12, NOON.--I am now once again at the Government Head Quarters. As I
could get no better conveyance, I inflated my canvas carpet-bag with
gas, and used it as a balloon. I found it most valuable in crossing
the battery which now masks the remains of what was once
Government House. The President, after having organised a band of
_pic-pockettini_ (desperadoes taken from the gaols), has gone into
the provinces, declaring that he has a toothache. By some, this
declaration is deemed a subterfuge, by others, a statement savouring
of levity. The artillery are now reducing the entire town to atoms,
under the personal supervision of the Minister of Finance, who
deprecates waste in ammunition, and declares that he is bound to the
President by the tie of the battle-field.

[Illustration: Our Correspondent in an Elevated Position.]

2 P.M.--Have rejoined the Oniononi, coming hither by ricochet on a
spent shell. The people are entirely with them, and cheer at every
fresh evidence of destruction. Found a well-known shopkeeper in
ecstasies over the ruins of his establishment. He said that, "Although
the revolution might be bad for trade, it would do good, as things
wanted waking up." A slaughter of police and railway officials, which
has just been carried out with infinite spirit, seems to be immensely
popular. If you don't get this, make immediate complaint. Don't
accept, as an excuse, that the wires have been cut, and the office
razed to the ground. They can get it through, if they like.

4 P.M.--Just heard a report that I myself have been killed and buried.
As I can get no corroboration of this statement, I publish it under
reservation. I confine myself to saying that it may be true, although
I have my doubts upon the subject.