hands and smiling upon me out of a sort of moulding formed around his
face by his shirt-collars, dismissed me. So, then, once more, with a
hitch to my tin box, I became a lonely lounger. I viewed the church of
Saint Thomas, the public place named after Kleber, who was born here,
some of the markets and a beer establishment. In the church of Saint
Thomas I examined the monument to Marshal Saxe, by Pigalle. I should
have expected to see a simple statue of the hero in the act
of breaking a horseshoe or rolling up a silver plate into a
bouquet-holder, according to the Guy-Livingstone habits in which he
appears to have passed his life, and was more surprised than edified
at sight of the large allegorical family with which the sculptor has
endowed him. In the same church I had the misfortune to see in
the boxes a pair of horrible mummies, decked off with robes and
ornaments--a count of Nassau-Saarwerden and his daughter, according to
the custodian--an unhappy pair who, having escaped our common doom of
corruption by some physical aridity or meagreness, have been compelled
to leave their tombs and attitudinize as works of art. In Kleber's
square I saw the conqueror of Heliopolis, excessively pigeon-breasted,
dangling his sabre over a cowering little figure of Egypt, and looking
around in amazement at the neighboring windows: in fact, Kleber
began his career as an architect, and there were solecisms in the
surrounding structure to have turned a better balanced head than
his. In the markets I saw peasants with red waistcoats and flat faces
shaded with triangles of felt, and peasant-girls bareheaded, with a
gilded arrow apparently shot through their brains. I traversed the
Street of the Great Arcades, and saw the statue of Gutenberg, of whom,
as well as of Peter Schoeffer, the natives seem to be proud, though
they were but type-setters. Finally, in the Beer-hall, that of the
dauphin, I tasted a thimble-ful of inimitable beer, the veritable beer
of Strasburg. Already, at half-past eight on that fine May morning,
I persuaded myself that I had seen everything, so painful had my feet
become by pounding over the pavements.

My friend the engineer had agreed to breakfast with me at the hotel.
When I entered the dining-room with the intention of waiting for him,
I found two individuals sitting at table. One was no other than the
red-nosed Scotchman, the Eleusinian victim whom I had watched
through the bottle-rack at Epernay. Of the sec