des Invalides, and the Place de la Concorde was a mass of troops. Some shots were fired in the Rue d'Anjou, but we arrived safe, and my lady's-lady found her husband alarmingly well and alive. Neither cart nor carriage was to be seen-there was nothing moving but ourselves. La Madeleine looked as solemn as the temples at Pæstum-the silence seemed deathlike and unnatural. As the husband was alive, I left him to see his wife home, and falling in with a cab, which seemed to have dropped from the clouds, I jumped in: after being turned and stopped by more than one cuirassier's pistol pointed at our heads, with the laconic "on ne passe pas," I was safely dropped at my home. The firing by platoon and the coups de canons continued all night; and the Sabbath-day of June 25th gave no rest to the deadly fight. Paris was declared to be in a state of siege; the Provisional Government retired; and General Cavaignac was declared commander-in-chief of the National Guard and the Line. The National Guard turned out to a man; a feeling of confidence arose; for the first time there was unity and force; no one paused to criticise its limits or duration; there was a head to command, hands to do; the banner of order against anarchy was raised. Paris felt its power, and the provinces poured forth their hundreds and thousands upon thousands. The lofty houses, the dense and narrow streets swallowed up the roar of musketry and cannon. In our quarter the coup de canon and firing by platoon sounded as if the battle were afar. Paris, the gay, the cheerful, the beautiful city of Paris, looked like the city of the dead. No living thing was moving in the streets; it reminded me of a Sunday in Glasgow the miserable, grass-grown Glasgow-during the hours of Divine service. But, alas! it was not the sacred silence of the Sabbath at the corner of every street stood the silent sentinel, and from time to time the calm was broken by the hurried gallop of the warhorse, then again returned the sad, unholy quiet, so profound, that I, while sitting with my door closed, and at the distance of three salons off, could hear the tearing of the rag to make bandages and lint for the wounded. The French make their lint by pulling rag to pieces thread by thread. In every house and at every door were groups of women, children, and old men unweaving the web, and, thread by thread, preparing the charpie to dress the wounded and stay the thread of life. From time to time the surgeon's assistant, with high white apron, and here and there a speck of blood, would pass and carry off the piles of thread; at other times children would hurry to the hospitals and Mairies and present the fruits of their labours. In the drawing-room, the court, and the kitchen, for all who were not under arms, this lint manufactory was the whole and sole occupation; even as we gathered to the tea-table and joined in anxious talk, still, ever and ever, thread by thread, the weaver's work was unravelled and turned to charpie. To-day the talk of "foreign gold" was raised as usual. Whenever conspirators wish to veil themselves and their acts, nothing is more convenient than to raise the cry of "foreign gold." Early in the morning I contrived to get as far as the Pont Royal, alias National. There seemed, for the first time, a cessation of hostilities, and though I could see the troops advancing and clearing the quays on each side of the river, yet there were a few groups of talkers on the bridge. I joined in one, and though I said not a word, a something in my look attracted the fixed attention of a man who, I strongly suspect, was paid for looking, listening, and repeating. The fellow looked at me as if he would have looked me through. I am quite certain he thought me made of English gold, and about to throw myself away in a shower of sovereigns-poor idiot! Never was a man more mistaken: and had it been true, he might have been assured that I should have kept myself to myself. Bang! bang! bang! Three coups de canons sounding nearer than usual, I looked and saw the smoke above the Hôtel de Ville; and acting on the wisdom of keeping myself to myself, I gave the man look for look and turned to my quiet home. Within a little time it was impossible to pass the bridges. In the course of the day I attempted in vain to approach the post-office at the Assemblée Nationale. I turned in despair to a minor branch, where I feared to be too late after being challenged and stopped at every corner and crossing, I did at last succeed in reaching the bureau in the Rue de Beaune. Within a few yards lived a valued friend, whom I had not seen since we met on the first day, he on his path to the Bastille, I to my home. There were two sentinels at the gate; I was going to knock, when the stern" On ne passe pas" stopped my hand. "How so, mon ami?" I asked; "I am about to visit my friend." "On ne passe pas," was repeated, but with this qualification, "you may pass, if you will, but if you go in, you cannot come out." My regard and anxiety for my friend were sincere, but they could not stand the test of voluntary imprisonment, especially as I was uncertain if my friend were living or dead, or there or elsewhere. I subsequently found that I should have made myself a martyr for nothing: my friend had been driven from his house in consequence of this strict watch being put upon some journal and its editors who lived within the forbidden gates. The Sabbath-day closed, as it began, in silence most unnatural, broken at intervals by sounds the most unholy. The impossibility of moving from street to street prevented all communication, and heightened a hundredfold the anxious moments of suspense. From time to time was heard the watch cry of "Sentinelle, prenez garde à vous !" or the tramp of coming footsteps, with the cry of "Ouvrez les persiennes, et fermez les fenêtres!"—then came the order of "Mettez des lampions !" and in silence the city burst into bright illumination-adding to the strangeness of the scene by the seeming mockery of mirth. It was like telling the broken heart to smile and be glad, or saying to the wounded man, "Arise, and mingle in the dance." What a contrast to the nights of a few departed weeks! Then, King Mob and his satellites-lawless, roaming bands-passed along, and shouted "Des lampions! des lampions!" as they smashed the windows; now, the silent walls gave the decree in black and white, and it was whispered from house to house. For change or preparation there was no time: coloured lamps and gay device, made for rejoicing,-like the bell which tolls for the dead and rings for the birth,-served to illuminate Paris while cannon flashed and carnage dyed the streets. Of this, however, we saw nothing in our quarter, and heard but little to break the awful stillness of that Sabbath-day and Sabbath-night. As if echo had shrunk from taking up the unholy sound, the roar of musketry and cannon, the shout, the shriek, and yell of deadly strife, sounded as if the battle were miles and miles away it was like a plaintive murmur heard in the desert, making the silence more impressive. Thanks to the mercy of God, our home was sacred: we lay down to rest in peace and safety, putting our trust in Him whose arm can save in the wreck at sea or storm on land! Monday 26th.-The report had been yesterday that the insurgents were defeated and that the battle was done; the same report was repeated this morning, and the same low booming of the cannon whispered the truth, and said it could not be. There was the same difficulty in moving a hundred yards. In getting to the Post Office I had to parley with, and pass guard after guard, and submit to be searched, lest I carried arms or ammunition. In the Rue St. Dominique St. Germain, close to my hotel, I saw a woman arrested. She had just taken a pistol from her pocket, and deliberately shot an officer. Two days before, and within a few hundred yards of the same spot, a blue-blouse man fired at an officer, aud having wounded him severely, darted across the street, entered the door of a porte-cochère, and slammed it after him. There was a delay of a few minutes before a force could be collected to pursue and arrest the assassin. When they knocked at the gate and demanded admission, the door was opened by one who played the part of concierge, and who begged them to enter and search; they did so, and presently found the real porter dead and murdered; they looked to the lodge, the man who had opened the door had fled. It seems that he and the porter had struggled, the latter fell, the murderer threw aside his blouse, hastily put on the porter's clothes, and with the greatest possible à plomb he opened the gate, and made his escape. In the course of the day, I made a vain attempt to cross the bridges to visit my friends, the few remaining, and assure myself of their safety. "On ne passe pas," with a pistol suiting the action to the word, was the only answer from him of the helmet and cuirass. Late in the day the firing ceased, and the tidings were confirmed that the insurgents were beaten and routed on the right and on the left, that their force, concentrated in the Faubourg St. Antoine, had been broken, the barricades taken, and many hundreds made prisoners. Hundreds soon grew into thousands, and we heard that the Pantheon and Palace of the Tuileries were turned into prisons, in the latter all cellars and subterranean passages were crowded to excess. The gardens and Carousel were studded with troops. At last, and in truth and indeed, it was all over. So we heard on all sides, people seemed to breathe more freely, there was more, if possible, military precaution in the streets, but the hurried breathless haste, the care-worn look of intense anxiety had sobered down, hope arose as the evening star of Monday, and promised slumber and repose unbroken. The hand was at the hour of midnight, when I and she who shares my home and heart were about to "lay us down in sleep ;" the weather had been fine, the moon was up and the windows open, there was no distant booming of the cannon to break upon the stillness of the hour, when, on a sudden, and close within our hearing, shot followed shot in quick succession. I ran to the window, my wife started up in dreadful alarm, and stood trembling and anxious by my side. My ear had been too well practised in the firing of February, to doubt for a moment where |