orange lay in piles within them, and stuck
to their wheels and sides; the dresses, hats,
and faces were covered with the yellow stain
of oranges. The warriors of the day began to
look jaded and worn; to take off their heavy
hats, stifling and dilapidated masks, and sit
limp in their seats, and refresh themselves with
wine and rest.

Shortly after four (the Carnival having begun at
noon) the crowd began to slacken, vehicles began
to drop out of the route, and the procession to
show long gaps in its line. Everybody seemed
to be hastening to the square and the steps of
the theatre, and soon the procession had
disappeared, excepting that now and then an
unusually persevering party came rollicking up
the street, singing some rude Breton song, and
trying to provoke one last battle by launching
the flattened oranges, which yet remained, at
the tired crowd. By this time the masquers
were somewhat the worse—or, considering
their greater vivacity and humour, perhaps
somewhat the better—for the white wine, which
is freely drunk, as may be imagined, on
Carnival day; and in the square, and on the portico
of the theatre, the orgie was still kept up, until
the thick dusk of a moonless February evening
threw a damper on the revellers, and sent them
reeling, singing, frolicking homeward.

"A curious sight," remarked Tompkins, as
we descended, and passed into the street, "but
after a fellow has been travelling all night, a
little too long to keep one's interest alive. I'm
glad it's over."

"Over?" said our Breton friend, with a shrug
and lifted eyebrows. "Then monsieur does
not care to see how they finish the Carnival?"

"By Jove! Is there anything more?"

"If monsieur is not too tired, after dinner,
we will go to one of the cabarets, and see
the Carnival dance."

Tompkins consented with a grunt; for, tired
as he might be, he was determined, as he said,
"to have his money's worth out of these
Frenchmen."

We passed through a zig-zag labyrinth of
narrow streets and dingy alleys, and finally
descended to a cellar some steps below the level of
the street, where we found ourselves in a buvette,
with a sanded floor, and where some labourers
were busy drinking the favourite white wine.
Our guide led us along a dark narrow
passage to a long, low-studded, rudely-built hall,
with brick floor, and tallow candles disposed at
rare intervals along the wall. The guests were
of the working classes, and were dressed in
their every-day attire, the long lace coifs of the
damsels being conspicuous everywhere. We had
just taken our seats when a portly, jovial old
fellow, his head surmounted by a square paper
cap, entered, followed by two garçons, who
brought in a large table, and set it in the middle
of the room. Anon the landlord reappeared with
a huge bowl, from whence a savoury steam arose
and filled the air. Shouts of delight greeted
the good cheer; glasses were quickly filled;
while a great brawny fellow with shaggy red
hair, jumped upon the table, and gesticulating
as only a Frenchman can, burst into a loud,
wild drinking song. When he came to the
chorus—which was something about oh yes,
we'll drink till the dawn, or some sentiment
equally original—it was roared out lustily by
the rest; men and women jumped on the table
and waved their hands, or danced with a wild
glee which was positively catching. Another
round of punch brought out, in spite of the
law, the glorious Marseillaise, which sounded
even grandly, so fervid were the voices, and
so earnest the faces. The drinking over, the
table was quickly pushed aside, the floor was
swept, and partners were chosen. Two sprightly
blue-bloused fellows stationed themselves on a
raised bench, with fiddle and trumpet, and
forthwith struck up a lively waltz. And such
waltzing as ensued! Without rhyme or method,
these lusty folk whirled off at every angle, regardless
of consequences, and wholly given up to
the moment's ecstasy. Now and then there
would be a general over tumbling, couple after
couple coming to the ground, and presenting
to the beholder a confused spectacle of petticoats
and cotton stockings hopelessly mixed up with
blue blouses and wooden shoes. The revel
ended with a grand jig, a combination of an
Irish jig and fashionable ballet, performed by
a blue blouse and a bonne. So frantically did
they distort their bodies, and pose themselves;
the man throwing the girl over his shoulder, she
kneeling and he bounding over her head; that
every moment you almost expected them to fall
to pieces. The man, as he danced, smoked a
long cigar; and now and then a long puff of
smoke, issuing from his mouth, produced a very
ludicrous effect.

          AT THE CLUB WINDOW.

               I. POCOCURANTE.

     SITTING alone at the window,
          I watch the crowd of people,
     And study as they pass me
          The warp and woof of life;
     Woven with good and evil,
          With sorrow and rejoicing,
     With peace and true affection,
          With agony and strife.

     I think as the old men saunter,
          Of the pangs they all have suffered,
     In the hard up-mountain struggle,
          To the bare and frosty cope:
     Of their patience and endurance,
          And the victory snatched from Fortune,
     Out of the pangs of death,
          Or at best forlornest hope.

     I think, neither sad nor happy,
          But filled with a vague surmising,
     That the young men strutting so proudly
          Must run the self-same race;
     No pity for the hindmost,
          And much applause for the foremost;
     Applause and pity both idle,
          To the heart not right in its place.