TORRENT OF ENTHUSIASM.

From PERCEVAL LANDON. PARIS, Monday Night.

All day long yesterday the train slipped through the woods and pastures of the Seine. Now it was through a park of discarded and scrapped engines and trucks forty acres in extent. Now through some old-world town, still busy with the insistent work of the last four years in France. Always there were troop trains, always long truck-loads of guns and ammunition, always the right-of-way to lie given to some special that flashed by upon our up-line, and always behind this moving figure of war there were the gorgeous gold and bronze tints of autumn, and France lay out, as Danaë, waiting for the coming of the God of Peace. Paris itself, still scarcely lighted, was veiled with a light fog, through which the setting sun shone with the red light that is proverbial of the morrow’s delight. The Parisians had not yet cared or dared to take things for granted. There is the sense of inevitable victory in the air, but, like ourselves, the French take nothing for granted. Everywhere there were small groups of two or three closing upon the last purchaser of an evening paper, but, though the news passed quickly from mouth to mouth, there was no more jubilation than in London. I made some comment on this seeming lack of enthusiasm to a lady, and she said something which I shall remember to my dying day: “If you were a woman you would understand better. France has gone through tire agony of deliverance for the last four years, and now that all that she has hoped for is brought to birth she hugs it to her bosom with the silent thankfulness and happiness of a mother. But,” she added, “it will be another thing to-morrow.”