master." Face-Maker dips, rises, wears the
wig on one side, has become the feeblest
military bore in existence, and (it is clear)
would lie frightfully about his past achievements,
if he were not confined to pantomime.
"The Miser!" Face-Maker dips, rises, clutches
a bag, and every hair of the wig is on end
to express that he lives in continual dread of
thieves. "The Genius of France!" Face-
Maker dips, rises, wig pushed back and smoothed
flat, little cocked-hat (artfully concealed till now)
put a-top of it, Face-Maker's white waistcoat
much advanced, Face-Maker's left hand in bosom
of white waistcoat, Face-Maker's right hand
behind his back. Thunders. This is the first
of three positions of the Genius of France.
In the second position, the Face-Maker takes
snuff; in the third, rolls up his right hand, and
surveys illimitable armies through that pocket-
glass. The Face-Maker then, by putting out
his tongue, and wearing the wig nohow in
particular, becomes the Village Idiot. The
most remarkable feature in the whole of his
ingenious performance, is, that whatever he does
to disguise himself, has the effect of rendering
him rather more like himself than he was at first.

There were peep-shows in this Fair, and I had
the pleasure of recognising several fields of glory
with which I became well acquainted a year or
two ago as Crimean battles, now doing duty as
Mexican victories. The change was neatly
effected by some extra smoking of the Russians,
and by permitting the camp followers free range
in the foreground to despoil the enemy of their
uniforms. As no British troops had ever happened
to be within sight when the artist took his
original sketches, it followed fortunately that
none were in the way now.

The Fair wound up with a ball. Respecting
the particular night of the week on which the
ball took place, I decline to commit myself
merely mentioning that it was held in a stable-
yard so very close to the railway, that it is a
mercy the locomotive did not set fire to it. (In
Scotland, I suppose it would have done so.)
There, in a tent prettily decorated with looking-
glasses and a myriad of toy flags, the people
danced all night. It was not an expensive
recreation, the price of a double ticket for a cavalier
and lady being one and threepence in English
money, and even of that small sum fivepence
was reclaimable for "consommation:" which
word I venture to translate into refreshments of
no greater strength, at the strongest, than ordinary
wine made hot, with sugar and lemon in it.
It was a ball of great good humour and of great
enjoyment, though very many of the dancers
must have been as poor as the fifteen subjects of
the P. Salcy Family.

In short, not having taken my own pet
national pint pot with me to this Fair, I was
very well satisfied with the measure of simple
enjoyment that it poured into the dull French-
Flemish country life. How dull that is, I had
an opportunity of considering when the Fair was
over—when the tri-colored flags were withdrawn
from the windows of the houses on the Place
where the Fair was held—when the windows
were close shut, apparently until next Fair-
time—when the Hôtel de Ville had cut off its
gas and put away its eagle—when the two
paviours, whom I take to form the entire paving
population of the town, were ramming down the
stones which had been pulled up for the erection
of decorative poles—when the jailer had slammed
his gate, and sulkily locked himself in with his
charges. But then, as I paced the ring which
marked the track of the departed hobby-horses on
the market-place, pondering in my mind how long
some hobby-horses do leave their tracks in
public ways, and how difficult they are to erase,
my eyes were greeted with a goodly sight. I
beheld four male personages thoughtfully pacing
the Place together, in the sunlight, evidently
not belonging to the town, and having upon
them a certain loose cosmopolitan air of not
belonging to any town. One was clad in a suit
of white canvas, another in a cap and blouse,
the third in an old military frock, the fourth in
a shapeless dress that looked as if it had
been made out of old umbrellas. All wore dust-
coloured shoes. My heart beat high; for, in
those four male personages, although complexionless
and eyebrowless, I beheld four subjects of
the Family P. Salcy. Blue-bearded though they
were, and bereft of the youthful smoothness of
cheek which is imparted by what is termed in
Albion a  Whitechapel shave" (and which is,
in fact, whitening, judiciously applied to the
jaws with the palm of the hand), I recognised
them. As I stood admiring, there emerged from
the yard of a lowly Cabaret, the excellent Ma
Mère, Ma Mère, with the words, "The soup is
served;" words which so elated the subject in the
canvas suit, that when they all ran in to partake,
he went last, dancing with his hands stuck angularly
into the pockets of his canvas trousers, after
the Pierrot manner. Glancing down the Yard, the
last I saw of him was, that le looked in through
a window (at the soup, no doubt) on one leg.

Full of this pleasure, I shortly afterwards
departed from the town, little dreaming of an
addition to my good fortune. But more was in
reserve. I went by a train which was heavy
with third-class carriages, full of young fellows
(well guarded) who had drawn unlucky numbers
in the last conscription, and were on their way
to a famous French garrison town where much
of the raw military material is worked up into
soldiery. At the station they had been sitting
about, in their threadbare homespun blue
garments, with their poor little bundles under their,
arms, covered with dust and clay, and the various
soils of France; sad enough at heart, most of
them, but putting a good face upon it, and slapping
their breasts and singing choruses on the
smallest provocation; the gayer spirits shouldering
half loaves of black bread speared upon
their walking-sticks. As we went along, they
were audible at every station, chorusing wildly
out of tune, and feigning the highest hilarity.
After a while, however, they began to leave off
singing, and to laugh naturally, while at intervals
there mingled with their laughter the barking of a