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asks whether I know their story. I do; so it does not have to be repeated. I ask myself afterwards whether the remarkable story of these lovers gave the French a turn against female education. I presume, however, that the Salic law is older. The inscription upon the tomb of Alfred de Musset-the lines from one of his poems, asking his friends to plant a willow-is very pretty; but what a forlorn little willow, looking like a peach-tree with the yellows! But generally the care of trees upon the streets of Paris is admirable, wonderful; possibly there is some difficulty in this especial case. I cannot see the tomb of Rachel, the great actress, as this is Saturday, and the Jewish part of the cemetery is closed. I do see a monument raised over the child of a man I once knew at home. It is to a child of Pierce Butler and Frances Anne Kemble. At Père la Chaise the lots are small and nearly filled with the monuments, instead of being grassy and flowery like ours, but the ground is not entirely divided into lots. The wreaths of immortelles have often suffered from the weather, showing stains or discoloration, and, where sheltered, some of the flowers have fallen off. Thus, in Mr. Thiers' monument they have fallen from the top of an immense wreath, showing the great foundation of straw below. Some enterprising Frenchman appears to have discovered (enterprising, like him who invented universal suffrage) that more durable wreaths can be made from metal and colored to imitate life. Upon some of the monuments little sheet-iron protections for wreaths have been put up. We see a man standing within one of the little monumental houses, standing low and at work at the stone floor. I inquire whether an interment is to take place. As he stands in the aperture produced by the absence of one of the flooring-stones, he answers that one has taken place: see the wreaths; and there they are on

the next monument close by us, (so crowded are these tombs), the beautiful flowers; the great wreath of deep-blue violets or pansies, with a little white introduced; the beautiful white flowers in a paper sheath and other offerings. Florists abide in this region; and after leaving, we meet upon the street one of the working-women of Paris, carrying a load of little straw wreaths, which doubtless are to be covered with immortelles. A funeral procession comes up; Madame Latour thinks it to be second-class. The horses wear robes nearly to the ground-black robes ornamented with silver— and have great black plumes towering above their ears. The mourning-coaches are covered with black cloth, and all is brought into precision by this precise people. When at the mayor's office, I saw upon a door a large sign, "Funeral pomps." The city owns the funeral pomps, and lets them out at different sums, there being a good many different classes. It is stated that of what the city receives, it pays a high tax or proportion to the clergy. Within Père la Chaise many tombs are marked In perpetuity, which reminds one that in many cases the ground is only rented for a number of years; then, of course, the bodies must be taken up, and there is not much that is solemn or poetical in the thought.

After leaving the celebrated cemetery I return to dine with Madame Latour, and in the evening we go together to a lecture.

Monday, June 10th.-Victor has holiday, this being Pentecost or Whitmonday; also the bank is closed.

The fruiterer's boy brings up our milk, but he was late yesterday morning. At present he is in the shade. Victor says that he had spilt milk upon the waxed staircase, and had spit upon it; and when the concierge scolded him, he replied, "There is no moss upon the flint stones!" By which

he meant to taunt the concierge like the boys of old who said, "Go to, thou bald-head!" Further, when the concierge tried to catch him he escaped between the concierge's legs; so he got a whipping from his father or some other in authority.

Victor laughs, and tells of having listened at night to the conversation of the hack-drivers and others with their female friends, as "Francine, how much money hast thou in thy purse?" with a view to marriage. I say that with us it is the man's purse that is in question.

Tuesday, June 11th.—I receive a compliment to-day,—a small one. Asking a man upon the street where I can buy stamps, he says, "Madame is from my country, I suppose, -from Belgium?" This is the first time that I have been taken for anything but born to speak English.

As I want to see a market, I make an appointment with Victor to meet him this afternoon and visit that near the Madeleine, but do not find anything especially remarkable, unless it be his jokes with the people he has known so long. On the street he asks me (probably having noticed a sign), "Do you love pel-el?" "Is it something to eat or drink?” I ask. "To drink; English pel-el." Of course he means pale ale. He has studied our language a little,-apparently, very little.

The following anecdote I admit, as indicative of habits of thought. Victor and I have been speaking of Mr. Dupanloup, bishop of Orleans, and member of the Legislative Assembly. Victor does not like me to call him by his title as bishop, monseigneur, or my lord Dupanloup. He tells me that Mr. Dupanloup has a daughter; our friend Mr. C. said so. Meeting the latter, who is ad

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vanced in years, I introduce the subject, and he answers, "How! he has had a daughter! he has done worse things than that he has calumniated people." I suppose him to refer to what Mr. Dupanloup has said in a recent letter addressed to Victor Hugo, or in a controversy on account of the great novelist's part in celebrating the late centenary of Voltaire. It will be remembered that the volume of selections from Voltaire's works published on this occasion contains his attack on the Christian religion.

The following anecdote may also illustrate Paris ways of thought and life. Mr. C. tells us lately that when his sons were about twelve years old, the bonne, or woman-servant, could not conveniently, at all times, attend them to school; and so he spoke to them about public women, putting them on their guard against them.

The circular railway round Paris, by which I sometimes return from the Exposition, has seats on top of the cars, from which we have an admirable opportunity of seeing the very neat plots of the market-gardeners and their care in cultivation. What quantities of hand-glasses are used to cover plants! Observe how many of the dwellings have great black cauldrons perched up high or attached to the house. These are reservoirs for water, to be rightly tempered for the plants. And when the weather becomes somewhat dry, see them watering with a hose,—not allowing the water to fall heavily, but like a shower, from the perforated end upon the hose, as from the rose of a watering-pot.

Victor says, "We are French Quakers, we free-thinkers." Perhaps he alludes to one of the doctrines of a society in

which he is active, namely, "The autonomy of the human individual," or that each man is a law unto himself; which doctrine is in strong contrast with that of the Romish Church.

I want to weigh a letter, and Victor takes down his kitchen standard scales; he dusts them, and they balance very nicely. He also produces the wooden block of brass weights, weights with a knob. There are twelve of these, beginning with two of one gramme each, their gramme equalling about one-twenty-ninth of an ounce avoirdupois; thence they run up to the half kilogramme or French pound, popularly the half kilo, which is about one-tenth heavier than our pound. I never remember to have weighed a letter before upon kitchen scales. In some respects these are a very accurate people; not generally so accurate in their conversation, however, as Pennsylvania Quakers. I never knew one of the latter, when he was at work in the barn, to leave word that he was not at home; nor if he expected an unpleasant call to tell some one to say that he had gone to New York, and would not be back for a week; nor do I remember a Quaker woman's telling any one that she was twenty-two, when a legal paper stated that she was twenty-seven. Nevertheless, there are exceptions in the Society of Friends.

Wednesday, June 12th.-I see a man and woman tugging a heavy load of vegetables up the Rue de Londres. He has the tongue of the go-cart, while she draws by a rope with a handle. How emphatically is woman a helpmeet here!

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