beside the childish ravings, the utter froth of
some of these Paris papers. You may buy
them half a dozen times and never find a
scrap of news; but, instead, paragraphs of
wild, heated nonsense, with which the Paris
reader is, unhappily, too ready to be content.
I read to-day, "At last a great victory!"
which is the success of the loan. "At Berlin
they would tremble—Bismark, the assassin,
would shake in his shoes!" The favourite
phrase is, "From day to day everything
ameliorates." "The government is in
possession of news, which for strategical
reasons it forbears to communicate." Or such
twaddle as this: "Last night, as the Sieur
X. was proceeding home, he was consternated
to see his child—a ravishing little
boy of six years old—seated on the steps
in a miniature Garde Mobile cap. 'See,
papa,' lisped the engaging child, 'how I
have laid out grandpapa's present.' The
father took him in his arms and could not
refrain from tears. The bystanders testified
their emotion at this touching spectacle."
I see on the walls everywhere
little manuscript notices from those who
think it a suitable opportunity to make a
little money out of their country. These
gently offer themselves as substitutes in the
most enticing terms. "An ancient militaire
in retreat, who has served in the
Crimea, will be willing to serve during the
whole of the present war as substitute.
Lowest sum seventy-five pounds." Some
ask a hundred pounds: some so low as
twenty. "But this," as a bystander remarked,
"was some old remnant, who would
be dear at the money." On these little
notices all sorts of impertinencies offensive
to the proposers are scrawled.

In this disastrous state of affairs we try
and keep up our spirits by all the arts we
know. This is done laboriously, and with
never-flagging pains, but, somehow, it does
not answer. The eternal Marseillaise is
appealed to again and again, and a good deal
of money and trouble is laid out upon
this famous song and others of congenial
spirit. Thus, in the White Cat, one of
those prodigious spectacular efforts which
last a whole night, a little boy comes on
between the acts, with a wheezy, though
shrill, voice, and, dressed in green tail-coat
with white facings, gives The Volunteers
of '92. He does it with spirit, and nearly
cracks his little throat as he tramples
imaginary invaders under his small boot,
and shrieks about "le sol de not' patrie!"
But the applause, though good-natured, is
mild enough. The thoughtful part of the
audience is, perhaps, beginning to see that
there has been too much trust in these
stage effects, and that they have small
effect on invaders off the stage. So, too,
when I look in at another great theatre,
and find that the director of a certain
London music hall has transferred his ballet
to the French stage. Here, at ten o'clock,
the curtain drew up, and discovered a glade
where some forty or fifty glorious defenders
of liberty—in song at least—appear,
arranged in cocked-hats, and leggings, and
breeches, standing in a long, gloomy, and
certainly meaningless line. The bill promised
us over a hundred, but there did not
seem nearly so many. In their faces was
written a stern determination not to allow
"the soil of the country to be touched by
the invader's foot," if hard singing could
prevent it. A hectic-looking hero, dressed
half like a sailor, half like a chef, stood
ready, bearing what was really taken by
many English present for a barber's pole,
but which, on being unfurled, took shape
honestly as a tricolour flag. In this gentleman's
air was clearly business—and gloomy
business too. Then a tremendous orchestra
—strong in brass and drums—struck up
Allons Enfans, &c. But the singer's voice
was comparatively feeble, his chest inferior,
and out in the open air, where his lungs were
supposed to encourage the flagging volunteers,
would have been ineffective. The
orchestra seemed to contain cannon, for the
grosse caisse thundered terrifically at Aux
Armes, and, indeed, the whole scoring was
very unconventional and spirited. At the
third verse he, of course, took the flag from
a bystander, and with it did wonderful
business—now holding it aloft, now carrying
it on his shoulder like a gun, and letting
the bunting float behind him as a
background. Yet the whole fell flat. The
audience did not leap to its feet, and
though the claque worked hard in the
gallery, the encore that followed was of a
humiliating sort—an encore from the stage.
Again, looking in, on a lovely balmy night,
at those pleasant concert cafés in the
Elysian Fields, where, afar off, through
the trees blazes the brilliant stage, and
the notes of a singer float to us with
wonderful distinctness; a young lady gives
En Avant to a spirited marching tune,
which ought, at least, to have set every
foot in the place moving. But, no. There
are a couple of hundred volunteers present,
in caps and blouses, all placed together by
the administration, and most likely
admitted free, but their applause is very faint
indeed. It must be owned that the
administration everywhere is very indulgent