who pull down to see that they worthily fill the gaps caused by demolition. The Parisians have failed in this duty. The style Fallières succeeds ignobly to the style Louis XVI. The delicate mouldings, which cast no shadows, and which were the peculiar beauty of Parisian architecture, have been replaced by bold and striking effects. There is no modern building which presents to the eye a simple, unbroken surface. On every side twisted ornaments and insistent cornices jut out into the street. It matters not whether the design is Romanesque, Gothic, or Classical. The result is always the same, restless and eccentric. The worst that can be said of it, that it is without character and design, a patent outrage upon an old tradition of quiet beauty; the best, that it harmonizes with the clatter and racket of the street.

But it is practical, of that there is no doubt. The style Fallières contrives two things: first, that you may travel from one fixed point to another with a greater celerity than ever before; second, that you may house more citizens in a cubic yard of space than was permitted by the gracious elegance of earlier days. And it is not wholly inconsistent with the broader tendencies of French life, with the desire for speedily gathered news, with the curiosity not of wit but of fact, with the pride, the most legitimate pride, in the conquest of the air, with the calm determination of a country to hold its own against the battalions of Germany. But just as in remote quarters and in hushed streets there linger still houses of an exquisite beauty, so there remain for good or evil in France traces of the ancient sentimental spirit. The jurymen of Paris are as easily moved by tears as ever they were, as eagerly forgiving of what they call a crime passionel, and even of crimes which may plead no passion. Only a fortnight

ago a miserable woman who murdered in cold blood her husband and his unromantic maiden aunt, was triumphantly acquitted for no better reason than that she wept copiously in the dock. The fierce hold which practical anarchy has lately had upon Paris was immensely strengthened, as the heroic M. Lépine has pointed out, by the general distaste of punishment, by the foolish sympathy of men of theory for men of blood. However, in times of change some relics of the past must always survive, and if France has put on a new strength, she has not laid aside all her old weaknesses.

The truth remains that, when all deductions are made, a new France is coming into existence. The old legend of the Français léger, which never had a solid basis in fact, is being rapidly dispelled. The Frenchman of to-day is not light, but light-hearted. If he loves his pleasures, he loves his work also, and he sees the task that lies before him with a clearness which was not always in his eyes. In 1870 he lived still upon the glory of Napoleon, and shouted A Berlin without counting the cost or measuring the chance of victory. A few months ago, when war seemed imminent, he was filled with a calm resolution. He did not boast nor shout. He did not believe that the enemy's capital was as easily attained as a goal at football. He set about the work of preparation with an assured tranquillity, and won the respect and confidence of Europe.

Whence comes this new spirit? What is it that inspires France with a new sense of security? M. Sabatier in his book, "L'Orientation Religieuse de la France Actuelle," attributes it to a religious sentiment, which, says he, "will prove an important factor in the history of French society." The fact that M. Sabatier gives to the word "religion" a meaning of his own, renders the conclusion of his argument of

far less interest than the facts upon which the argument is based. For M. Sabatier religion is neither Catholicism nor Protestantism, neither clericalism nor anti-clericalism, and obviously if we may attach any sense we please to "religion," the vague sentiment which it suggests does not carry us very far on the road of explanation. It seems wiser to leave "religion" out of the question, except as a metaphor, and to seek the cause of France's rejuvenescence in the history of the last forty years. Since the war a new generation of Frenchmen has grown up-a generation stern, practical, and patriotic. The memory of Alsace-Lorraine is quick in the minds of those whose fathers took part in the campaign of 1870. The prophecies of all the wiseacres have been falsified. Fifteen years ago it was confidently asserted that modern France was indifferent to the loss of the two provinces. To-day we know that she is not indifferent, and her desire of recovery is made the keener by the increasing sympathy of the Alsatians. On both sides of the Vosges it is admitted that no tribunal in the world can validate a forced marriage, and it is of this idea that M. Sabatier assures us his countrymen are the faithful knights. We accept his assurance. We cannot accept his solution of the difficulty. The French democracy does not look for a revision of the Treaty of Frankfurt, he says. What it hopes for is "an effort on the part of Germany, which will perceive that its honor is not in any degree engaged in the question of Alsace." Was there ever so fantastic a theory advanced? Can any sane man imagine the mailed fist surrendering Alsace, not in its own interest or in the interest of France, but for the sake of a valiant population which "has given Europe a spectacle of idealism hitherto deemed Blackwood's Magazine.

impossible"? The recent utterances of the German Emperor give a very poor support to the ingenuous theory of M. Sabatier.

It is not, then, upon a vague spirit of idealism that France will depend in the future. She will depend upon the strength of her arm and the courage of her mind. She has been tried in the fire of the Dreyfus case, and has come out unscathed. She has seen her Church destroyed, its revenues embezzled and squandered upon unworthy purposes, and she is resolute to restore it. Above all, she is keenly conscious of the danger that threatens her frontiers, and she is prepared to make the last sacrifice to prevent the Teutonizing of France and the consequent triumph of efficient mediocrity. The worst is, she cannot count upon the co-operation of her Governments. Whatever she achieve, she will achieve in spite of the professional politicians who pretend to rule her destinies. Democracy has met its inevitable reward in a Chamber of Deputies completely divorced in sympathy and understanding from the people who is supposed to elect it. At the very moment when France's future is in the balance, her Radicals and her Socialists wander up and down the country mumbling of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. The paid deputies who sit at the Palais Bourbon are prepared to do anything which will secure their salaries, and they will not sacrifice their comfort to the dictates of patriotism if they can help it. But if parliamentary government has broken down in France, as elsewhere, the heart of the country is sound. More keenly conscious than ever of her noble past, France may be trusted, when the hour of battle comes, to fight like a nation of men who have not yet forgotten the triumphs of the Grande Armée.

1

"Accused and hescort! 'shun!" roared the sergeant-major in a voice like a fog-horn. "Right t-hurn! Left wheel! Quick-ma-arch!" The little party filed into the orderly-room, its loud-voiced shepherd following briskly as far as the open door; thence he roared in the same stentorian voice, "Halt! Left t-hurn!" With a final resounding crash three pairs of ammunition boots came simultaneously to the boarded floor. "Private Stubbs, sir," announced the sergeant-major with a salute and in a voice which was comparatively speaking subdued, but which might still have been heard across the barracksquare.

The colonel, who was seated behind the office table not six feet away, acknowledged the salute with a slight movement of his right hand towards his khaki cap, and then turned to the "soldier in arrest," who stood between the two drawn bayonets of the escort. The prisoner was a little man, thickset and bullet-headed, and the absence of his cap disclosed the fact that a not inconsiderable length of his "cockney wisp" had escaped the vigilance of his company color-sergeant.

While the commanding officer noted these details, the adjutant, who stood behind his chair, proceeded to read aloud the statement of offences from a yellow form technically known as a "crimesheet."

"Number 739, Private J. Stubbs, B Company, sir, Borden, June 17th, 19.

First offence-striking his superior officer. Second offence-using insubordinate language to his superior officer, and creating a disturbance during band practice. Evidence for first offence, Corporal Tomkins."

"Corporal Tomkins!" thundered the sergeant-major from the doorway. There was a scurry of doubling feet

without, and a grizzled non-commissioned officer entered hurriedly, brought up with the usual crash, saluted, and remained standing at attention with his eyes fixed apprehensively on the commanding officer.

"Give your evidence," said the latter laconically.

"Yesterday afternoon, about 3.30 P.M., sir," began the corporal in a voice of honeyed sweetness, "I went into the barrack-room, an' found this 'ere private a-settin' on my. box. I says to 'im, 'Please, Private Stubbs, will ye be so good as to get off that there box, as I want to get out me 'at to go on parade?' 'E jumps up, usin' proper Whitechapel language, sir; an' I says to 'im, 'If ye don't stop swearin' I shall 'ave to put ye under arrest.' 'E says, 'Ye take that!' an' strikes me with 'is fist. rest, sir."

I put 'im under ar

While this accusation was being made Private Stubbs's face underwent a series of contortions which would have turned any music-hall comedian green with envy. Injured innocence, burning indignation, unutterable contempt, were but a few of the emotions silently conveyed by the working of his Bill Sikes-like physiognomy.

"Are there any more witnesses to this offence?" asked the colonel, turning to his adjutant.

"None who saw the offence committed, sir," replied the latter, handing his senior the crime-sheet.

The commanding officer took it, and after studying it for a moment with a frown, turned once more to the prisoner. "Well, what have you got to say in defence of this charge?"

The little cockney's face was by this time positively purple with suppressed emotion. "Please, sir, yesterday afternoon, sir," he burst out, "I was set

tin' in the barrick-room a-readin' on-I didn't know as it was this 'ere corporal's box; 'e comes up be'ind me, gives me a suddink root up be'ind, an' 'e says, 'Hout of the light, yer little buffer, or I'll knock yer bloomin' 'ead off!'"

At this juncture the adjutant abruptly turned about and busied himself with some papers on a side-table behind the colonel's chair.

"This yer corporal," continued Private Stubbs excitedly, "'as got a fair down on me, sir. Only larst week 'e said as 'ow 'e'd chance 'is arm [risk losing his corporal's stripes] to git me in quod; 'e's an old soldier, sir, an' the likes o' me don't git a chanst wi' 'im. There's a good many blokes in the rigiment wot could prove wot I said, an' "

"That will do," interrupted the colonel.

But Private Stubbs's emotions were now nearing boiling-point, and the flood of his eloquence was not thus lightly to be dammed.

"This yer corporal's a fair disgrace to the rigiment, 'e is, sir," he continued earnestly, raising his voice, "an' a bigger liar never"

"Silence!" thundered a terrible voice from the doorway a few feet off.

"March him out," said the colonel quietly. When the door had closed he turned to the adjutant. That officer's face arrested his attention; its expression was one which told of severely repressed anguish, as of one who suffers acutely in the central region below the diaphragm.

The colonel's grizzled face relaxed for a moment as far as it was possible for it to relax in the orderly-room. "Yes," he said quietly, "those two versions of the same story were really quite good. I think it is obvious that Corporal Tomkins is to blame. You may strike out the first charge. must stop these old-soldier tricks. I

I

will see Tomkins separately later on. Now, if Private Stubbs has had time to pull himself together we'll have him in again."

The adjutant strode to the door, opened it, and made a sign to the sergeant-major; that worthy saluted, and, to the accompaniment of the usual cataclysm, Private Stubbs was once more marched into the orderly-room.

The adjutant now read out the second charge, that of creating a disturbance at band practice, and called as evidence Bandmaster J. Dunrogan.

Dunrogan, a short, stout man with a large head and an extremely pompous manner, seemed literally to swell with indignation as he gave his evidence. The adjutant's eyes were fixed upon the straining buttons of the bandmaster's skintight tunic; he seemed to be meditating subconsciously as to whether they would stand the strain.

"Sir, during band practice, at about 11.30 A.M. yesterday," began the bandmaster, speaking slowly and with great deliberation, "I had occasion to reprimand Private Stubbs for inattention and irregular conduct. He answered back repeatedly, and had the gross impertinence to say that I was taking the 'Soldiers' Chorus' at the wrong time, sir. He had the impudence to inform me, sir, that he had played the said piece with the Houndsditch Hippodrome orchestra very frequently, and had set the time as first cornet. I told him that so long as he was a member of this regiment's band, sir, he would have to play it as I instructed. After that he continued to drag when playing the piece, and I had to speak to him again on several occasions. I may say, sir, that this is not the first occasion on which I have been obliged to reprimand this man. I have always had this trouble with him, particularly when playing the 'Soldiers' Chorus,' sir."

Several other witnesses were called

in support of the bandmaster's indictment, and finally the colonel turned to Private Stubbs with the usual, "Well, what have you got to say?"

Private Stubbs's defence was spirited but unconvincing. He stated that up to the time when he had enlisted for the regimental band, three months previously, he had been a professional musician, and enumerated in rapid succession the various distinguished bands and orchestras of which he had been a shining light. At none of these places had he ever heard the "Soldiers' Chorus" taken in the extraordinary time given by Bandmaster Dunrogan. The bandmaster, in short, had no idea of music, and had made the band the laughing-stock of the brigade.

The colonel cut him short with a curt "That will do." The adjutant produced a large blue form from a portfolio which contained a number of similar forms. The colonel glanced at the document for a moment, and then turned again to the prisoner.

"I see from your conduct-sheet," he said with a portentous frown, "that you have had no less than four entries for insubordinate conduct, and five for drunkenness since you joined-that is, within a space of three months. This sort of thing has got to be put a stop to.

Twenty-one days C. B."

Now Stubbs misunderstood this sentence, which probably accounts for the astonishing incident which followed. He thought he had been awarded twenty-one days' detention—that is, imprisonment-instead of the comparatively mild punishment of twenty-one days' confinement to barracks. He expected to be punished for what he termed "back-chattin'" the bandmaster; but this sentence obviously included punishment on account of that other charge of which he was innocent. Corporal Tomkins had been the aggressor, and after assaulting him had proceeded to charge him unjustly,

and now this iniquity was to succeed; he was to be placed in durance vile for twenty-one days. Twenty-one days!three weeks! It was insufferable. His long-simmering indignation suddenly shot up to boiling-point.

"Twenty-one days!" he shouted. "Well, I'll buy it, anyhow!" He accompanied the words by raising a foot to the edge of the table; in an instant, before the escort could prevent him, he gave a vigorous and vicious push which tilted the table over and sent its paraphernalia of office partly into the colonel's lap, the remainder to the floor with a crash.

Thus ended ingloriously the brief military career of Private Stubbs. He was tried by court-martial and sentenced to three months' imprisonment, to be followed by dismissal from the service. All those with whom he had come in contact hailed his departure with unalloyed joy. The colonel was glad to get rid of a ne'er-do-well, and, moreover, one who had placed him in an extremely undignified, not to say ridiculous, position. As an irresponsible subaltern had put it, "The old man came out of the orderly-room looking like a Red Indian in full war-paint!" The composite ink-pot, containing two wells of ink, one red and one black, had been responsible for this. The adjutant was more than pleased to get rid of Private Stubbs, for he was the stormy petrel of the band; and the band, as all the world knows, is the adjutant's company. But happiest of all on the occasion of the departure of Private Stubbs were the bandmaster and his particular myrmidons in the band. Stubbs had been the seditionist and organizer of revolt, and his searing tongue had turned dislike to hatred not unmixed with fear. Apart from all this, his fellow-bandsmen knew that the man was an outrageous though very clever thief.

There was no doubt whatever that