Hark! the roll of drums: the thunder of the
Invalides guns; the lively strains of regimental
bands; the electric sounds of distant vivas!
Let me escape to my window from the mad
multitude. They throw their limbs about
frantically, waving flowers and chaplets! Suddenly
the roofs of the houses are alive. People run
along parapets, skip upon chimney-pots, slide
down slates, and crawl upon burning zinc, with
the agility of monkeys. At points along the line
women and children are squeezed through the
serried lines of soldiers. The faces of all the
soldiers, and of all the crowd, are turned towards
the Bastille. The sun is there to which these
human sunflowers open their blossom. The
murmur, the drums, the music are approaching.
The sounds are becoming separate and distinct,
and when the opposite lines of soldiers meet
in the perspective there is a dusty, half
distinguishable confusion.

Yes, yes, they are coming! Oh! moment of
supreme happiness! Oh! proud mothers and
sisters, and wives, throw open your arms for
your heroes, with lofty step, though footsore
and elbow-greasy, are tramping along the
triumphal way; and every step presses a votive
flower! Bright helmets gleam through the dust,
the music swells, and sharp is the roll of the
drums. A loud, shrill, prolonged cry greets this
new assurance that the heroes are at hand.
And then a dead silence follows. Every eye
is searching a few yards behind the sturdy horse-
men who open the march, searching for a
solitary figure.

It is approaching, along a flowery way. A
terrible fire of colossal bouquets from the
windows, and a galling support of chaplets from
behind the soldiers, makes the proud steed of
the solitary man wince and caper. Handkerchiefs
flutter like butterflies from every window; and
a loud shout of welcome rises as the solitary
man, unmoved and easy, and graceful upon his
restless horse, lifts his plumed hat, and just
suffers himself to smile at the tens of thousands
who hedge him about, and strew the way
of his dainty footed horse with flowers. He is
perfect master of himself while the floral shower
is at its fiercest, while the vivas are loudest. At
a brisk walk his steed carries him forward
between hedges of uproarious subjects. A bouquet
strikes him, and he smiles; a shout rises, and he
lifts his hat. But whence came all these flowers?
Are the fields for miles round Paris leafless.
Is Fontenay-aux-Roses without a rosebud?
Sixty thousand men are tramping behind this
remarkable leader: with marshals created on
the battle-field, and standard-bearers still stained
with the sweat of mortal strife. There will be
flowers, and enough for all of them.

We can hardly believe it as we notice, following
in the wake of the leader's brilliant staff, a
battalion of men, dressed in all kinds of
regimentals, it would seem, but so covered with
flowers, from the points of their bayonets to
their waist, that the regiment to which they
belong remains a matter of doubt. " Long live
the wounded!" shout the crowd from chimney-
pot, garret, drawing-room, and pavement. But
many handkerchiefs that were waving in the air
a minute or two since are damp with tears now.
For this battalion of maimed men trudging
on crutches, bearing ghastly white bandages
athwart very pale faces—with arms in slings—
and one with both arms gone—this sick and
faint battalion, I say, was a very difficult thing
to keep dry eyes upon. Women burst upon
them through the file of soldiers; national
guards lift wine to their parched lips. They
try hard to bear themselves lightly, and to
march briskly under the blazing sun. They are
conscious of the great position they occupy, that
every bandage is a sash of honour—that every
sabre-cut is an ornament. We are now hob-and-
nobbing with the horrors of the battle-field. But
the wounded are passing on their way. To the
right and left I can see the army of Italy—a
mile of it at a time—winding its way: lively,
musical, and nimble—past tens of thousands of
shouting people. In the distance the flowers
fall so fast from the windows that they appear
like floral arcades, stretching from the houses to
the road. This is indeed a happy day. The
great army, winding along, capped with sparkling
steel, looks like a gigantic serpent trailing
through a dark and restless bed.

Compact as a rampart stalks the haughty
Guard, proud of the rusty shako and the white-
seamed coat. Behind, we catch, bobbing in the
distance, the turbans of the Zouaves. The excitement
of the roofs and garrets is appalling. Ladies
lean frantically over the balconies; gentlemen
cast clouds of cigars into the open space, as the
great Zouave drum-major throws his stick high
into the air, catches it, twirls it round and round
upon his finger, twists it behind his back, and
jerks it forward over his head, all to the time of
the drums, and walking at a brisk pace! He
makes a great sensation, to which he appears to
be supremely indifferent—just as indifferent as
the majestic dog at his side is. To be the dog
of the Zouaves of the Guard, is to be the king
of dogs. And the dog marching before all
Paris, with a decoration upon his proud canine
chest, and his general military costume, is equal
to his brilliant destiny. You can see it in the
solemn step with which he heads his battalion,
and in the lofty calmness with which he meets
the cheers of the populace. The dust of Italy
is upon his paws; possibly, the fleas of Italy are
in his coat! He may well be proud to head the
battalion that struts boldly behind him. He can
even afford to look down upon the goat of the
Chasseurs.

Made for fighting, handling muskets as lightly
as toothpicks, self-sufficient everywhere,
lissom as osiers, patient under a burning sun,
and with a keen sense of the enjoyment of
fighting, and the pleasure of ploughing human
flesh with those long, broad sword-bayonets,
these Zouaves look terrible and cruel. If we
are cheering successful war, however, we must
be loud, as these dark men glide lightly and
stealthily past, for they are of King Death's
chosen body-guard. Echoes of distant bands to