Warsaw— the whole of the earth on which this
acacia forest was intended to flourish having been
brought from a considerable distance to take the
place of the sandy soil of the plain. This grove
was intersected by regular streets, each leading,
like the spokes of a wheel, to the central point
of the great round (where head-quarters were
established), and counter-crossed by smaller
encircling lanes for the facility of intercommunication.
It would probably have afforded to the
traveller in a balloon the appearance of a huge
cobweb.

Skirting these streets and lanes were the
dwellings of the officers. Each of these had
more the appearance of a cottage ornée— a park
pavilion, the plaything dairy of an English
country lady, or the dear old Swiss cottage of
the Colosseum— than a military barrack lodging.
Each was tricked out, according to the fancy of
the owner, with woodwork tracery, creeper-
grown trellis-work, and similar rustic decoration,
and was generally surrounded by a broad
verandah in suburban villa taste. Each was
placed in its own garden, decked with the gayest
flowers, and cultivated with considerable care;
while over all stretched the light, sprayey,
dancing branches of the luxuriant acacias. The
buildings belonging to superior officers generally
contained four rooms. Officers of lower rank
contented themselves with only sitting-room and
bed-chamber. Some were even obliged to " chum"
together in one little villa in fraternal equality.
None of these military villas were of large
proportions; but, in most cases, they were very
luxuriously furnished, and adorned with nick-
nacks, prettinesses of all kinds, which might
have induced the mistake that the visitor had
penetrated into " my lady's boudoir" rather than
into a military "crib," had it not been for the
inevitable pipe-stand. Never had the " pomp of
war" put on so peaceful, pretty, and Watteau-
berger-like an air.

Behind these dwellings of the officers,
concealed as much as possible in the thickness of the
wood— for the picturesque had evidently been
studied in every respect, and the objects less
capable of being " effective" put out of sight—
stood the magazines, regimental offices, kitchens,
&c. &c.; and in the centre— the great spider
tenement of the gigantic cobweb— was the
mansion, the only one not made of wood or canvas,
which served for head-quarters, and as the
temporary residence of the grand-duke whenever he
visited the camp. The spider was ugly and
bloated, with a very business-like and awe-
inspiring air about it, and it told a plain truth,
which otherwise might have been forgotten, that
the whole scene was real and had a stern purpose,
and was not a pretty show got up for the amusing
exercise of some despot's hobby, or as an
enormous theatrical decoration.

Circumstances had made me acquainted with
several of the officers at that time lodging in the
encampment: and to a youth, alone in a foreign
land, the days passed upon this spot, amidst the
ever-varying military spectacle, were among the
brightest and most pleasant of his life. The
scene was one of constant animation and fanciful
colour; and, when the duties of the day were
over, and officers lounged and laughed in their
prettily bedizened rooms, or on garden benches
beneath the acacia shade, many a joyous evening
was passed, pipe in mouth, around the truly
Russian tea-table. At that time all cares seemed
to be thrown aside; and the foreigner at least
forgot, in the enjoyment of social intercourse, and
when hearts were opened to one another in
confidential interchange of feeling, that there might
be an Iscariot in that merry group, and that the
buoyancy and openness of a candid disposition
might be laid before the Grand-Duke Constantine
as a crime of magnitude. But suspicion and
reserve are not ingredients that can easily find
place in the mind of light-hearted youth.

The picture of one of these evenings rises up
before me again like the mirage of the desert.

I am seated with an officer on a bench beneath
one of the spreading acacias of his garden.
The regiment lies to the westward of his camp;
and spangles of light, shed through the flickering
leaves by an evening sun, and dancing on our
heads, as we laughingly discuss the last new
French novel— not yet forbidden literary food
for the Russian officers, as the French Revolution
of July has not yet broken out, and rendered
all that comes from that naughty country most
suspicious contraband. Other officers are leaning
over the garden railings, bowered with
convolvulus, and joining in the discussion. A burst
of music rises on the calm evening air. The
band of the regiment to which the officers belong
has struck up. It plays every evening for
half an hour previously to general prayer. Everybody
starts up, and lounges off as usual to the
spot, whence come the wild notes of Weber's
exquisite overture of Euryanthe, fitfully upon
the light breeze. The party reach the outer
wall of the camp, where they meet and greet
their brother-officers of the same regiment. The
regiment is drawn up in long lines, facing the
acacia wood, the band in front. The setting
sun behind, flings the lengthened shadows of the
men along the sand, and, whilst it throws the
masses into strong relief against the glowing sky
beyond, glances brightly from their bayonets
and their ornamented shakos. At a considerable
interval from the line of the regiment, to
which I am this evening on a visit, commences
that of another regiment similarly drawn up. Its
ranks gradually diminish in the perspective of
the distance, as far as the eye can reach, until the
turn of the circle hides its further continuance
from sight. On the other side is a similar display.

The military spectacle, which fills the segment
of the circle, visible from that spot, is the same
around the whole immense circle, that forms the
outer belt of the camp, until the complete
circumference is filled. To the overture succeed
airs from operas, waltzes, mazourkas, quadrilles.
At last the regimental band plays a solemn