June 27, 1848.

I returned home this morning after a short campaign of four days, in which I was exposed to no danger, but wherein I have been enabled to appreciate all the horrors of the time and of this land of ours. In the midst of my grief and sorrow I am impressed above all else with the stupidity of this nation. It is without parallel. I do not know whether it will ever be possible for her to turn her back upon the savage barbarism in which she is so prone to wallow.

I hope all is well with your brother. I do not think his regiment has had any serious engagement. At the same time, we are overcome with fatigue, having had no sleep for four nights.

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.