of new colour is being unwound! Flutters the
French crimson and dark blue and gold; and
Goyon the Magnificent is drawing on, alone,
with a clear span before him, so that ail may
have opportunity to gaze, and he may stand
out handsomely on the shifting many-coloured
background of grouped staff officers, all glancing
with gold, and blue, and crimson, all stopping
short, and moving a pace as he does. Superb in
his horseman's jack-boots, overlaid and crusted
on his rounded chest with orders, with broad
ribbons striping him across in polychromatic
abundance, with his unwrinkled kid gloves, his
dainty little toy of a cocked-hat, flecked like a
lady's fan with swans—he is the perfect figure
of the day of perfect figures. Commend me, I
say, to this matchless histrionic! Many minutes
is he making progress over the green sward, yet
each minute of that time he acts and poses. At
each halt, a perfect attitude; well trained staff
at decent interval behind, shifting and glittering,
and throwing him out with fresh effect. He is
perfect in. all points, even to the tint of his
moustache and tuft, which should be white, but
is of the fitting iron grey tint, such as becomes
the fierce warrior. The smile of dignity is
matchless, the harmony of the whole is
sublime. Pass by, military histrionic, we shall see
you again!

Religious threads are now being woven in
again, taking shape as a long black cord of dark,
funeral-robed priests, with black silk mantle
hanging lightly behind, and white circle for
tonsure. They crowd on in close file—
ecclesiastics in posse, deacons sub and simple, and
then students of the nations: Scotch in purple
robes, German in dazzling scarlet, Irish in
green, others (unknown) in white—the quaintest
show imaginable. Heads of orders—Capucini,
Camaldolesi, Dominicans—tall giants, white,
brown, and grey, striding on, with their capes,
and hoods, and cords, pass by, and are gone!

And now, you profound ritualist, who stand
near me, expounding and translating, ex
cathedrâ, each mystic gesture and dazzling rite,
fitting names to this figure and to that, say, what
signify this dozen or so of cloaked and frilled
gentlemen—like the comic chamberlains that
step on, to music, in the suite of extravaganza
monarchs—each carrying a short silver mace
club-shaped? Officers of the pontifical household.
And these inimitable Vandykes, these
walking replicas of Gevartius from our own
National Gallery, whose white crimped ruffs
contrast superbly with their black silk and
velvet dress; who have chains of gold across
their chests, like Venetian senators, and puffed
trunk hose of the Raleigh pattern, and who
affect the antique model even in the training of
moustache and peaked beard—most picturesque
of figures, on this day of living pictures?
Chamberlains of the household. No theatrical
dressing this, but their every-day manner of
costume. You meet them on the Vatican staircase,
in lobbies, in the spacious ante-rooms, in famous
keeping with such a background. They pass by,
and their line, dissolved like chaff, becomes
elemental corn-sheaves. Music, still sustained,
floats from the golden cages. The sun steadily
lights the warm bluish grey columns, crimson
stripes, and golden atmosphere. The sea of
heads, down by the sluice-gates, shifts and plays
mistily. Still the strands are being spun; and
still we are not weary. Lay threads are now
twisted in. A dash of scarlet and gold coats,
with yellowish serge trousers striped with gold,
rich in effect—Spanish knights of Santiago.
Scarlet coat again, with dazzling white facings,
and white trousers, and the great cross-handed
sword—type of Knight of Saint John, Cavaliere
di Malta; not, of this festive morning, shrouded
in robes monastic with the cross of eight points.
Now, come knights and soldiers commingled,
the gayest and most glittering strand of all.
White-coated Austrian, blue-frocked Belgian,
scarlet Englishman, turquoise coloured Magyar,
with his fur and silver braiding. Behind whom,
stalking majestic, followed with wondering eyes
and pointed finger, advances one gigantic
Highlander, six feet two inches high, in full
costume of Royal Edinburgh Volunteers. British
eye rests on him with pride; but Roman eye,
descending to that kilt and brawny limbs quite
visible, is troubled, and knows not how to take
it. I feel a justifiable pride in the gigantic
Highlander; for have we not driven this morning
in triumphant progress along the crowded
street, with gendarmes and sentry saluting and
bringing to the present arms, at every turn
and corner? Thus paying, to the bonnet and
brooches and massive cairngorm poniard, a
handsome homage.

The dark halting line and miscellany of strangers
unglorified by calling or uniform, and
displaying the "court" suit and neat mourning
costume of black evening coat, small clothes, and
black silk stockings, begins to wax thin. Gradually
it fines away, dropping off imperceptibly. Finally
the green sward is bare and clear, and the cord
of many strands is twisted and run out.

HOLDING UP THE MIRROR.

IF the writer of these presents prides himself
upon one point—and he is afraid he prides
himself upon a good many—it is on his possessing
an extraordinary stock of theatrical information.
This stock is derived entirely from a weekly
paper which is dropped down his area every
Sunday morning, and the perusal of which is
one of his greatest enjoyments. This journal,
well conducted and highly respectable, is the
chronicle of the theatrical, musical, and
"entertaining" world; its columns teem with
advertisements from professionals of every description;
from it the manager learns what talent
is disengaged, the actor what situations are
vacant, the author where his pieces are being
played, and to whom he is to look for remuneration;
it contains a synopsis of all the theatrical
performances in this country, and American hints
as to new pieces which are coming out across the
Atlantic; it gives profuse and erudite criticisms
on those which have been recently played; it