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dows looking upon a little yard. It is simply furnished, and beside it is a little office or study. Opening from the dining-room is also the door of the salon or parlor. Then there are two sleeping-rooms, the bit of a kitchen, two little dressing-closets, and the water-closet, without water. Marie sleeps in the mansard above, a flight of outside steps going up to it. Her wages are, I believe, nine francs. a week. In her little kitchen is a furnace or range, covered with tiles or plates of white faïence. There are seven places in the furnace where small charcoal fires can be made, and where she can boil, broil, or stew. For roasting there is something separate,—a sort of quite small, upright, portable furnace, grated in front. In this charcoal is burnt, and a tin-kitchen or roasting-vessel is set before it. Beside the furnace is a shallow stone sink, with a great earthen pan. There is an earthen pot with an earthen lid for boiling, and a number of earthen pipkins are standing round, while handsome copper and tin vessels hang on the wall. There is room for two small tables, but two persons would with difficulty work in the space left vacant. The floors-that of the narrow passage and of the dressing-closet into which I am shown-are of tiles. The room in which I sleep was madame's. If it were not for the regular, rather handsome cornice running around the room I should think that it had been partitioned off; for the door that goes out into the narrow back entry is apparently cut in the partition, and papered over with the same hangings as the room, there being just a little glass handle for opening it. This has the effect of scenery in a theatre, especially as the gilt ornament of paper which goes around the room near the floor is also carried over the door, all looking like an attempt to conceal it; but I afterwards hear that such doors are made to avoid taxation.

I understand that Mr. C. and his wife were friends of Emile Souvestre, author of "The Attic Philosopher" (Le philosophe sous les toits).

Mr. C.'s father was a physician in a town in the north, and he himself was a teacher and lawyer. He now holds real estate in different places, and has retired from active business, being over seventy.

His wife, who was originally a Protestant, was a person very highly esteemed. I often heard her spoken of, but obvious reasons prevent my mentioning the work which she established in Paris. One of their sons is a cultivator, a vine-grower; and the other a machinist. Mr. C. was originally a Catholic, but is now a free-thinker: he says that he believes in God and in the immortality of the soul. His wife and he had only a civil marriage, which, indeed, is the only legal marriage in France; but all the religious and fashionable world add the church marriage. The two sons of Mr. and Mrs. C. were married in this latter manner; one of them, I believe, is a Protestant.

Mr. C. is an ardent, a devoted republican; perhaps this is a reason for his receiving so kindly a plain person from republican America. When he tells me that his landlady is the widow of a marquis,-"Ah!" I say; and he doubtless perceives some eagerness that displeases him, for he adds a little roughly, "It is no matter what she is.”

My countryman, who gave me a letter of introduction to Mr. C., is an ardent advocate of peace, being also of Quaker origin. But with his sentiments Mr. C. does not entirely agree: he thinks that the Americans did well to go to war with Great Britain for their independence, and that the French did well to help us.

Sunday, April 28th.-At seven, Marie gives to each of us a cup of very strong chocolate, served unceremoniously,

without saucer or tablecloth. Bread in the loaf, wine and oranges are also upon the table. The chocolate is too strong for me, and I take wine and water; Mr. C. being kind enough also to bring some cheese. At eleven he will have his regular breakfast. He has ordered a hackneycoach, and is ready to take me this morning to seek a boarding-place. I want cheap board in a private family where English will not be spoken. I had been told, however, by a Frenchman in my own country, that I cannot find board in a private Parisian family, but I will at least try to obtain it. As we ride I hear the cry of something for sale, and I ask Mr. C. whether they cry things to sell on Sunday. He answers, He answers, "We don't keep Sunday in Paris. We amuse ourselves. We go into the country." However, I am told that there are good Catholics and good Protestants who observe Sunday, but that the greater part of the people do not. As we go, I observe that the greengrocer woman offers spinach, or some similar plant, boiled and chopped up all ready to warm and put upon the table. We enter a court-yard, where a man and woman are carding wool, and a street-singer, probably a beggar, is chanting. In the fourth or fifth story of a house we find the family of a Lutheran minister who take boarders, their charge being three hundred francs a month for children or young people. Here is a young man in a uniform, which indicates that he is a pupil in some Lycée. This is a high grade of school; higher, I afterwards understand, than the college.

At another place we find that the mother of the family is occupied giving a lesson. She teaches French, and her daughter painting. Six Norwegian ladies are boarding here, and another is expected to-morrow. We see two of them; young, well-looking, and well-dressed, but they are

not so genial to us as Madame de F. and her daughter. Mr. C. speaks highly of this family. They are his friends; they are republicans; they are free-thinkers; they earn their own living. But they are full; I cannot board here. Mr. C. is obliged to make frequent inquiry for some of the persons he seeks, and much time and effort is thus consumed. There are no general directories in Paris. At every place at which he inquires, at the washer-woman's, the fruit-dealer's, or others, he says in parting, "Thank you, madame."

At length we come to a wine-seller's, who has a shop and little restaurant on a corner. He has a room to let in another building upon the same court-yard as is the house of which he occupies a part. I will call him Lenoir. Mr. C. has been here before me; he thinks well of the man, but does not like his wife. We go up with Lenoir to see the room, which certainly wants the modest elegance of the one I occupy at Mr. C.'s; indeed, it looks as if housecleaning time has come, but house-cleaning is not yet done. The room is about eight feet by nine; but, behold, there is a dressing-closet with a wardrobe! the closet being about five by five. The room-floor is of six-sided tiles, and a good sweeping and washing would not hurt it. Mr. C. asks whether I will look at the cabinet,-it is customary to see the cabinet. Whereupon Lenoir tells us where it is, and Mr. C. quickly mounts another flight of stairs, and we find the cabinet in an open corner of the entry: it is a water-closet without water. Does not my countenance express dejection and disgust? I am offered this lodging for thirty francs a month, but I cannot venture to take it for so long a period. I will merely engage it for a week, but must then pay ten francs. Mr. C. makes the very rash statement that all the people in England and America are accustomed to take a bath or wash themselves every day,

and Lenoir consents to let me have a bucket of water, and another bucket to empty water into. I can, of course, take my meals in his restaurant, if I desire. He is not accustomed to coffee with milk, but he can take some milk if I order it. As soon as I take the room, for which I pay in advance, Lenoir brings a piece of paper, and wishes to know my name, my first name, age, profession, place of birth, in what department, and my last residence. This, I understand, is to give to the police.

This finished, Mr. C. and I return to his home to breakfast, where we have an excellent steak, very well broiled, bread without butter, the two decanters of water and two bottles of wine, and it appears that the red is milder and more suitable for women. There is also cold meat and so forth, and the table is covered with oil-cloth. In conversation with Mr. C. I have spoken of men not marrying in France, unless the bride has money. He rejoins that marriages are made upon too short an acquaintance, say of a fortnight; and that then the husband has mistresses, and the wife, lovers. "Is it so now?" I ask. "Not so much so as under the Empire," he says. While speaking of morals, I may here add that upon a conspicuous street I have noticed the sign or advertisement of a clothing store, called "To the Good Devil," with a figure of the same. Then I question whether the moral ideas of the people are not all topsy-turvy. Some months after, however, in Belgium, a young gentleman, speaking in French of the parish priests, calls them good devils, which greatly astonishes me, till I learn that the phrase means good fellows, as we say, poor devil.

After breakfast my trunks are taken to my new lodgings, and I afterwards dine very nicely with Mr. C., and meet a young Swiss, who is in business at Paris, and who is polite

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