and patriotic; and at the great theatres I
see a good-natured director taking up some
of the soldiers, who are in bad places in
the parterre, into choice and select berths
in the boxes. Poor souls! all this is like
providing a good breakfast for the
condemned criminal.

To come home about midnight after the
play is over has some dramatic points. The
cafés are about closing, so the country's
health cannot be drunk any more. But in
the distance we hear the cracked voices of
roysterers, trying to yell the national hymn,
and we presently find that these disturbers
consist of a select party of four. No one
joins in, many turn away as if bored by the
whole thing.

IV. PARIS AT PRAYERS.

BUT in all this fanfare, and dressing-up
for the stage, if we should wish to come upon
a bit of genuine nature, let us cross this
noisy place in front of the Exchange, where
Mammon reigns, and where on the steps of
that fine building a screaming as of ravens
and vultures mounts to the sky. Then
down this dark, old-fashioned street to the
right, past that great archway, whence in
old days the huge diligence of Lafitte used
to emerge. Here, at the end of the street, is a
great old-fashioned church, that of Our Lady
of Victories. All day long, from morning
till the open space in front is crowded with
carriages: all day long, and all night long,
the stream of people is pouring in and pouring
out. Inside it is a huge antique interior,
with enormous oil-paintings hung round.
But the altar and all about the altar is
ablaze with votive candles. And here are
praying—oh, how earnestly!—the mothers
and sisters of Paris. Nothing more touching
can be imagined. That pale small face,
of the regular French lady type, the black
silk, the shawl wrapped round, eyes uplifted,
hands clasped, all turned to that image of
Our Lady of Victories, the patroness to
whom so many a soldier has put up his
prayers. Here, too, unusual sight, is many
a Frenchman, and, stranger still, many a
French officer. They have sons, perhaps, in
Metz. Every inch of the walls of the church
is incrusted with small marble tablets,
literally in thousands, each with an inscription
of acknowledgment for some prayer heard or
favour received. There is something very
pathetic in the warmth of gratitude in nearly
all these little offerings, which mostly relate
to war. "For my husband, preserved to me
during the Crimean war." Every hour of
the day it is the same; the silent quick
entry, the flinging oneself down on one's
knees, the earnest agonised entreaty of a
few minutes, the quiet withdrawal. What
Covenanter, however stern, shall venture
to sneer at such a scene? And yet some
of our English brethren do!

V. ENGLISH IN PARIS.

OUR country folk will no doubt keep up
their conventional reputation during this
crisis. They seem to be hopelessly
incurable; as blunt, as noisy, as intellectually
rough and angular, and as unsympathising
as ever. We met only one exception, the
honest captain of the packet who took us to
the port, which he, of course, called "Boolonn;"
not "Boolong," which the sailors
never say. Even he deplored the behaviour
of the great English newspaper feelingly:
"I know them all there this twenty year,"
he says, "and they are a kindly, friendly,
quiet set, minding their work and working
hard. They're uncommon sore on it, they
are, and bitter too. And for the life of me
I can't make out why it should be so. Do
you understand it, sir?" He then explains
how one of the familiar cries of the mob is
now, "A bas le Times!" And though
there may be a little selfishness in the
expostulation of this worthy mariner, as he
found his French friends rather changed
in their bearing to him, there was still a
sentiment below it all.

Between Amiens and Paris there came
an irruption into the carriage of four horsey
Englishmen domiciled in France, and who
seemed to be wealthy dealers, either in hay
or horses. There were Frenchmen in the
other seats; but these islanders, at the top
of their voices, proceeded to comment
heartily and with enjoyment on the disastrous
events of the war. "Pooh, Bazaine!
what can he do? In ten days the Germans
will be in Paris. The French can't stand
an hour against 'em. Bless your soul,
we'll see 'em picketing their horses in the
Chongs Eleezey yet—and uncommon good
horses they have. A sight better than any
in this country. Well, now, and what do
they say in England? You know the
Times is quite right. They can't stand a
week," &c. A sinister-looking Frenchman
opposite seems to writhe as he catches
scraps of this depreciation. But our
Englishmen are very big and strong-looking.
It is a relief when they get out. So, too,
in the salons of the Grand Hôtel. When
a courteous French gentleman, seeing a
grizzly Scot devouring the newly-arrived
English journal, asks for the last news in
broken English, the Scot tells him the
whole deliberately, but with an indelicacy