consumes so much in the course of a day as a Frenchman. He is eternally sipping, sopping, or picking at something. His stomach knows no rest, his palate no suspension. They are ever on duty. He has his breakfast of several courses, and his dinner ditto, and then betwixt and between, before and after, he has his café, his tasse, his absinthe, his liqueur, and his beer. As for his food, it may be rare and choice in the choicest cuisine, but it is ever greasy after a fashion. There are gradations according to the places and the stations; yet grease, either au naturel or refined, in gravies or sauce piquante, will be the prevailing element of the cookery. Yet the Frenchman asserts that he is the model of good breeding, and the arbiter of the science of eating, and like many other impostors, he has established his creed and has his believers in millions.

These remarks, however, are scarcely apropos to the Soleil d'Or. We cannot take it as a phase of ordinary French life.

Still pours the rain downright and incessant. We make vain attempts to get to the camp, or even to the theatre, which the garçon, who has taken us under his patronage, assures us is magnifique. We slip and slip about, and return after each attempt more chilled and more disappointed. At last the camp in a certain fashion comes to us. The room begins to fill with soldiers, and we sit looking thus at military life with the chill off-at the soldier relaxed and unstrung-unbuttoned and unshakoed, the man of the soldier type recreating and diverting himself. Enters first Mousieur le Fourrier, who takes a seat of honour, condescends to nod to those around, and then devotes himself to his cigar and an old copy of the Siècle. Our attention is directed towards him by the garçon, who evidently looks upon him as an aristocrat of the establishment. Then a group of chasseurs occupy the table near us. The belts are laid aside, the cup of coffee and the petit verre stands by the side of each, the cigarette is folded; and under these mild exhilarations, the conversation becomes rapid and excited; the de

monstration of comradeships become fervent; the clasping of hands and the pattings on the back, and the kisses on the cheek, are frequent, and the exclamations and expletives most energetic. The Gaul works himself up to a fever-heat which a Saxon could only attain by the aid of strong and repeated stimulants. Other groups disperse themselves at the different tables. Here and there a golden epaulette appears, but worsted is the rule-here and there, too, will be seen a pack of cards or dominoes, though talk, smoke, and coffee are the general sources of excitement and amusement. We look long and curiously at the different faces, to trace in feature or expression the "chivalresqueness" claimed for the soldiery of France. It does not shine as a phylactery on the forehead; it does not speak from eye or mouth. Impulse, fierce animal courage, resolve, quickness, again and again flash from look, word, and gesture; but in a physiognomy ordinary ever, and often repulsive, we can recognise no sign of the high generous nature or the noble feeling which creates chivalry out of the asperities and sternness of war. The solidity of the Saxon is to us a truer and higher expression of martial spirit, just as fortitude is a truer and higher phase of courage than ferocity. But the gaiety of the French soldier, his cheerfulness, his bonhommie, are great attributes, proverbial characteristics! Is it so? At any rate, we have not through the evening seen a smile or heard a laugh, or marked a turu or gesture of amiability. There has been much excitability, much gesticulation, but nothing genial or convivial. Now the gestures become more vehement, the voices louder. There is a very Babel of sounds, and waving arms and gleaming faces have quite a Turneresque effect through the smokeclouds. In an English public, and with English soldiers, such a scene would be on the very confines of riot and quarrel. Suddenly the bugles sound from the camp-the groups break up-the cups are emptiedthe talk ceases-the belts are taken down-the shakos reassumed, and with them all the order and steadi

ness of soldier bearing. Twos and threes still linger on-the host and his confrères commence their debauch when the soldiers retire-the garçon moves about from table to table, and confidentially leans on his elbows to join in the conversationla petite, who presides at the tribune, nods over her pen-she of the heels yawns and makes several overtures to us of a wax candle. The Soleil d'Or was evidently setting, and it soon sets in a dim reeky haze of oil and tobacco. We retire to our mattresses, and ever as they complicate us in a struggle a Soleil d'Or swings before us; sometimes the face amid the spikes has the leer of the garçon, sometimes the scowl of the host, sometimes they appear together halfand-half, sometimes a grim-visaged voltigeur intrudes amid the glory. An alarm of bugles, that would have roused the Seven Sleepers, breaks our slumbers. The réveille seems to wake all life around, civil or military, and there is nought but tramping and trumpeting, and the clashing of arms outside, and bustle and vociferation within, so we emerge from the mattresses and set forth to view the camp. The first object was to get the grand effect of a coup-d'œil-to look on the camp in all its completeness, and on the general features and position of the terrain militaire, ere we traced the varied details. Everywhere we sought; but in vain, for some eminence, whence we might comprehend the scene as one picture, one entire plan. There was not so much as a mound or molehill which commanded such a view, and all the slopes we ascended gave only the disappointment of partial glimpses or half-sights of tents, bushes, and houses scattered in detached patches, or huddled together in indistinct masses. At last, as we returned to our chamber, jaded and disappointed, the belfry of the church-tower strikes our eye, with its windows and loopholes looking out on all points of the horizon. Surely from hence we may obtain the wished-for panorama. We watch our opportunity-the old verger has turned to gossip and exchange pinches of snuff with an old crony; we slip up the narrow staircase, and stand on a floor crossed by

huge beams, with other huge rafters descending from above and meeting them-ropes dangle from the roof through little holes which gave glimpses of the great bells-wooden shutters block up the casements; a peep through these shows us that we have not escaped beyond the chimney tops. Higher and still higher we climb, until we are in the very penetralia of the bells, and sitting cock-horse on a beam, look up into a great iron mouth, touch the huge clapper, and think, were it suddenly set in motion, how its deep clang would act on our senses; whether its great voice would deafen us for ever, or only stun and overpower us for a time, and how the frame itself would feel the reverberations of the strong deep sound. Luckily ours is only a speculation, not an experiment. Quietly hangs the metal mass. Whilst we look out of the narrow aperture before us, still there is only an expanse of roofs and chimneys, though far below us; we change round to the other side, and there, spread out before us, lies the great plain, in all its extent and proportions, so broad and vast, that the camp itself seems only a narrow border line, so flat that all the little undulations are lost in one great level. The rivers on either side of it glitter like silver threads in their meanderings: the villages around are mere specks and dots, the plantations green patches; the hills beyond, lovely, shadowy, and distant. A dazzling mirage dances and floats over the vast expanse of sand-the great roads and tracts crossing and recrossing it are dim lines, and the groups of soldiers pigmy and puppet-like. Miles and miles of this view the eye embraces,-a sandy flat, unbroken and unrelieved by verdure or buildings, save in the immediate vicinity of the camp; and it was a strange effect the change from the weary dreary space, enlivened only by the sunshine, to the living, bustling world, which hummed and hived and moved in that narrow line of tents below us. Far away on the right, nestled amid the trees and the bushes which there mark the confines of the plain, and mingling with the houses and roofs of the Camp de Gare and Mourmelon-le-Petit, we catch the

first glimpses of the tents, the waggons, and the huge tarpaulin ricks of the quarter of the ambulances and the train des equipages; beside it, half hidden, is the encampment of the artillery; in front, more open and more massed, are the tents of the cavalry, round which we see the horses at exercise, circling and circling, like the little figures on a large roundabout; and here and there others, picketed in rows, are just visible. Following the line, we see it here bend and turn off at an angle towards our observatory. This marks the beginning of the encampment of the divisions of infantry; and in front of this point, and at some distance, stands a group of light pretty-looking wooden houses, surrounded by gardens: these were the Residence Impériale, the Pavillon Canrobert, and the Quartier Générale. Just below us, are great masses of buildings, the shells of the Casernes, which are eventually to supersede the canvass homes; here crosses the road from Mourmelon-leGrand, and behind are the streets and squares of that distinguished village. On beyond, again, stretches the line of canvass streets, edging and border ing the great terrain militaire on and on, in long unchanging vista ; then it makes another turn and disappears for a while, then reissues into sight, until it is lost at last in the distance. Such was our panorama: as a picture, grand in its features, and picturesque in some of its details, beautiful in many of its effects, brightened as they were by the sunshine, and heightened by the shades from the distant hills; as a plan of the camp and the adjoining terrain militaire, most complete and perfect. With such a picture and such a plan in our mind's eye, we felt more equal now to examine and study all the parts of the whole.

Descending from our look-out, we descend also to bare facts for a while, and reduce our panorama to a thing of figures, measurements, and compass-points.

The terrain militaire as marked and lined in the military plan, is very eccentric in its outline, and describes in its boundary limits most irregular figures, running into corners and angles-here rushing outward to take in a small patch, then dashing in

again to avoid some forbidden ground, then making an indent like a gulf, then swelling forth in a semicircle, then taking a straight course for several miles to go off again at a tangent, forming altogether the most curious of polygons. This eccentricity of its form is caused doubtless by the necessity the Government felt not to trench on vested or territorial rights, or to occupy ground which was available for cultivation. It may be supposed to begin at Mourmelonle-Petit, and thence trends irregularly eastward towards the town of St Hilaire; there bends, or circumbends rather, to the south-east, near to Suippe, and then follows the route Impériale Nevers to the south, until near the river Vesle, when it starts north-west for the starting-point of Mourmelon, leaving the river, the departmental route to Bar-le-Duc, and the towns or villages of La Cheppe, Cuperly, Vadenay, Buoy, and Livry, on its south-western side. The plain itself has a surface of dry sand intergrown with tufty grass. The camp seems thrust rather oddly into one corner of it, but there were doubtless motives good and sound for the position. In the first place, the railroad was met at its nearest point of communication, then a vast clear space was secured without possible interruption for exercise and manoeuvres ; and whilst it abuts on the two villages of Mourmelon, which are supposed to contain enough for the amusement and recreation of the soldier, it is too distant from the other towns for easy or frequent access. The boundaries of the terrain militaire are defended along all its sides by rows of tall poles. It contains "12,000 hectares environ, et a plus d'étendue que l'intérieur de l'enceinte fortifiée de Paris," and has a breadth in some parts of nine miles. What a drillground! How would the Dundases and Torrenses have expatiated on such space for the exhibition of their brilliant manoeuvres ! How would the Napiers, Colbornes, Sales, true soldiers all, confined and cribbed in their movements by acreage and enclosures, have rejoiced in such space for the development of soldier skill and soldier power!

Let us now view the camp in de

tail. We start from the Gare, and make at once for the quarter of the train des equipages. It is Saturday, and the camp is en déshabille. It is not a good time to see the French soldier at home. All round the tents are groups of men, cleaning, and brushing, and washing; and beds, coats, belts, and knapsacks lie about in little heaps. It is like a washingday in a family. A dirty shirt and a pair of dirty white trousers seem to be the general wear. The tents are all turned out of doors-and all the accumulated dust and dirt of a week are being cleared off. It must be confessed that the general appearance of things did not indicate the recognition of lavatories as a necessary of soldier-life, or of personal cleanliness as a principle of soldierdiscipline. It is certain that, under no circumstances, not even we believe those of a Crimean campaign, could such a quantity of foul linen have been exhibited, or such an amount of dirt been possible among British soldiers. Cleanliness is a virtue which our regimental system inculcates, and the Saxon nature responds to most thoroughly.

The dispositions and order of the encampment did not here equal our anticipations; the ground was not well cleared; and though the route to Mourmelón ran beside it, and a chemin-de-fer directly through the camp, the communication did not seem so open or regular with the different departments and offices around as might have been expected from French routine. This quarter, however, was not a fair specimen of the general camp economy. The arrangements were doubtless good and practical on the whole. The tents were pitched by companies; the horses, very raw-boned and underbred-looking animals, even for draught, were picketed between; behind were the large waggons; and at intervals the great hay-ricks. The men had a ready, serviceable look, without losing the soldierstamp; and the machinery of the department had altogether a strong, warlike character. Its efficiency has been again and again tested, and has ever been to French armies a great resource and great advantage

in the transport and conveyancerequirements of a campaign. We move on a little, and are in presence of another arm-the artillery. Here the arrangements are rather different. The tents are in one line, the horses in another, and then come the guns. Little patches of alder here and there interrupt the general effect of the encampment, and vigilant sentries forbid any invasion of the enclosure, so that it is only by skirting that we obtain a good view of the guns. There were six batteries of the 12-pounder field-gun, French measurement all brass save one battery-but there was nothing in the arms, their disposition, or equipment, at all novel and striking; and in fact these seemed most certainly inferior to our own. The Crimean comparisons decided that we had nought to learn from our allies in the management or organisation of this arm. The men were strong, able-bodied fellows, much beyond the average of the line in size and stature, and much more imposing in their uniforms. The horses were, to our eye, scarcely up to the mark, and did not owe much in appearance to either their grooming or feeding.

In rear were the magazines, and around and about these two encampments were the various offices-the bureau du génie, or headquarters of the engineers - the effêts d'encampment, arranged or ordered in long wooden sheds or buildings-the combustibles-the large stores and stacks of forage.

This part of the camp was not in the general line, but behind it. In front was the quarter of the cavalry. Here the plain became more open, and all the principles and details of the position more evident and marked. This force was composed of four regiments-two of hussars, and two of chasseurs, each about six hundred strong-making a total of two thousand four hundred. Their order and disposition were very perfect. A narrow trench enclosed the whole, and then, again, others marked each regiment and each troop; and each tent had its own circle of intrenchment besides. The tents were pitched, as before described,

by troops, and the horses picketed beside them. There were no stables or shelter of any kind, except for the chargers of the officers, and these were simply constructed, always open to the rear, and sometimes double, so that one crection served for two stables, the horses standing vis-à-vis, though separated by a partition. Whether or not this open-air training answered thoroughly we could not discover; but the horses looked hardy, and in working condition, though rather in the rough; and it can scarcely be doubted that such a system must tend to harden and season them for the exposure and the want of attention and care consequent on the vicissitudes of a campaign, however it may affect their appearance at the time. This plan of quartering each arm by itself is different from ours. With us the force of artillery or cavalry attached to a brigade is encamped with it, so that it may be complete in all its branches, and be under one command and one discipline. Either has its pros and cons. The arm, whichever it may be, will be doubtless better trained and organised for its own work, when massed and exercised under its own officers; and as, under the French system, the different departments and authorities are more used to act together, and to practise mutual adaptations, it will probably thus attain the greatest efficiency; but with us, no doubt, it is requisite that, for a long time at least, the machinery should be fixed and kept in motion, according to the method in which it would be used for practical and service purposes. The only buildings here are the hospitals, which are placed at intervals. And now we are among the tents of the infantry the foot-soldiers of France -the far-famed chasseurs-à-piedand the grand battalions trained and inured in the plains and mountains of Africa. Our interest rises with the sympathy of comradeship, and the pertinence of comparison. These are the men who must make the strength of an army either as foes or allies; and these are the soldiers who have been exalted as models-as the perfection of the

"à-pied" type of soldiership. In other days it was otherwise; and the vantage of test and opinion rested with the laurels of that astonishing infantry which marched on and on through the Peninsula from victory to victory, recording at every step wondrous instances and examples of endurance, valour, and efficiency. Has the race from which these ranks were filled degenerated from the old standard? Have the old virtues disappeared, that the comparison should be thus inverted or is it justly so, or not rather derived from superficial judgments or chance circumstances, whilst the elements of the old renown and the old pre-eminence remain intact and unimpaired, ready, under due development, to come forth in the old strength? Be this as it may be it a question of facts or mere casual differences-these men before us are the only ones whom the English footsoldier can recognise as real or worthy rivals. And can these men we see, so short and slight, so wanting in breadth and muscle, vie with our stalwart fellows, our men of bone and sinew? Yes: thanks to exercise and habit, these small goldiers can step along easily and jauntily, carrying weights under which our giants toil and sweat. They are examples of developed power-of disciplined strength. As such, we look on them admiringly, wondering why the same mode of development is not applied to our soldier-physique, and speculating on what might be the results, and what then the turn of the comparison.

But it is not now with the men as much as with their encampment we have to do. A short time hence and this line of tents will be superseded by immense barrack-homes, which will take from the soldier-life all the vicissitudes and endurances, all the shifts and roughings, and with them perchance much of the hardihood, much of the readiness, and much of the relish nurtured and felt in a camp. Whether it be prejudice or fact, the order here seems to us greater, and all the evidences of care and supervision more manifest. The tents themselves exhibit more neatness and comfort, the men are less