ard the "Marseillaise" sung under the
best possible circumstances to produce thrills. One of the first nights
after mobilization 10,000 Frenchmen filled the street beneath the
windows of THE NEW YORK TIMES office, where I was at work. They sang the
"Marseillaise" for two hours, with a solemn hatred of their national
enemy sounding in every note. The solemnity changed to a wild passion as
the night wore on. Finally, cuirassiers of the guard rode through the
street to disperse the mob. It was a terrific scene.

So I was willing to admit that the "Marseillaise" is probably the most
thrilling and most martial national song ever written, but I was just
not keen on the subject of thrills.

Then one day a sedate friend went to the Opera Comique and came away in
a raving condition. It was a week before his ardor subsided. He declared
that this rendition of a song was something that will be referred to in
future years. "Why," he said, "when the war is over the French will
talk about it in the way Americans still talk concerning Jenny Lind at
Castle Garden, or De Wolf Hopper reciting 'Casey at the Bat.'"

This induced me to go. I was convinced that whether I got a thrill or
not the singing of the "Marseillaise" by Chenal had become a distinct
feature of Paris life during the war.

I never want to go again. To go again might deepen my impression--might
better register the thrill. But then it might not be just the same. I
would be keyed to such expectancy that I might be disappointed. Persons
in the seats behind me might whisper. And just as Chenal got to the
"Amour sacre de la patrie" some one might cough. I am confident that
something of the sort would surely happen. I want always to remember
that ten minutes while Chenal was on the stage just as I remember it
now. So I will not go again.

The first part of the performance was Donizetti's "Daughter of the
Regiment," beautifully sung by members of the regular company. But
somehow the spectacle of a fat soprano nearing forty in the role of the
twelve-year-old vivandiere, although impressive, was not sublime. A
third of the audience were soldiers. In the front row of the top balcony
were a number of wounded. Their bandaged heads rested against the rail.
Several of them yawned.

After the operetta came a "Ballet of the Nations." The "nations," of
course, represented the Allies. We had the delectable vision of the
Russian ballerina dancing with arms entwined about several maids