It overflows with the sacerdotal element,
and in case of extremity you would be only
embarrassed with redundancy of spiritual aid. I
know also the significance of the two lean
sentries at the gate, who, by their lean faces and
coarse grey coats, of the prison or workhouse
colour, hanging on them in bags, and garnished
with pewter buttons, unconsciously resuscitate
the lanky soldier who staggered under a famous
chine of beef at Mr. William Hogarth's Calais
Gate. The potentate they do honour to, has
been whispered of for weeks back, and has
now but newly come. He is at the sign of
Pallas Athene and her wise bird. Rustics
stand about and eye the lean sentries curiously.
Do they remark (as I do, and it is a very
painful eyesore) that the pewter buttons of
this left-hand sentry are buttoned all awry;
or are they speculating upon this carriage now
driving up, with the four gentlemen in the
French hats inside, and whom lean sentries
(buttoned awry) salute noisily? Crowd hurries
up in an instant. He— that short dark man—
of the true French colonel stamp, who
springs out so light, is the general, the fighting
Algerian and famous Legitimist warrior. He
sits in his chamber on that first floor, with
orderlies waiting in the lobby. He has changed
the face of the hotel sacerdotal. He has made
the goddess furbish up her old armour. Staff
officers come and go. Later I see one: tall,
handsome, of good figure, his military frock
fitting him without a wrinkle (it was cut out by
no Roman tailor), mounting his charger in the
court. He looks an earnest soldier, and has
seen fighting; but I am more struck by a
mournful preoccupied look in his eyes, that
seems to speak of a sad fixity of purpose.
I meet him, now descending the stairs with
a broad despatch in his hand, now clattering
down some narrow street with a mounted
dragoon behind him. But the same stern, sad
fire looks out from his eyes, as he thinks that
perhaps another orderly, in the shape of Atra
Cura, is riding unseen beside. When some one
tells me that this is Colonel Pimodan, chief of
the staff to General Lamoricière, it much helps
me, and the name passes me by lightly; but now
the name recurs to me with events of yesterday,
with a suspicion that some presage or presentiment
was working under those handsome features.

It seemed an odd conception that fixity of
head-quarters at an hostelry, and setting up the
Horse Guards at the sign of the Dragon. But
they do fierce battle at dinner-time, and are
terrible customers these gentlemen of the staff.
I see them at the daily banquet, sitting, many
together, and victualling on the old anticipating
system so admirably inculcated by the late
Major Dalgetty. There is the old French
officer, whose jaws seem to me to work as by
some artificial mechanical agency, whose
performance is something fearful to look at, and
who though he at different occasions has lost
out of his person various teeth, muscles,
tendons, and important bones still has apparently
suffered in no respect in the matter of relish
and appetite. It is a marvel to see that ancient
officer chopping and munching his food.

Not many days since, wandering into the
spacious Piazza of Saint Peter's, I found the
fruits of this hostelry Horse Guards already in
full work and vigour. That superb approach
has become a training-ground, and is dotted
over with parties of the lank, lean, Calais Gate
soldiery, at drill. Such poor stuff, such
insufficient food for powder! O great miscellany of
the pewter-buttoned and cold workhouse-toned
grey! you must first fill in those bags and
wrinkles with good solid meat, before the
Algerine can make much of you! They seem to
me of the same texture and quality as that
notable leg of mutton which Dr. Johnson once
partook of, when coaching it up or down for
Lichfield, and which he vehemently stigmatised
as " ill kept, ill dressed, ill cooked, and as bad
as bad could be." The practice was, I suppose,
no worse and no more awkward than elemental
drilling all the world over. There were the
stiff hands galvanised (palms forward) to the
sides of the human figure; the strained neck,
and the goggling eyes with the alarming stare.
They were at their goose-step, poor boys, and
reflected the gait of that familiar bird very
faithfully. It is curious, certainly, to see an
officer playing drill-sergeant, and stepping
backwards in front of that doubtful, hesitating line,
which now reels into a concave arc, now wriggles
into a perfect snake. Officer may shout hoarsely
and take measurements with that steel
instrument of his, but I suspect it will be long before
he shall work up these raw recruits into good
fighting fabric. If Santo Padre would but come
to that high window yonder, and look down
upon these combative children of his! It
would not be encouraging.

Writing in the banqueting-chamber of our
hostelry, seated on a sort of steep sliding bank
popularly known as a sofa, I hear the braying
of military music below in the street, and fly to
the balcony. I see a whole regiment of
blue-and-gold men-at-arms defiling under the
windows—privates, officers, drummers even—all
faced and smeared plentifully with gold-lace.
The Palatine Guard, or Loyal Pontifical
Volunteers, all the tailors, hatters, and other
artificers, who have embodied themselves into
this flashy corps. In return for such
devotion, the state must, at its own charges, find
them the showiest uniform that can be got for
money. But what rivets my whole attention
is the mounted officer who rides in front: a
youth of not more than three or four-and-twenty:
the most corpulent, plethoric, florid
youth my eye has ever rested on. They have
their music, too, which works obstreperously.
I see that, after office and shop hours, they
delight in showing themselves and their gaudy
clothes at public ceremonies, where they are
treated obsequiously; and I find the Giornale
di Roma repeatedly complimenting them on
their attendance, in some such form as, "We
observed among the crowd several of the new
Palatine Guard in full regimentals, who have