graft new trees on them. This has been
long the glory of Paris—its luxurious
growth of trees. Every year the visitor
notes a fresh advance, and the ever-
mounting green keeps pace with the ever-
spreading glaring white of the buildings.

Just as I sit down and watch the workmen,
in company with dainty ladies and
family parties, who seem to think it quite a
little fête, the sound of music is heard; that
spirited bugle and drum, which common
sense might suggest to our Horse Guards,
that is, to those who sit on that throne,
would be more audible and inspiriting than
the comparatively feeble fifes. Every one
rises and runs in the direction of the music.
It is a regiment from the country, who
have been marching since eight o'clock, and
will go on by to-night's train to the front.
It is a picturesque spectacle—the mixture
of grey great coats and dusty red trousers
and facings; every cheek of a brick red.
They seem cruelly distressed with this
march, yet hurry on with admirable spirit,
with a freedom in their limbs and bodies,
which might be encouraged in our own men.

It was amazing to see how they were
laden. Every man's back looked like one
of those sherbet sellers, who carry a sort
of mysterious castle on their shoulders
containing that beverage. Every one had
the flexible knapsack of cowhide, with
the cloak and blanket wound round its
sides, and strapped to the knapsack a
vast tin cylinder, or tin circular dish, and
outside that again an enormous loaf of
coarse bread, about two feet in diameter.
At the sides of this load was strapped the
bundle of sticks for the tent. Some carried
their loaves stuck in grotesque fashion on
their guns, or on the tent sticks. But the
amount of tin displayed—in its unmetaphorical
sense— would have set up fifty
chefs de cuisine. Yet, with this tremendous
load, they never relaxed in their loose
and rapid sling walk; but they had no
stocks or collars, and their clothes were
loose and baggy, and would have scandalised
our English "Duke." In fact, they had
all a shabby look, but there was an air of
business and service about them. As they
marched on, some found even voice for the
Marseillaise, but the performance was weak
and ineffective. It was a pleasant tribute
to human nature to see the various publicans
rushing out with bottles and tumblers to
refresh the men, and never was ordinaire so
welcome. A dog on a cart passed by,
barking at the men, and a dozen rifles
were at once facetiously pointed at him.

It is a strange reflection that many of
these poor fellows are marching by cheerily
to death within a few days, with almost
as much certainty as the criminals used to
be driven to Tyburn long ago. Yet with
their jests, and even buffoonery, there is a
want of spirit, a dejection, in which the
spectators share. And there certainly is
none of that pride and confidence, that
heroic elation, with which the regiments of
both countries used to go to the Crimean
war. Most of all is this seen in the officers.
As was said before, there is an attempt at
carrying it off with a hopelessness
disguised under the air of jesting. With all
this fuss of volunteering, and rushing to
defend the country, there is, I am afraid,
no real heart in the matter. We look in
vain for the fierce, earnest men of the
Revolution. A gaudy variety of uniforms will
do little, to say nothing of carrying a rifle
about all day on one's shoulder.

More touching is it to see the new militaire
in his uniform, being driven about in
an open cab, with his sister or sweetheart
sitting beside him, creatures of humble rank,
trying to be happy together for the last
time.

III. PARIS BY NIGHT.

ALONG the Boulevards the usual gay
spectacle of Paris by night repeats itself. These
real halls of dazzling light are, of course,
peopled; but the crowd, the gay abandon,
the self-satisfied enjoyment are gone. The
times are too hard and serious for them.
The theatres are nearly all closed; those
open but half filled. In the face of disaster
it is plain that the bourgeois cannot
enjoy himself, or order his breakfasts and
dinners—and exquisite pastime that was!—
with the same unction as before. And here it
must be said that the Parisians recal
wonderfully another nation nearer home, and
connected by ties of a very intimate nature with
our own country. The enormous groups who
gather every night near kiosks, who listen
to an animated discussion on the war, and
hear explained how Bazaine is to cut off
the Prince Royal, as he is called, and how
MacMahon will effect a masterly junction
with him, and drive the invaders from the
soil of France, are perfectly Irish. Irish,
too, the confiding assent with which these
arrangements are accepted. Irish, too, the
shouting and crying, the gesticulation,
and fierce declamation common to every
one, as well as the delight in uniforms.
But we should never smile again at the
incoherent bombast of the Fenian newspapers.
They are sane, modest, and rational