Henri walked up to the box. "Allons, mon garçon," said the mayor, "un peu d'aplomb;" and he opened the lid. Derblay thrust in his hand: his face was turned toward us, and I could see him draw out his ticket and give it to the captain: a moment's deep silence. "No. 3!" roared the officer; and a howl of derision from the mob covered his words. Henri had become a soldier. I could not well see what then followed: there was a sudden hush, a chorus of exclamations, a rush toward the steps of the town-hall, and then the crowd fell back to make way for two gendarmes who were carrying a body between them. "Is he dead?" asked a number of voices. "Oh no," tittered the two men--"only fainted: he'll soon come round again." And the mob burst into a laugh. E.C. GRENVILLE MURRAY. THE SYMPHONY. "O Trade! O Trade! would thou wert dead! The age needs heart--'tis tired of head. We're all for love," the violins said. "Of what avail the rigorous tale Of coin for coin and box for bale? Grant thee, O Trade! thine uttermost hope, Level red gold with blue sky-slope, And base it deep as devils grope, When all's done what hast thou won Of the only sweet that's under the sun? Ay, canst thou buy a single sigh Of true love's least, least ecstasy?" Then all the mightier strings, assembling, Fell a-trembling, with a trembling Bridegroom's heart-beats quick resembling; Ranged them on the violin's side Like a bridegroom by his bride, And, heart in voice, together cried: "Yea, what avail the endless tale Of gain by cunning and plus by sale? Look up the land, look down the land-- The poor, the poor, the poor, they stand Wedged by the pressing of Trade's hand Against an inward-opening door That pressure tightens ever more: They sigh, with a monstrous foul-air sigh, For the outside heaven of liberty, Where Art, sweet lark, translates the sky Into a heavenly melody. 'Each day, all day' (these poor folks say), 'In the same old year-long, drear-long way, We weave in the mills and heave in the kilns, We sieve mine-meshes under the hills, And thieve much gold from the Devil's bank tills, To relieve, O God, what manner of ills?-- Such manner of ills as brute-flesh thrills. The beasts, they hunger, eat, sleep, die, And so do we, and our world's a sty; And, fellow-swine, why nuzzle and cry? _Swinehood hath never a remedy,_ The rich man says, and passes by, And clamps his nostril and shuts his eye. Did God say once in God's sweet tone, Man shall not live by bread alone, But by all that cometh from His white throne? Yea: God said so, But the mills say No, And the kilns and the strong bank-tills say _No: There's plenty that can, if you can't. Go to: Move out, if you think you're underpaid. The poor are prolific; we re not afraid; Business is business; a trade is a trade_, Over and over the mills have said.'"