animation. Here there are, of course, more
soldiers—performing prodigies of prospective
valour in quelling contingent outbreaks—
heroic cavaliers in the cause of order, which
has not yet been violated. A picturesque
group they are; some lounging in their
saddles, or leaning against their horses' sides,
whistling and singing, cracking rude jokes,
and smoking short pipes. As an Englishman
gazes on their bronze faces and martial
bearing, it occurs to him that if the French
army had been made up of such fellows as
these, a celebrated person, now lying
tranquilly in the Invalides, might possibly have
made his way to Brussels on a certain
occasion!

Leaving that important question still
unsettled, we pass on to the "Grand Stand"—a
hastily-constructed wooden edifice, where a
very respectable selection of the nobility and
gentry, grisettes and gamins, of Paris, are
accommodated with seats at a cost of something
less than a ruinous amount in sous. In this
vicinity may be seen such important persons
as the "promoters of the breed of horses",
from whom the umpires are selected—like
the Pope from the Cardinals. Here, too, are
booths for refreshment, of which it does not
seem fashionable to partake; they are
apparently placed there to give an air of
conviviality to the proceedings. Round the
Grand Stand the crowd is, as usual, thickest;
but there is no noise, no confusion, and above
all, no " thimble-rigging," or " rigging " of any
other description; the crowd is patient and
well-bred, like the audience at a theatre.—
Stay, there is an exception out yonder, where
there seems to be a struggle of some kind,
and from whence " strange oaths " are borne
upon the breeze. I ask an ancien militaire
with a decoration in his button-hole, who has
stopped me to take a light for his cigar, what
is the matter? " Nothing at all," is the
answer—simply "deux messieurs qui ise battre.
"The "deux messieurs" are presently led past
me, and a pair of more horrible ruffians I
think I never beheld—but the politeness of
the old school has nothing to do with mere
facts. Alas, that these fine courtesies should
be passing away from us!

Another diversion in the crowd. They are
evidently getting tired of waiting. This time
the gentlemen of France are not tearing each
others eyes out nor kicking each other in
the face—proceedings inseparable from the
pleasant French system of boxing. A
professor of great science is delivering a
lecture, which he illustrates by experiments.
He has placed his foot upon a little
wooden bench, which he carries about with
him for the purpose, and the first impression
of the innocent spectator is that he is
about to tie his shoe. Nothing of the kind.
Observe, he takes from his pocket a necker-
chief, with which he solemnly invests his leg,
just above the knee, with as much care as ever
dandy bestowed upon his throat. His object
is to teach the public that noble art—the
want of which has driven so many men into
Coventry or despair, and the possession of
which made the fortune of the late Mr.
Brummel—the art of tying a cravat! See
with what interest he is watched. Aspiring
youth sees the gratification of its ambition—
unsuccessful middle age feels that there is yet
hope—as the Professor, with a volubility of
tongue and dexterity of finger equally difficult
to follow, demonstrates every variety of knot,
bow, or tie, from the highly-respectable,
uncompromising rigidity that says capitalist in
every wrinkle, down to—or shall we say up
to?—the most graceful negligence that ever
embittered the working hours of an exquisite.
I notice, by the way, that the Professor,
though impressing upon others the
importance of his art, has arranged his
own neck most inartistically—a seeming
contradiction; but then bishops do not
always practise what they preach, any more
than doctors are remarkable for taking
their own prescriptions. The lecture was
immensely successful, and the lecturer made
his bow amidst a shower of copper. As
my young friend Glum said the other day,
when an English manager refused his tragedy,
"France is, after all, the foster-mother of
Genius!"

But surely it is time for the races to
commence? Time? Yes; it is two hours after
the hour appointed. The jockeys are, doubtless,
being weighed—and found wanting, perhaps,
in many qualifications, as French jockeys
usually are. A loud roar—and shouts of
laughter chorused all over the field. Here
they come, that's certain but with a strange
sort of welcome! No; it is only a dog
running over the course; a dog of sporting
appearance, who makes his way at once
into the ring. At last the great opportunity has
arrived for the military to assert itself. The
army is not to be trifled with. A score of
dragoons at once make an impetuous charge
against the invader, whom they chase all over
the field; But never since Abd-el-Kader
defied the French legions in Algeria, have
Frenchmen found so formidable a foe. An
enemy making a steady resistance may be
easily overcome by numbers; but an enemy
who will not fight, nor altogether fly, is terrible.
Now, he seems inclined to run for it; they
will have him for certain! Twenty hoarse
voices are raised in concert—twenty sabres
gleam in the sunshine—twenty steeds rebound
from the pressure of forty spurs, and thunder
forward with resistless fury. Nothing can
withstand the charge—except the enemy, who
is on a sudden seen very quietly twenty yards
behind his pursuers. The troop now wheel
round in admirable style, and attempt to cut
the animal down with their sabres. Somehow,
he is always under the horses' legs; and a
horse, it is well known, is not the more
manageable under such circumstances. The
crowd laugh louder and louder, and the