subjects, not enemies—a recent proclamation
allows the soldiers to shoot on the spot whoever is
guilty of any insult towards them. If they beat
you, and you raise your arm, or your voice, it is
an offence against the military, to be wiped out
only by powder and ball.

      A NEW SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.

                   IN FIVE PARTS.

                    PART II.

       CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

THE pretty Frenchwoman, who sat in the
corner of the carriage opposite (diagonally) to
mine in the train which bore me from Boulogne
to Paris, was quite a pleasant object to have
before one, and afforded me much food for
reflection and thought. She was not alone, but
was accompanied by a lady who sat next her,
and who was something the elder of the two.

The pretty Frenchwoman, who was dressed
in half-mourning, and who I took into my head
was a young widow, had a book in her lap to
read, and a dog in her lap to play with, and
between them and the before-mentioned friend she
divided her attention—but not impartially.

The poor book! The poor author! I believe
I am not in the least exaggerating when I say
that two minutes at a time was about as much
as this lively lady could find in her heart to
bestow upon the volume under perusal. At the
expiration of that time the dog had to be
disturbed from his snug position in the lady's lap,
and was lifted up half asleep, and very cross, to
be kissed. This done, there would follow a little
more reading, then there was a little confidential
talk with the friend, then the dog again; this
time he was to have his eyes wiped with the
lady's laced pocket-handkerchief. Then the
book again, but not for long. The dog has to
be kissed again, but suddenly, and as if it was
an imperious necessity of the lady's nature, and
one which had never occurred to her before to
gratify. Or the nasty little whining beast (how
I hated it) had to be fed with bits of sugar and
biscuit, or he had to be talked to, and many
things whispered in his ear in confidence, or to
be newly settled and snoozled in among the
warm folds of the French lady's shawl. She
could look across at me at such times (would
this French lady) with an aggravating expression
which said very plainly, "Yes, you wouldn't
dislike to be treated like this yourself, would
you? and you don't like to see all this affection
bestowed upon a dog, do you? but you're
afraid to say so." The book, then, served but
to fill up the gaps between these attentions to
the dog, and the confidence to the friend, and
certain perpetual puttings to rights of the lady's
own costume, in every one of which readjustments
a small and distracting boot was by some
strange accident continually appearing, and then
being covered up again, lest it should get too
common.

It is not a flattering or pleasant thing to an
author to watch the proceedings of a lady who
is engaged in the perusal of his works. She is
at such times ever ready and willing to be
interrupted, as in the case before us. I recollect,
on one occasion, asking a young lady of my
acquaintance the casual question whether she
had been reading much lately. "Oh yes, a great
deal," was her answer. So, common-places being
the order of the day, my next inquiry was, what
the works were which had been occupying her
attention. "I really don't know," she said.

Alas, alas, are these dear and clever creatures
ever so absorbed in the work with which they
are engaged as to omit to ask what the station is
every time the train stops, or to fail to examine
(and perhaps to disapprove) from top to bottom
the dress of every lady who gets into the
carriage? I love and admire you, dear ladies, with
all my heart, but I should like to see you read
my chapter (it is but a short one) straight
through, and leave the dog alone till it is done.

Alone in Paris—alone, in the busy streets—
alone in the full cafés—alone, in the crowded
theatres. This was what I wanted, was it? Is
it altogether good now I have got it?

Is it altogether good when some absurd
incident occurs, when something beautiful, or
something hateful, is brought before one's attention,
to have no one to whom to remark these things,
no one to share one's sentiments of admiration
or of disapproval?

When, for instance, at that excellent restaurant,
the Café Cagmag, I noted that not only
did little children, brought there by their
parents, and sitting up with napkins pinned
about their necks by the patemal hand—for your
Frenchman is a much more domestic person than
he is generally believed to be—when I noted
that not only did these infants of tender years
make choice of highly seasoned dishes, and
clamour loudly for stimulating sauces, but that
even a cat, which in my solitude I was glad to
make friends with, did, upon my offering it a
portion of a cutlet dressed "au naturel," decline
to eat of it, and upon a prodigiously disguised
fricandeau being subsequently placed before me
did eagerly accept and ravenously devour a piece
of this more savoury compound,—when this
occurred, was it a pleasant thing to have no
friend at hand with whom to enjoy so national
and characteristic an incident?

When in low spirits—when, through some
change in the barometer—for such things affect
us—or through some derangement of the mind's
healthiness—does not the mind catch its colds,
and have its attacks of sickness, as the body
has?—through some exaggerated view of future
difficulties—some too bitter regret for past
mistakes—when from these, or some other
cause, connected with the ever-changing, ever-
shifting tide of human feeling, the spirits give
way, and sadness settles down with a leaden
weight upon the soul, at such times—is it good
to be alone?

Is it good for a man to be so lonely in the
crowd that he longs to ally himself with
strangers, and yearns for admission into families
of whom he knows nothing, except that they