hanging by their arms in dozens, distract us.
From the shops to the people? We pass the
blazing face of a Turcos, whose brilliancy draws
tears from our poor eyes. To the pavement?
The stones send up a red heat to caution us.
The relentless sun, that leaves no shady side to
the broad simmering Boulevards, dashes the heat
under our broad hat, brands our shoulders,
parches our feet, and flays our neck. Currant
syrup consoles us not, and in vain we quaff the
grateful beer of Lyons. That in this heat people
can fever themselves over dominoes, and throw
themselves into contortions at a billiard-table!
That under this tyrant sun, darting to the
marrow of man, evil-faced crowds can shamble
lightly over the burning pavement; laughing,
eating, and haggling! That they can fight good-
humouredly at omnibus-doors, and broil while a
tumbler glares in the face of the sun at the ball
he is to catch upon his forehead. Sir Chops
vows that the heat beats Egypt, and he mops
his bald head. With a light, cheery voice, a
man cries medals struck in honour of the coming
occasion, and looks without blinking into his
tray of new coins, that sparkle like an adder's
nest. It is not too hot for a grisette to trip
about father and mother and sister (with baby)
and lover (with herself), and, having bought a
farthing sugar-stick, to bite bits off, and
laughingly poke them into the mouths of the
party. Sir Chops must take courage, then, and
follow the boiling stream with us.

Heavy bribery produces a cabman at last, and
we rumble lazily through the terrible Quartier
St. Antoine to the Barrière, whence a broad
dusty road leads to Vincennes. We make our
way through solid banks of dust, till we are
stopped by a feverish policeman, who turns
us into our proper place, in a file of vehicles:
lemonade carts, Seltzer-water carts, trim
carriages copied from Rotten-row, carts full of
sugar " broken by patent machinery;"
indescribable carts full of indescribable people,
driven by a noisy blouse and drawn by
animals in rope harness; hawkers propelling
barrow loads of cheap peaches, figs, and plums;
honest old women, whose white eyebrows stand
in bold relief from their bronzed skin, and whose
snowy caps are deeply shaded in the folds by
the dust, carrying heavy baskets loaded with
macaroons and jumbles; a chattering, laughing,
tumultuous blue and white crowd filling up
every available space between vehicles, hawkers,
and policemen, all talking, shouting, singing,
and clacking whips, in a white fog of dust,
heated still by the unrelenting sun, these were
unmistakable indications that we were on the
right road to know some of the reasons why
Paris had taken so merrily to the scarlet fever.
The vast plain, at which we eventually arrived,
appeared to have thrown up countless white
molehills, at the first glance, amid which needles
appeared to be stacked, and blue and red and
black ants seemed to be running by thousands
in all directions. But, as we took our eyes from
the distance, and drew them upon things close
to us, we perceived that the far off ant-hills
were fac-similes of the tents (about the size of
cucumber frames) at our feet; that the stacks
of needles were bayonets; that the ants were
men and women. Here were stacks of heavy
grenadiers' arms, with the men's rusty shakos
hanging upon the bayonets, the men being not
far off, indulging in games of skittles, or gaining
honest sous by putting up the pins for visitors.

Beyond the grenadiers' lines were those of the
Turcos. Cheered by the gaiety of the scene,
even Sir Chops almost jumped from the-carriage.
Hundreds of elegant ladies were peering into
the little canvas boxes of the solemn Arabs.
They were not the most savoury boxes, where
eight swarthy fellows slept, packed close as figs,
and where their ragged, greasy clothes lay all
day long. But the Turcos were proud of them,
and did the honours with dignity. Here a
brawny fellow, lying upon his stomach, with his
head just out of his tent, was looking at the
pictures of the Sun Paper; there a fellow,
squatting tailor-fashion, was taking his soup out of a
battered tin with a bent pewter spoon. There
is a hole in the midst of the first lines, and in it
lumps of raw flesh are warming, and shapeless
saucepans are bubbling, while Turcos, enveloped
in capacious aprons, and sheltered from the sun
by heavy burnous, are watching the dinners of
their battalion. Visitors talk to them, but are
unable to understand the Arab-French in which
the noble savages reply. Here is the trumpeters'
tent, with the bruised trumpets slung to sticks
at the entrance. Everywhere are Turcos
sauntering, squatting, laughing with grisettes,
folding turbans, playing at cards, polishing swords,
mending rent garments, all talking, and all
smoking, and all proud to be the observed of
thousands of visitors.

"Look to yourself, Sir Chops! for hitherwards
a mounted Zouave is dashing upon a
bony steed, with a great tin pan slung to the
animal's neck. He is on his way to fetch the
food of his company from one of the smouldering
holes hereabouts. There is much to be cooked
yet, before all these mouths will be satisfied; and
square lumps of meat, clustered in bunches, are
slung upon bayonets still before the tents, where
the flies are coming in for first taste.

The tattered flags are stuck in mounds of
loose stones: canvas beer-shops are choked
with soldiers and soldiers' friends, clicking
glasses, and imbibing seas of sour beer and
wine at threepence per bottle. The butts
of Vincennes, ploughed with cannon-balls,
are covered with the yellow linen of the
troops, drying in the sun. Springs have been
conducted hither by the engineers, and are
filling cans of all shapes and sizes. Greedy
corporals are making a long and noisy queue
before the camp-butcher's shed. The English
Crimean medal lies upon hundreds, of breasts—
the blue riband browned by the sun. Everybody
is on the move. Here a Zouave is
splitting wood with his sword; there a Turcos
is sketching. Rows of lean horses (some
wounded), tied to stakes, are munching dry
forage. Empty wine-casks serve for tables,