Yonder on the left, under some trees at no great distance, is the terrace of a café decked with flags and filled with a crowd of most excited people. They are wild with joy, and make a deafening noise; then, suddenly, as with one movement, they spring up and stand motionless and silent, with heads bared. An orchestra hidden among the trees has sounded the first notes of the German anthem. Corpulent men stand with a stiffness at attention which seems suited neither to their age nor their size; they hold their cigars in their hands and leave their beer to get flat without regret. Stout women in light dresses, which seem too tight for them, stand beside them; they are red with excitement; the children remain motionless in an attitude almost religious. It is a veritable uproar, where the shrill notes of the fifes and the low interrupted roll of the drum impress on these grey citizens the staggering successes of their arms. They experience a joy beyond all bounds in staining their starched white shirt fronts with beer and cigar-ash in an inn where everybody is crowded together. There they have come to comment on the news of the day, enforcing their remarks by blows which make the tables tremble. They are still visibly excited by the burning words of patriotism in the sermons preached by their ministers--men in the pay of the bloody Emperor. These words still ring in their ears telling them of the destiny of the all-powerful German race, a race elected, chosen by their god before all to be the salvation of the world. They are intoxicated by their own excitement, the music, the beer and the sun, and listen in a religious frenzy to the music which places them above other nations--“Deutschland über alles.” At the end of each stanza, tired with so long repressing the feelings that burn in their hearts, they break forth into uncontrolled cheering, and shout themselves hoarse bellowing out the admiration that they feel for themselves. They wave little flags, sticks, hats, handkerchiefs, beer-mugs; it is pandemonium. With purple faces, eyes starting out of their heads, swollen veins and wide-open mouths they shout, they vociferate, without any regard for those who are so near them. They see red, and in the sky at which they gaze, the apotheosis of the Teuton race appears to them, sublime, emerging from a river of blood. Unwearied the orchestra begins again, dominates the tumult of the crowd, that, after a bar or two, has recovered its calm, like a mechanical toy wound up anew and set in motion. In Germany there is order and respect for music; they do not have two concerts going on at a time. Strains, feverish, passionate, played with vigour, float on the air. Each musician blows, beats, scrapes, strikes with all the power of a Boche, as if he hoped that the sounds he gave forth, drowning the others, would go ever to the field of battle and inspire with a force of “superman” the unchained wild beasts whose mission it is to show to the astonished