War’s field will test the Cavalry, or clad in blue or red;
  In all things they must “thorough” be, as well as thorough-bred. 
  “Heavy” or “light,” they’ll have to fight; not such mad, headlong fray,
  As marked for fame with pride—­and shame—­that Balaklava day,
    When away our lads did go,
    With a rally, rally, ho! &c.

  Eh?  “Inefficient,” Mr. BULL, “and not prepared for war?”
  That judgment, if ’tis near the truth, on patriot souls must jar. 
  And Mr. Punch (Umpire-in-Chief) to JOHN (Paymaster), cries,
  “You’ll have to test the truth of this before the need arise
    For our lads away to go. 
    With a rally, rally-ho!” &c

  And since that Soldier’s incomplete for Duty unprepared,
  Although he’s game to dare the worst that ever Briton dared,
  To supplement our trooper’s skill in saddle, pluck and dash,
  You must have more manoeuvres, JOHN, and—­if needs be,—­more cash!
    Then away away we’ll go
    With a tally rally-ho! 
  And never be afraid to face the strongest, fiercest foe.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  JOURNALISM IN FRANCE.  JOURNALISM IN ENGLAND. (A Contrast.)]

* * * * *

HAD HE SUCCEEDED!

(A POSSIBLE PAGE IN FRENCH HISTORY THAT PROBABLY WILL NEVER BE WRITTEN.)

The General-President had been established at the Elysee for some three months, when his aides-de-camp found their labours considerably increased.  At all hours of the day and night they were called up to receive persons who desired an interview with their chief and master.  As they had received strict orders from His Highness never to appear in anything but full uniform (cloth of gold tunics, silver-tissue trousers, and belts and epaulettes of diamonds) they spent most of their time in changing their costume.

“I am here to see anyone and everyone,” said His Highness; “but I look to you, Gentlemen of the Ring, I should say Household, to see that I am disturbed by only those who have the right of entree.  And now, houp-la! You can go.”

Thus dismissed, the unfortunate aides-de-camp could but bow, and retire in silence.  But, though they gave no utterance to their thoughts, their reflections were of a painful character.  They felt what with five reviews a day, to say nothing of what might be termed scenes in the circle (attendances at the Bois, dances at the Hotel de Ville, and the like), their entire exhaustion was only a question of weeks, or even days.

One morning the General-President, weary of interviews, was about to retire into his salle-a-manger, there to discuss the twenty-five courses of his simple dejeuner a la fourchette, when he was stopped by a person in a garb more remarkable for its eccentricity than its richness.  This person wore a coat with tails a yard long, enormous boots, a battered hat, and a red wig.  A close observer would have doubted whether his nose was real or artificial.  The strangely-garbed intruder bowed grotesquely.