extravagancies of humour to be found only
on the banks of the Seine. He has already
observed many kinds of horrible masks lying
in heaps in shop windows, false noses with a
huge bunch of carrots marked upon them,
noses turned about like a corkscrew, and
suggestive of the indecision of the owner, on
the relative merits of the Roman and the
pug; noses of proportions altogether irreconcilable
with any human face. Then there
are terrible Gorgons' heads, faces with livid
green eyes, countenances of ghastly hue,
physiognomies displaying the Parisian turn
for horrible practical jokes upon the regular
features of an ordinary man's head. The
extravagant caricature of the masks is only
equalled by the wild imagination displayed in
the fancy costumes. These dangle about you
as you pass through the narrow streets, and
arrest your attention by their bright colours.
The arcades are filled with elegant dominoes;
the Rue de Seine exhibits disguises at once
effective and cheap. The stranger who has
watched all these preparations, who has read
the glowing words printed upon gay posters,
who has heard the rapturous anticipations of
"charmants " balls, and who has heard from
the waiter of the hotel that he, on one night
of the carnival, will figure in a princely suit,
will inevitably rise on the first carnival morning
with some haste. He will be awoke,
probably, by the loud voice of the Parisian
patterer crying the authentic account of the
route to be followed by the great procession
of the "BÅ“uf Gras!"

The day is very bright: the streets swarm
with holiday people. The omnibuses are
crowded; blouses are to be seen in cabs very
frequently; the open places are gay with
snow-white caps and bright shawls; children
may be counted by thousands. But where
are the masks? You are directed to the
Boulevards, or to the Champs Elysées:
besides, the day is young. A stroll for two or
three hours, relieved by a demi-tasse at the
Rotonde, gives proper age to the festival. It
is now quite the afternoon. Every Parisian
has had his breakfast: in other words, it is
three o'clock. The Boulevards are certainly
crowded; but again comes the question—
where are the masks? Let us confess to a
decided disappointment. We stroll about
discontentedly. Presently, however, we hear
a great uproar in the distance. People shout,
press forward, laugh, and gesticulate, as a
large open cart approaches, crammed with
nine or ten young fellows dressed in
indescribable costumes. Each mask is addressing
the crowd from his point of the vehicle, and
occasionally throwing sweetmeats amongst
them to enjoy the confusion of the scramble.
The wild fun passes rapidly on, surrounded
by a shouting crowd; and, by degrees, the
noise dies away. The maskers look very
like a group of supernumeraries dragged from
the burlesque of a third-class theatre. We
still stroll. We meet little children in all
kinds of fancy costumes. Little girls with
powdered hair, and white three-cornered hats;
boys, by hundreds, in regimentals. The
Champs Elysées are crowded—but the fancy
dresses are almost without exception upon
children. Everybody looks happy—
anticipating the fun of the carnival:—but where is
the fun? It is true that, amid the yells of a
crowd of boys, a couple of maskers have
passed, consisting of a woman dressed in man's
clothes, and a man in petticoats; but surely
there is nothing very funny or very
commendable, or even harmless, in that! The
Luxembourg gardens are crowded, but the
masks are very few even here—where the
decorum of stiff people is replaced by the free
and easy habits of students. After all, the
procession of the fat ox is the great event of
the carnival—that is, of the carnival seen in
the streets. Accordingly, crowds of people
assemble at the great points where this
wonderful procession is to halt, and the crowding
is nowhere, perhaps, more severe than before
the entrance to the Luxembourg Palace. The
official paper has announced that the procession
will reach the Palace gates between two
and three o'clock; but the Parisians appear
to know, from experience, that an hour and a
half's grace is not too much consideration for
the corpulency of the ox. At about half-past
three, therefore, people begin to cluster near
the gateway, and soldiers are posted with their
bayonets fixed along the approaches. Nurses
come pouring from the stately gardens of the
palace, with their gaily dressed charges;
soldiers of every regiment stroll—their hands
deep in the pockets of their wide trousers—to
the attractive spot; blouses appear in groups
fourteen or fifteen strong; boys climb into
the recesses of the palace windows, and shut
out the light from the orange trees within;
vendors of gingerbread and liquorice-water
advance noisily upon the scene, and the gay
equipages of Napoleon's senators dash, at
intervals, into the courtyard of the senate
house.

Drums in the distance proclaim the
approach of the great procession. At the extreme
end of the Rue Vaugirard the gleaming spears
and helmets of the cavaliers are distinctly
visible. The peppery little soldiers near the
palace gates push the people back most
energetically, as two very gay footmen—one in
sky blue satin edged with lace—walk forward,
with a stately step, heralding the coming splendour.
Of course the next personage of
importance who approaches the gateway is a most
formidable drum-major, with his enormous
stick—about the size and shape of an ordinary
curtain pole! Thirty or forty drummers obey
the waving of this impressive baton. These
are all dressed in the regimentals of drummers
of the last century. Behind them follow
cavaliers of all ages—well dressed, and well
mounted. Next on the list are men bearing
banners; these are followed by Druids—
one Druid, by the way, with a short pipe