ment declares that the present and future of its country depends upon the success of a commercial enterprise; the Nationalists reproach the other side with subordinating the honour of France to a fancy fair, and confess that nothing would please them better than the hopeless failure of the Exhibition. From one point of view the Nationalists are right. It is inconvenient, and even dangerous, for a people to put all its eggs in one basket. Yet no sooner was the Exhibition resolved upon than France was pledged to the project, and for twelve years France has been loyal to the trust. Whatever has happened in the meanwhile has been sternly considered with an eye fixed upon the gate - money which during the summer of 1900 should swell the coffers of France. The spirit of restlessness which keeps our neighbours always in love with war or revolution has been partially checked, and, as we have said, the Nationalists may complain with a certain justice that of late years political agitation has enjoyed but half a chance. Who knows that but for the Exhibition the stain of Fashoda would not have been wiped out? Who dare assert that but for the same Exhibition M. Déroulède would not be installed at the Elysée? So they grumble, do the Nationalists, and pray for ruin, disorder, and collapse, knowing well that the failure of the Exhibition would aid the schemes of General Mercier as well as a European war.

bition-and

But, curiously enough, excitement is as necessary to France as wealth itself, and the wiseacres go about the streets wagging their heads, and asking The Exhi-, with an air of profound mystery what will happen in the autumn. When the Exhibition after. has closed its doors-what then? With an inborn hankering after sensation, they think that they will never return contentedly to the quiet routine of former years, and they grimly prophesy war with England. That war, we believe, will never take place;

but it is quite possible that some such mischievous politicians as General Mercier will do their best to contrive a sensation. There will doubtless be packed within the walls of Paris many thousands of workmen whose job is finished, and who will be ready for a desperate enterprise. Moreover, it is evident that General Mercier is still dreaming of a dictatorship, since only the other day he declared that force is not yet necessary, implying thereby that when the proper moment arrives, force will be there to further his designs. But his designs are more likely to persuade him to assault the palace of his own President than to march upon London. The Channel is a desperate obstacle, and we shall never see Major Marchand climb the difficult ascent of Ludgate Hill. On the other hand, an army might easily overcome the guard of the Elysée, and once M. Loubet was ousted from his throne, a genuine measure of Republican freedom might be thrust upon an unwilling people by MM. Rochefort and Drumont. It might be an unpleasant prospect, had not the irreconcilables cried "Wolf!" once too often.

Meanwhile Paris enjoys herself, and those who are old enough to remember the glorious days of the Second Empire ask themselves why the gravity of the third Republic should not be eclipsed. Above all, the Parisians are indulging their legitimate passion for kings. Like all democrats, they contemplate a crowned head with frank enthusiasm. The heads which have worn the crown of France have lain uneasy for a century. Louis XVI. lost his on the scaffold; Louis XVIII. ran to and fro so often that he was half a stranger to his throne; while Charles X. and Louis Philippe both died in miserable exile. But, as has been truly said, "Gallus Gallo Lupus," and the French, who have detested their own kings, adore the kings of others. Not only have they purchased a villa for the reception of monarchs, but they are prepared to pay the sincerest

homage to any that will come. So far only one has accepted their hospitality, and the King of Sweden. and Norway is not likely to forget his visit. Nor is this enthusiasm confined to Paris. Contrexeville is bowing the knee to the Shah of Persia, for the dust of whose chariots the citizens watched the horizon for many a day. The reporters chronicle his movements with a naïveté that is charming. If he walks, they are surprised that his imperial frame should be supported upon two legs; if he speaks, they are surprised that his voice sounds not unlike the voice of a man. And what they will say of the King of Portugal, of the Khedive, and, lastly, of the Emperor of all the Russias, we dare not foretell. Should these monarchs arrive, we hope a few words of adulation will be left in the sack.

In this worship of lions, in this adulation of monarchs not their own, there is, of course, an element of pathos.

The Republic's love of kings.

But the sentiment cannot be dismissed as the mere confusion of the unknown with the magnificent. No doubt the sturdy republican does regret that his constitution provides him with an unemotional figurehead. Yet he might easily translate his regret into disdain, and that the average Frenchman never does. Deep down in the heart of France is the sentiment and the pride of hospitality. No country in the world is so profoundly, so justly, satisfied with its power of entertainment. Even without the Exhibition, there is more in Paris to tempt the traveller than in any other city of the world; and no vanity can persuade Englishman or German not to delight in the churches, the pictures, the gardens, and the theatres of Paris. Moreover, when Madame Metternich described the French capital as the cabaret of Europe, she hid a pretty compliment in a word of contempt. There is no disgrace in well-cooked food, and the Parisian restaurants are not a

superstition but an admirable reality. Paris, then, knows her virtues better than we do-she has never lacked consciousness of self, and she takes a very proper delight in their display. If she can charm the millionaire, so much the better for her pocket. But it is evidently far more amusing to capture the approval of a king.

And, republican though she be, France has still preserved her ancient love of splendour. Not only does she take pleasure in pageants, she understands the art of pageantry better than any other nation. She can stagemanage a function or a procession as easily as she can stage-manage her admirable theatre. She is mistress of the graces, as of the ornaments which lend a magnificence to life. All that she needs is an excuse, and this excuse is given her by the kings to whom for this year she prepares a welcome. Nor is this enthusiasm without its moral. A people which uncovers in the presence of any king, which follows him with a frank admiration, is surely monarchical at heart. And if only France could find a monarch worthy her tradition and her eager loyalty, might she not enjoy a greater happiness? But, alas! were the king her own, she would tire of him in a week. The fickleness of Paris makes her despair of stable government. A private citizen may be reputed to enjoy all the virtues. Put him in the Ministry, and he becomes the pack-horse of all the vices. The scurrility of the Chamber, the infamy of the press, correspond to no political principle; they merely mirror a deep-rooted hate of all authority. If France were governed by another king, the scaffold or exile would be his untoward fate. Meanwhile she is anxious to contemplate and to flatter the kings of others. It is a pretty paradox, and its explanation might baffle the ingenuity of all the psychologists.

Yet, despite the hospitality of France, the Nationalists are as angrily opposed to strangers as the Chinese. "La France aux Français !" is their cry; and though there is

no chance that France will belong to any one else, they reiterate it with a ceaseless energy. The mere idea that foreigners will visit the Exhibition and fill the pockets of Paris is loathsome to the sturdy Nationalists, and indeed on this score they have little to complain of. The Exhibition is, before all, a success for France. On all hands you hear the French language, and you might easily believe it a national fête. The English, not unnaturally, have kept away, and make but a poor display among the exhibitors. But the French themselves profess the keenest and most practical interest in their enterprise. They visit the fair in thousands, they picnic in the grounds, until it seems as though the whole summer would be an unbroken 14th of July. And, above all, they hustle their wits to discover what is the clou of the Exhibition.

The clou of the

Exhibition.

What, then, is the clou, which is plainly necessary to the success of every project? The last Exhibition left us in no doubt there was the Eiffel Tower, with the amazement not only of size but of novelty. The Eiffel Tower is familiar by this, and we must look about for a fresher curiosity. Many sensations have been suggested-the vast globe, the telescope, the house that stands upon its head. But the globe and telescope are too serious, the topsy-turvy house is too fantastic to attract. Then again there is Old Paris, which might be expected to rejoice those who are touched by the Romantic Revival, but Old Paris is too obviously arranged, and M. Coquelin has spoiled the taste for the Tour de Nesle. The clou, then, is hard to find, and the difficulty of the search is a high compliment to the interest of the Exhibition. Where there is so much to engage our curiosity, why should we expect to discover one object which compels the universal attention? And yet there is a clou, overlooked perhaps, because it is in the sight of all.