ated farther into the city, the mixture
of nation and costume became still more remarkable. The erect and
soldierlike figure of the Prussian; the loose, wild-eyed Tartar; the
brown-clad Russian, with russet beard and curved sabre; the stalwart
Highlander, with nodding plume and waving tartan; the Bashkir, with
naked scimitar; the gorgeous hussar of Hungary; the tall and manly form
of the English guardsman--all passed and repassed before us, adding, by
the babel of discordant sound, to the wild confusion of the scene.

It was a strange sight to see the savage soldier from the steppes of
Russia, the dark-eyed, heavy-browed Gallician, the yellow-haired Saxon,
the rude native of the Caucasus, who had thus given themselves a
rendezvous in the very heart of European civilisation, wandering
about--now stopping to admire some magnificent palace, now gazing with
greedy wonder at the rich display of some jeweller, or the costly and
splendid dresses which were exhibited in the shop windows; while here
and there were gathered groups of men whose looks of undisguised hate
and malignity were bent unceasingly upon the moving mass. Their
_bourgeois_ dress could not conceal that they were the old soldiers of
the Empire--the men of Wagram, of Austerlitz, of Jena, and of Wilna--who
now witnessed within their own capital the awful retribution of their
own triumphant aggressions.

As the morning advanced the crowds increased, and as we approached the
Place du Carrousel, regiments poured in from every street to the morning
parade. Among these the Russian _garde_--the _Bonnets d'or_--were
conspicuous for the splendour of their costume and the soldierlike
precision of their movements, the clash of their brass cymbals and
the wild strains of their martial music adding indescribably to their
singular appearance. As the infantry drew up in line, we stopped to
regard them, when from the Place Louis Quinze the clear notes of a
military band rang out a quick step, and the Twenty-eighth British
marched in to the air of 'The Young May Moon.' O'Grady's excitement
could endure no longer. He jumped up in the _caleche_, and, waving his
hat above his head, gave a cheer that rang through the long corridor
beneath the Louvre. The Irish regiment caught up the cry, and a yell
as wild as ever rose above the din of battle shook the air. A Cossack
picket then cantering up suddenly halted, and, leaning down upon their
horses' manes, seemed to listen; then dashing