whom we entrusted the duty of providing a
pillow for us), when it receives our jaded limbs
is wide awake still. The waiters are frantic,
the master is white hot. We are inclined,
indeed, to recommend him to see somebody,
but we remember how deeply that searching
hand of his has dipped into our pockets, and we
leave him to shout, and stamp, and stare apoplexy
in the face as he pleases. Number four wishes
to be woke at five; number five must be woke
and have a cold bath at four; number seventeen
is lying in his clothes, and will want a cup of tea
at a quarter to six, sharp; number eight wants
two bottles of bitter ale and bread and butter
now, and eggs and tea while dressing in the
morning.

"Cochons, va!" responds the dingy half-
waiter, half-clerk, who is taking down these
orders, that none of them may be punctually
attended to.

Head throbbing, hands hot, tongue dry, we
take our candle, and panting under a hot roof,
we hear St. Roch proclaim the advent of the
14th.

Pale morning light shone upon dazzling
dresses in the long breakfast-room of my hotel.
But the rolls were only broken at the corners,
the rich coffee was only sipped, in the general
haste. The fever of yesterday had reached the
hotel. Angry fathers were gathering stray
members of their family, matrons were leaving
strict injunctions about baby's food, and young
gentlemen, in plaids of the Moses clan, were
buckling opera-glasses busily about them.

At the hote! door a low, rumbling murmur
caught my ear. It was not seven o'clock yet,
and the by-street was swarming. Moustached
gentlemen were dipping huge lumps of bread
into coffee-cups before the cafés; others, terrible
tipplers of that terrible absinthe, were mixing
their favourite cloudy-green beverage. Blouses,
with gaily-ribboned damsels on their arms, were
stalking along the roads towards the Boulevards.
Vendors of the four seasons were pushing
barrows loaded with damaged peaches thither. At
hundreds of windows blithe bonnes were tying
Venetian lamps by dozens. The rub-a-dub of
drums broke upon my ear at every corner.
Policemen looked ferocious, and were frantically
catching at horses' heads, as, still moving with
the stream, I neared the Boulevards—Via Sacra
upon which the footprints of sixty thousand
heroes shall be printed ere the sun goes down!
At every turn I dip under the floating tricolor,
and come nose to beak with the imperial eagle.
Shrill as Boulogne fishwomen's shriek when
they are hawking oysters, is the cry of vendors
of medals and paper crowns. Pleasant is the
laughter of men and women as they elbow one
another when the crowd thickens! I defy any
nation to produce men who can poke more
pointed elbows in neighbours' chests with better
politeness! Packed in solid masses, between
houses and a hedge of bayonets drawn along the
kerb-stones, the Parisian may be studied to ad-
advantage. With what good humour he will tread
upon your toes! How deferentially lie will bar
your way. How ceremoniously he will answer
you when you wax a little wrath with him.
There is nothing for it but to laugh, and chatter,
and politely push, and ceremoniously squeeze
with the rest. To take the laughter of jammed
grisettes for music, and to inhale the fumes of
barrack tobacco and garlic as tastes of delightful
Araby! Ah, me! the sun is gaining power
overhead, and the Boulevards are packed closely
as a fig-drum. There is a mighty din along this
broad way, mingled with the clashing of horse-
men's swords, and the occasional shouts of the
blouses, raised when some gaudy staff-officer, or
well-known general, gallops along the cleared
road between lines of glittering bayonets. Every
lamp-post is again and again scaled by urchins
who are driven back by the police. The
balconies are alive with pretty faces, the chimney-
pots are gay with the tricolor. Disderi
the indefatigable is in his dark chamber
preparing plates that, by a stroke of the sun, are to
cast upon paper two faithful pictures of the
heroes coming. Every shop-window has a
splendid étalage of happy human heads.
Thousands of arms bear chaplets to be cast upon the
broad way presently—paper chaplets, cut in the
sombre byways where hunger glares, ever ready
to pounce upon a chance that holds a crust.

The sun flames upon this waving sea. The
sea keeps up its music still, and steams, as it
flows between the bayonets and the houses.
There are three miles and more of these
shouting, singing, struggling crowds. There
are three miles of these lofty houses,
crowded from garret to ground with the
faces of men, women, and children. A broad,
even line of march, with great hedges of
people flanking it; with unbroken banks of armed
men to guard it, shadowed by triumphal arches,
and enlivened by dancing oriflammes, is spread
before the bronzed host that chokes up the
Quartier St. Antoine, and extends far on the
dusty road to Vincennes. Little boys are carried
everywhere by proud parents, beating little
drums or sounding little trumpets. Three-year-
old Zouaves are whimpering for galette, and a
Grenadier of the Guard (who must have been
short-coated for the occasion) is sucking a sugar-
stick. Old men are sporting the bronze medal
of St. Helena, and are the object of special
veneration to the blouses. Every five minutes,
"There they are!" is shouted along the outer
lines of the throng; and an almost deafening
roar rises, and runs along the lines, to die only
in the Rue de la Paix. The minute hands of
the clocks are watched; the point of distance
is steadily kept in view; and men, women, and
children, with outstretched necks, press towards
the roads. The sun may dart his most fiery shafts
upon this delirious throng; not a man, woman, or
child will wince. For, glory is coming, in tattered
clothes, and with rusty helmet; with Italian dust
upon wheels, and the spots of enemy's blood upon
bayonets; with ragged flags holding by threads
to hacked poles; with the limping wounded
showing honourable scars scarce healed.