e have lost India. Independent America is still
the cross of my existence; I cannot think of Farmer George without
abhorrence; and I never feel more warmly to my own land than when I see
the Stars and Stripes, and remember what our empire might have been.

The hawker's little book, which I purchased, was a curious mixture. Side
by side with the flippant, rowdy nonsense of the Paris music-halls,
there were many pastoral pieces, not without a touch of poetry, I
thought, and instinct with the brave independence of the poorer class in
France. There you might read how the wood-cutter gloried in his axe, and
the gardener scorned to be ashamed of his spade. It was not very well
written, this poetry of labour, but the pluck of the sentiment redeemed
what was weak or wordy in the expression. The martial and the patriotic
pieces, on the other hand, were tearful, womanish productions one and
all. The poet had passed under the Caudine Forks; he sang for an army
visiting the tomb of its old renown, with arms reversed; and sang not of
victory, but of death. There was a number in the hawker's collection
called "Conscrits Francais," which may rank among the most dissuasive
war-lyrics on record. It would not be possible to fight at all in such a
spirit. The bravest conscript would turn pale if such a ditty were
struck up beside him on the morning of battle; and whole regiments would
pile their arms to its tune.

If Fletcher of Saltoun is in the right about the influence of national
songs, you would say France was come to a poor pass. But the thing will
work its own cure, and a sound-hearted and courageous people weary at
length of sniveling over their disasters. Already Paul Deroulede has
written some manly military verses. There is not much of the
trumpet-note in them, perhaps, to stir a man's heart in his bosom; they
lack the lyrical elation, and move slowly; but they are written in a
grave, honourable, stoical spirit, which should carry soldiers far in a
good cause. One feels as if one would like to trust Deroulede with
something. It will be happy if he can so far inoculate his
fellow-countrymen that they may be trusted with their own future. And in
the meantime, here is an antidote to "French Conscripts" and much other
doleful versification.

We had left the boats over-night in the custody of one whom we shall
call Carnival. I did not properly catch his name, and perhaps that was
not unfortunate for him, as I am not in a position