himself deliberately on his stomach—his vis-
à-vis jumps over his body, and throws himself
down in the same position by his side, and then
the humourous pair twirl rapidly round to the
time of the orchestra, and at the proper
moment return to their feet with a spring. But
the performances of this ingenious couple
are outdone by the two gentlemen on the
right. While one absolutely stands upon his
head during his solo time, his opposite neighbour
brings him the two ladies, holding each
in the air, at arm's length. The carnival
humours have now fairly begun. The hussars
throw aside their shakos, the Hospodar
relieves himself from the weight of his turban,
the Roman takes his helmet off, and with it
his dignity. Barley-water and other sweet
drinks are consumed in great quantities.
The whirl—the madness—becomes absolutely
terrific before supper-time. Supper is served
as wildly as the dances have been danced.
Galantine, soup, wine, at once sour and abundant,
Savoy biscuits, grouped in twenty
different ways, and with various sweetening
essences, and bearing most dignified names,
and bits of poultry in curious sauces, make up
the supper. As the wine is imbibed; as the
consumption of punch becomes general; as
the champagne corks keep time to the rising
songs; and as the daylight breaks upon the
revellers, the scene becomes a most extravagant
one. Anybody is talking, and nobody
is listening. Twenty distinct songs are being
sung at the same time, until one singer with
a tremendous voice obtains a hearing. He
shouts some popular song; the revellers form
in lines, and singing the well-known air, make
a triumphal march round the ball-room. The
proceedings terminate usually with a tremendous
galop.

And then the Hospodar may be seen looking
mournfully out of a cab window at the good
country-people who are going with their loads
of vegetables to the Halle; at the milk-women
sitting under the great gateways, serving
their customers (for the Paris milkwomen
do not call upon the consumers); at the
hungry crowds of men and women, holding
all kinds of utensils, and pressing about the
doorways of the great restaurants, waiting
for the hour when the broken fragments of the
great dinners of yesterday shall be distributed
to the poor; at the crowds of men who are
removing the little heaps of rubbish from the
doorway of every house. The Hospodar is
happily in time for the opening of his patron's
shop, so he puts away his heavy turban
smooths his moustaches, and prepares for
the business of the day. He may, however,
be a tradesman on his own account; in this
case he saunters off to the nearest café to
dominoes and absinthe.

The reader has to imagine a hundred balls
—all on the model of that described, and all
going on at the same time; also balls of more
pretension, and more splendid dresses, in
the fashionable quarters; with the great ball
at the Tuileries at the head of the list—and he
may have a faint picture of the gaiety of a
carnival night in Paris. The street display
has dwindled to a mere melancholy pretence,
Paris has ceased to wear a mask out of doors,
but in the salons—in the great assembly
rooms—on the ball nights at the Italian
Opera—then, people in various disguises,
give way to their mirthful spirit, and, from a
privacy which is safe from invasion, flirt and
laugh to their heart's content.

In the streets, the butchers with their
prize ox enjoy a monopoly of public favours;
but the stranger must not think that Paris no
longer wears a mask, because the mask is not
worn on the Boulevards, or in the fashionable
walk of the Champs Elysées.

                                 AT THY PERIL.

         "Am I my brother's keeper?"
              Awake from dreams to-day!
         Arouse thee, careless sleeper,
              Cast not the thought away.
         Thou from a golden chalice
              Dost drink the ruby wine,
         Thine home a stately palace,
              Where wealth and splendour shine.

          " Art thou thy brother's keeper?"
              Life's page to thee reads fair,
           But gaze a little deeper,
              And other tales lie there.
           With sullen look and stolid,
             'Mid wretchedness and strife,
            Beneath yon roof-tree squalid,
              How drags thy brother's life?

          "Art thou thy brother's keeper?"
             Swift as the viewless wind,
          Speeds on one mighty Reaper,
             His harvest sheaves to bind;
          His earliest prey finds shelter
             These sordid roofs beneath,
          Where vice and misery swelter
             In hot-beds ripe for Death.

         " Art thou thy brother's keeper?"
            Such homes abut on thine,
        The dim eyes of the weeper
            Mocked by thy banquet's shine.
         Say'st thou, " Such ills are nameless,
            They touch not such as we!"
         Alas! canst Thou be blameless,
            That things like This should be?

        " Art thou thy brother's keeper?"
            One course the foe doth run,
        Nor Volga's stream nor Dnieper
            Bars out this ruthless Hun.
        Who shall the myriads number,
            This " Scourge of GOD " may kill?
        While sunk in selfish slumber
             Securely dream ye still?

        Thou ART thy brother's keeper,
            This charge thou canst not flee,
        The path of right grows steeper
            Daily to him, to thee.
        A reckoning shall be taken,
             A reckoning stern and deep.
        Woe! unto those who waken
            Then first from careless sleep!