Distance in battles lends grandeur to the view.

Had the charge of Balaclava taken place on Clapham Common, or had our gallant swordsmen replaced the donkeys on Hampstead Heath, even Tennyson would have been unable to poetise their exploits.

When one sees stuck up in an omnibus-office that omnibuses "will have to make a circuit from _cause de bombardement_;" when shells burst in restaurants and maim the waiters; when the trenches are in tea-gardens; and when one is invited for a sou to look through a telescope at the enemy firing off their guns, there is a homely domestic air about the whole thing which is quite inconsistent with "the pomp and pride of glorious war." On Friday night there was an abortive sortie at Clamart.

Some of the newspapers say that the troops engaged in it were kept too long waiting, and that they warmed their feet by stamping, and made so much noise that the Prussians caught wind of the gathering.

Be this as it may, as soon as they got into Clamart they were received with volleys of musketry, and withdrew.