look at, which make long converging lines
down the street, and burn steadily; for there
is not a breath of wind abroad. Afar off—up
in the clouds—he sees the fiery letters F.W.,
standing for Friedrich Wilhelm, written in the
air, but which he knows to be attached to the
highest pinnacle of the Great Dom.

Much pleased with what he has witnessed,
he turns his steps once more to the
gardens, whence float already strains of soft
music. Here, too, he finds an extempore
effort at illumination, very pleasing and
effective; the coloured lanterns abounding
in all directions—being hung in festoons,
shrouded in bushes, and swinging from every
available twig and branch. While, from the
Resident's bow-window, streams rich
effulgence of light—plain token that royal Friedrich
was even now in the drawing-room—all
the respectabilities are gathered below in the
gardens, promenading; but are chiefly
clustered round a group of some sixty or seventy
singing-men, with scraps of music in their
hands—societies of Liedertafel, Concordia,
and Orphea, all fused into one for this great
night. Notable societies, too, that have
perigrinated in foreign countries, and have won
fame, and medailles d'honneur, and yards of
ribbon, and Heaven knows what beside. The
musik-corps of the royal twenty-eighth
infanterie regiment shall lend their aid during
singing intervals; discoursing music of
Wagner, Mendelssohn, and Meyerbeer, with
excellent effect. Meantime, figures—one
particularly, a tall, czar-like personage: king's
brother, says one of the crowd—are to be
seen looking forth from the blaze of light in
the bow-window. The singing-men draw
closer together, and in a few seconds have
sent abroad upon the night a soft abendlied,
or even-song, with a most bewitching burden
of Gute Nacht! Gute Nacht! Wondrous
enchanters are these singing-men, with
strange power over their voice: now hushing
them in curious lulls, now sending them
abroad with startling power and effect. At
one moment the stranger thinks he must be
listening to rich swelling organ tones in a
cathedral aisle, at the next, that musik-corps
of the royal twenty-eighth must of a surety
have begun to play, so metallic have grown
the chords: all, however, eventually resolving
into mellifluous melody of Gute Nacht!
Gute Nacht! bearing it home to their couches,
chaunting it softly as they go along.

Yet has it failed utterly to draw royal
Friedrich to the window. Stately dames and
czar-like personage have come and hearkened
gratefully, and wait for more. All save royal
Friedrich; who makes no sign. Who shall
say whether he be in that bright atmosphere
at all, or still down in the banquet-room with
the Resident, busy over those tapering silver-
topped flasks before mentioned. But,
however that may be, the singing-men bestir
themselves valiantly, and the musik-corps of
the royal twenty-eighth are not behind-hand
with Tannhauser's selection and Sommernacht's
Dream. And so runs on the lightest
hour the hapless money-bound has spent since
care overtook him.

But there is other festivity in petto. A night
or so more, and the town shall give a fête or
bal paré in the Great White Chamber before
mentioned, to townfolk of every degree and
quality. All shall be welcome, from Madame
down to suburban Couturière—from M. le
Maire to Coiffeur's unctuous foreman. For
all that, they shall be very merry, and enjoy
themselves exceedingly. Even the money-
bound thinks he will be present too, just to
keep up his failing spirits.

It has a gay and glittering aspect, the
Great White Chamber, lighted up with many
chandeliers, and just beginning to be thinly
peopled at the early hour of eight o'clock.
Exceedingly pretty the prospect looking
down the room, with its rich, painted ceiling
overhead, and the lights reflected back from
the dark, shining floor. Enthusiasts might
sorrowfully bethink them of the days of Le
Jeu, and fancy the palmy time again with that
warm, cozy chamber hard by, under shaded
lamps playing on a waste of green baize and
velvet cushioning, the exciting pastime going
forward, to the music of Croupier's
monotonous chaunting.

Prodigious efforts have the kur-comitè been
making to lend grace to the festival. Thus
the stranger, leaning carelessly against the
snow-white pillar, sees, afar off, a very bower
of green trees, behind which are cunningly
shrouded the musicians; whence, as from a
grove, are wafted soft sounds all the night
long. Hard by, in a convenient chamber,
are symptoms of an abundant supper, with
store of cooling ice preparations for
wearied Terpsichoreans, but subject, alas!
to certain fiscal regulations, suggesting
doubts as to whether café-keeper below may
not have deeper interest in such recurring
festivity.

By and by, he takes note of the quality of
the invited, as they promenade to and fro
seeking partners for the contre danse. For
the men, he is constrained to admit that they
are plainly of the coiffeur species—at which
conclusion point certain little eccentricities
of costume, which it certainly does seem
strange the kur-comitè should tolerate. It
does seem a little exceptional to behold an
individual arrayed in plover tint nether
garment, with a white beaver under his arm,
standing moodily, and surveying the company
with the air of a blazé lion, yet not without
a certain dignity; for he bore his beaver, as
though it were chapeau bras, most courtly,
and might be seen hereafter in the dance,
deporting himself with singular grace and
agility. In what category to range him—
how many degrees above or below the coiffeur
species—would be utterly beyond the stranger's
powers of thought. Every élégant there
present has, also, his coat buttoned tight to