(But of the workingmen I shall speak hereafter.) Near us is a great school, under charge of one of the religious orders, and about ten o'clock this morning the boys are making great noise at their play. The bell rings, and they are silent, but they begin again about half-past twelve. A black-frocked and black-capped ecclesiastic walks forth. I suppose that he is on guard while they play in the pleasant garden.

At the concierge's window sits a young woman this morning with her sewing; the concierge polishes the brass handle of the hydrant or fountain, and that of the door within which the harness is kept. A young gentleman has come back from riding, and a groom in wooden shoes clatters around the stone pavement and brushes down the horse; then he takes water and a brush and washes the horse's ankles and hoofs, then brings more water and a cloth to rinse the horse's legs, and at length takes him into the stable. I wonder if he himself is as well cleaned as the brute? A person who lives in the same house as we comes into the court-yard, carelessly carrying a hat wrapped in blue paper, as if a little ashamed of it. I listen this morning to Madame Leblanc, who tells me what she thinks of the women-servants, the bonnes who accompany young ladies in their daily walks. "It is a real punishment," she says, "to have those bonnes behind one,-a real punishment! That looks as if parents had not confidence in their children." She adds that it is the custom here for young ladies to be accompanied by their mother or by a bonne when walking out in the day. It is only poverty that prevents this attendance; but she adds that the poor are not likely to be insulted upon that account. She says that it is a false idea that these servants protect you.

I am so kind as to endeavor to explain to her our Penn

sylvania laws on marriage and divorce, and how no ceremony of marriage is necessary to permit the children to inherit, if the parents have acknowledged a contract; also how divorce may be obtained by the one party when the other has absented himself or herself for two years. I probably succeed in making her feel that we are loose people.

In the afternoon I go to St. Augustine's church. How funny seems the inscription (somewhat rough) upon the outside, "Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité"! This large church was built by Louis Napoleon, and here masses are said for the repose of his soul; but he never saw this inscription upon the outside: it was added after he left! I see a crowd at a side-door, and, inquiring what it is, I am told that they are coming out from the catechism, the retreat for children. At home we might say coming out of Sundayschool, but then they are catechised on other days, as I have lately stated. I enter the basement-room, called Chapel of the Catéchisme,-a great room with an immense number of benches and chairs. I suppose that the boys and girls are catechised together, if not allowed to attend public school in common. The great room now is nearly emptied. It has not much ornament. While I am in there enters a young man, of nice appearance, and kneels for a few moments. I enter the church above and find a notice, of which I copy a part: "Parish St. Augustine, Month of Mary. The faithful are invited to contribute offerings of shrubs, flowers, candles, or money for the solemnity of the exercises of the month consecrated to the Queen of Heaven." It is between five and six in the afternoon, and there is not much display, but several persons are scattered around at their devotions. Beginning at the right, I count the confessional boxes; each has the name of an ecclesiastic, with

his hours for confessions. The seventh says, "Mr. the abbé Escalle confesses all day on Wednesday: On Saturday, and the eve of festivals, from four to six in the evening. Every day from seven to nine in the morning. Confesses also in English or in Italian." There are twelve confessionals altogether. People are coming and going. The devout are not all women: two young men come in; afterwards a gentleman and lady and children; a rather nicelooking, elderly ecclesiastic, in robe and big shoes and spectacles, goes about, after dipping in holy water and bending a knee to the altar. He is corpulent, and he looks like a rural ecclesiastic; doubtless many are in Paris now. I infer that you may always know Catholics by their dipping in holy water. One lady dips the tip of one or two gloved fingers, and then holds them to the young lady with her, who touches one and begins to make the sign of the cross. She looks at my note-book. While going around and counting the confessionals, I do not observe a statement that any priest confesses on Sunday; but in one of the railed divisions-called, I believe, chapels-two women are sitting. The confessional in the centre is a sort of closet, with a little glass door or window in front, shaded by a muslin curtain. In this part sits the priest, and on each side is a recess, in which one person can kneel, a curtain hanging to conceal the person. I walk up to the box to read the inscription, which states that Mr. will confess at certain times, one being Sunday after vespers. And while I am reading I hear light whispering, and suddenly become aware that some one is within confessing, and that probably the priest has seen me through the muslin curtain. I am shocked at having come so near the confessional, and am sorry to have shocked them, as I may have done. When at home I ask Victor what I should

say if I went to accuse myself of

confession. He answers, "My father, I " I see no men confessing at Paris. There is at St. Augustine's church quite a fine picture of the saint at his mother's death-bed. From the features we might suppose it to be Napoleon Bonaparte at the death of Madame Letitia, but the dead person has a glory around the head, which does not belong to the former Madame Bonaparte. There is another painting which does not please me near so well, and which I suppose to be the baptism of Augustine; but in this he does not wear the Bonaparte features, which seems a contradiction.

Not long after entering the church, I see an old woman near the altar with some forlorn little spindling candles, partly hollow, stuck upon points in a tray, one or two being lighted, cheap things, I infer, which the faithful go and buy. After awhile she has more candles lighted, and they are of different lengths; the old woman is kneeling by with a prayer-book. Is it a trade? After awhile six of her candles are burning. She kneels partly facing the people, with her book closed in her hands; she moves her lips; she wears glasses; she looks at me. Is she ready to sell candles?

Poor woman!

At dinner this evening we have onion soup, made of asparagus-water with bread cut up in it, which is pretty good; then three chops with bread and wine. Next we are to have the asparagus, and I signify to madame that I would be willing to eat it while it is warm. "Oh, no," she answers; "when asparagus is eaten with oil and vinegar, we do not eat it warm!"

Victor was away nearly all day. He was helping one of his friends to move.

Monday, May 20th.—Our apartments have water in the kitchen and in the water-closet. To-day it is not running; they think that the pipes are being repaired. There is a fountain or hydrant down in the court-yard, and I had before proposed to go and get water; but I am told that if it is not running this morning they will hire the charcoalman to bring some. Speaking of not having water in the pipe, I say, "We must submit." "Oh, yes," says Victor, "we must submit like the marshal." "What marshal?"

I ask. "Mash-mah-own." "Do the French pronounce it like that?" "Oh, yes." He alludes doubtless to the celebrated saying of Gambetta, that MacMahon must either submit or demit,-i.e., resign.*

While I am at the modiste's there enter two men, one in a showy uniform of dark-blue embroidered with silver (or its imitation), but the other is in plain clothes. The man in uniform says something, and the woman in the store afterwards tells me that he came to see about the gas. The man in plain clothes is of higher grade, and came because the affair is important.

To-day I visit a Protestant public school. It is in a good stone building, with a dingy tricolor floating from the front. In the same building is a Protestant church. This school is not upon the list of those which I have received permission to visit, but it has been mentioned to me by another teacher. Although I have no card of introduction, the teacher receives me pleasantly; perhaps she infers by my accent that I am English, and consequently Prot

*The above is not the usual pronunciation.