private curiosity for the time. This was a mask in the
uniform of a national guard, but so outrageously fine that his
_entree_ excited an universal burst of laughter. But when, after a few
displays of what was apparently all but intoxication, he began a
detail of his own exploits, it was evident that the whole was a daring
caricature; and as nothing could be less popular among us than the
heroes of the shops, the Colonels Calicot, and Mustaches _au
comptoir_, all his burlesque told incomparably. The old officers among
us, the Vendeans, and all the ladies--for the sex are aristocrats
under every government and in every region of the globe--were
especially delighted. "Alexandre Jules Caesar," colonel of the "brave
battalion of the Marais," was evidently worth a dozen field-marshals
in his own opinion; and his contempt for Vendome, Marlborough, and
Frederick le Grand, was only less piquant than the perfect imitation
and keen burlesque of Santerre, Henriot, and our municipal warriors.
At length when his plaudits and popularity were at their height, he
proposed a general toast to the "young heroism," of the capital, and
prefaced it by a song, in great repute in the old French service.

"AVANCEZ, BRAVE GUERRIERS."

"Shoulder arms--brave regiment!
Hark, the bugle sounds 'advance.'
Pile the baggage--strike the tent;
France demands you--fight for France.
If the hero gets a ball,
His accounts are closed--that's all!

"Who'd stay wasting time at home,
Made for women to despise;
When, where'er we choose to roam,
All the world before us lies,
Following our bugle's call,
Life one holiday--that's all!

"When the soldier's coin is spent,
He has but to fight for more;
He pays neither tax nor rent,
He's but where he was before.
If he conquer, if he fall--
_Fortune de la guerre_--that's all!

"Let the pedant waste his oil,
With the soldier all is sport;
Let your blockheads make a coil
In the cloister or the court;
Let them fatten in their stall,
We can fatten too--that's all!

"What care we for fortune's frown,
All that comes is for the best;
What's the noble's bed of down
To the soldier's evening rest
On the heath or in the hall,
All alike to him--that's all!

"When the morn is on the sky,
Hark the gay _reveille_ rings!
Glory lights the soldier's eye,
To