pirit of hostility, which
wanted no element of hatred to make it perfect.

Paris,--where so lately nothing was heard save the roll of splendid
equipages, the din of that gay world whose business is amusement; where
amid gilded salons the voluptuous habits of the Consulate mixed with
the less courtly but scarce less costly display of military
splendor,--became now like a vast camp. Regiments poured in daily,
to resume their march the next morning; the dull rumble of ammunition
wagons and caissons, the warlike clank of mounted cavalry, awoke the
citizens at daybreak; the pickets of hussar corps and the dusty and
travel-stained infantry soldiers filled the streets at nightfall. Yet
through all, the mad gayety of this excited nation prevailed. The cafes
were Crowded with eager and delighted faces; the tables spread in the
open air were occupied by groups whose merry voices and ready laughter
attested that war was the pastime of the people, and the very note of
preparation a tocsin of joy and festivity. The walls were placarded
with inflammatory addresses to the patriotism and spirit of France.
The papers teemed with artful and cleverly written explanations of the
rupture with England; in which every complaint against that country was
magnified, and every argument put forward to prove the peaceful
desires of that nation whose present enthusiasm for war was an unhappy
commentary on the assertion. The good faith of France was extolled; the
moderation of the First Consul dwelt upon; and the treachery of that
"perfidious Albion, that respected not the faith of treaties," was
displayed in such irrefragable clearness, that the humblest citizen
thought the cause his own, and felt the coming contest the ordeal of his
own honor.

All the souvenirs of the former wars were invoked to give spirit to the
approaching struggle, and they were sufficiently numerous to let no week
pass over without at least one eventful victory to commemorate. Now it
was Kellerman's cuirassiers, whose laurel-wreathed helmets reminded
the passing stranger that on that day eight years they tore through the
dense ranks of the Austrians, and sabred the gunners at the very guns.
Now it was the Polish regiments, the steel-clad lancers, who paraded
before the Tuileries in memory of the proud day they marched through
Montebello with that awful sentence on their banners, "Venice exists
no longer!" Here were corps of infantry, intermingled with dragoons,
pledging eac