they shall go processionally and meet him at
railway terminus, bend low before him, and
be sent on their way rejoicing with three
soft words or so to be shared among them all.
Such as it is, it brings some distraction from
that hope deferred which is making the
money-bound's heart sick. Looking from his
coffee-room window, he sees sentry-boxes—
coloured in favourite jackdaw fashion—borne
by on little carts, about to be set up at hotel
doors where princes and other magnates are
newly arrived. Such are high commissioners,
sent by neighbouring majesties to do
honour to the coming of Brother
Friedrich.

The General von Wrangel is rumoured to
be in town organising the army of the
district: an available force of not less than fifty
men. He may be seen driving furiously in
open calêche, sunk beneath his awful helm
and roomy cloak, pointed at by awe-stricken
burghers. So passes the vigil away, and the
morn of the great solemnity draws on with
abundance of light and sunshine. No tidings
to-day—nothing for the hapless money-bound.
So he goes forth with the rest, terminus-
ward to see the pageant, such as it is.

All gay with flags and garlanded, with the
population, in its beset, flooding the green
square in front; so that the terminus has a
very light and brilliant aspect. Only a train of
uncouth eilwagen, or stage-coaches, no doubt
having obtained congé for that festival, are
drawn up on the left with damaging effect to
the prospect. Shabby conveyances, with
sorry, unkempt steeds attached, bestrode by
postilions in bright waistcoat, heavy
jackboots and horn slung round them. Who
shall divine what part will be found for
such royal eilwagen in the coming show?
Which doubt shall, in the fullness of time,
come to be resolved.

Meantime, all available vehicles are at this
moment under hire and busy setting down
strange, dried old men, very yellow and
shrivelled, in look and costume to be likened
unto ancient admirals. Town councilmen they
are said to be, whose shrunken shanks,
outlined but too plainly through their white
trowsers, tell of small profit to the state from
their service. Gathered, too, at the top of
the steps may be seen a motley group, made
up of the commissioners before mentioned, of
fighting men from contiguous countries, sent
also to do honour to the occasion, now to be
swelled by the ancient admirals fast arriving.
Some of the fighting men are arrayed in
snowy white—plainly Austrian; others in
glazed shining hats with broad brims, with
gold cords fastening them to the coat, are not
so plainly to be recognised as gentlemen of
the Dutch colony. Here, too, are sundry of
the Belgian following; trim, airy little men,
also with golden cords pendant from their
caps, crossing the breast with graceful festoon,
and terminating ingeniously on the shoulder
in a kind of tassel-epaulette.

The day creeps on wearily. From two to
three, from three to four, and still no king
comes. The ancient admirals, fast
collapsing with the cold, have sensibly grown
yellower. The fighting men stamp impatiently
and clink their spurs upon the stones. Still
the king comes not. What has befallen
august Friedrich?

The money-bound man whiles away
intervening hours as best he may, and about seven
o'clock, when it is tolerably dusk, goes forth
again. There is a vast crowd in a dirty,
winding street, under the shadow of the
Great Dom; where too is situated the resident's
house—halting-place, for that night, of royal
Friedrich. Waiting here for some half-hour
or more, and sorely troubled by mounted
gendarmerie gratuitiously backing their horses
upon unoffending toes, of a sudden he
hears the steam-whistle afar off, whereby he
knows deliverance to be at hand. By and by
comes significant clattering up the paved
street and roar as of many voices, when, lo!
emerges into view—the crowd contemplating
it curiously—the eternal train of eilwagen
leading the van of the procession. Heavy
laden, and with whips cracking, they come
toiling up the steep street, piled high with
shabbiest of carpt-bags and travel-stained
portmanteaus. O! such mean, threadbare
bag-miscellany was never seen gathered
together. Such worn, decayed, poverty-
stricken mails show most unroyal and
undignified. Up the steep street they come toiling;
the estafettes jogging uneasily upon their
spare quadrupeds, with enthusiastic crowd
following, and gazing reverentially on the
sacred pile. Now comes on even greater
crowd; surging tumultuously round a kind
of closed phaeton—most unroyal, too—within
which, the rumour goes, sits the royal
Friedrich. WIth monstrous flags of the
jackdaw pattern borne on each side, with a
body of valiant foresters with guns on their
shoulders and clad in green (uniform of a
shooting club of the town), with populace,
men and boys, shouting most unmusically,
the procession struggles painfully up the
narrow street. Finally, is royal Friedrich
set down at the Resident's door, and is seen
no more that night.

The Resident's bow-window looks out
conveniently enough upon certain pretty gardens,
where the well-worked orchestra are accustomed
to perform of those bare frosty mornings,
for convalescents' entertainment. It has been
decreed there shall be a little fête, or serenade
under the royal window, to commence,
say, in two hours' time. And, meanwhile,
the money-bound bethinks him of a walk
round the town to see the illuminations.

Very pretty does he find them, with a dash
of French taste in their disposition, all down
the wide new street; windows being thrown
open, and those French paper many-hued
lanterns floating to and fro. All along the
window-sills are rows of candles, pretty to