but some one loses his life, being suffocated. The danger is greatest when the vats are not filled. Pierre was once drawn from a vat when in danger.

I have mentioned the square building over the gateway. This last was probably the great gateway of the De Chambres, and the wall here is very thick. The little square building above it is a dove-cote or pigeon-house. We visit the building where the wine is kept. The first cellar is nearly upon a level with the ground outside. There are no steps within, but the ground inclines a little downwards, and the inner cellar is that in which the wine is kept during the summer. The wine-casks are of two hectolitres, or about fifty gallons, and they fill from twenty to forty a year, according to the season.*

Within the court-yard are growing six or seven trees, but only one makes any show. show. Its branches are spared on account of the fruit, for it is what we call an English walnut. The rest of the trees are ash, trimmed in the manner of France, where people are many and wood is scarce. The walnut stands near the centre of the yard; under it is a large pile of brush, and beyond a flourishing patch of burdocks, nearly hiding some logs. I have spoken of the buttress that supports one end of the barn. It is of stone; upon it a little grass is growing, and in front of it lies a manure-heap, for I have said that this is front yard, wellyard, and barn-yard in one. The gate on the left side,

* Appletons' "Cyclopædia" states that the litre is .22 of an imperial gallon. The hectolitre is 100 litres, or 22 gallons, and the double hectolitre would thus be 44 gallons. But the hectolitre is nearly 26 gallons by wine measure, and thus the double hectolitre cask would hold over 52 gallons of wine.

which goes into the garden, is a double one, large and comparatively handsome. On two sides the garden has, or had, a strong stone wall; on a third there is water; and the fourth wall is formed by the house and other buildings. They say that the garden was an elegant affair formerly, with flowers and green- or hot-houses, but now it is mostly planted with vines. The moat upon the lowest side of the garden is fed by a small stream from above, on account of which stream the house may first have been built here. It has not been a great while in the possession of this family, for the young men's grandfather bought it. Although he could scarcely write, he was an enterprising man,—a dealer in wood, hay, and cattle.

Madame Lesmontagnes has the dinner-table set in the dining-room, large and somewhat sombre, with the bed in one corner, and its red bed-quilt. Here and in the kitchen stand old clocks, upright, over eight feet high. Madame places no one at this table but myself and the eldest son, the others eating without or in the kitchen. Pierre keeps on his hat at dinner, but is very pleasant. At the table we speak about wine-drinking, and he says that it is fortunate for our country that we do not produce wine. Money is made by it, but it is a misfortune for a country, as men get drunk, and sometimes that ends in madness. He adds that the Frenchman is not glorieux unless he has been drinking wine (he is not boastful, vainglorious, or what the cock is when he flaps his wings and crows). But at the same time Pierre invites me to drink, and says that wine drunk while eating does not intoxicate. I am sure, however, that it affects the head.

About four in the afternoon, the two sons at work come

to the house and want a lunch. They have bread, a little wine, and a piece of pie. As I want exercise, Pierre accompanies me in the afternoon to the village, wearing his neat blue linen blouse and leather shoes; but all wear wooden shoes at home.

In walking through the lane, we see a quantity of reddishbrown snails, about the size of my finger, and we also find two or three with shells,-the kind of snail that the people eat. Vineyards abound here. They are laid out in lands formed to heave up in the centre, so as to shed water. A plantation of vines in the plain, Pierre says, will last a hundred years, but here only about twenty-five. On our walk I notice the walnut-trees and the chestnuts full of bloom. These trees are planted, but are not set out in the fields until considerably grown, lest the cattle should hurt them. Growing along the stone banks that support the vineyards we find wild-flowers, also wild-currants, small and nearly sweet, and wild-gooseberries and plums. There are brier bushes in plenty, resembling our blackberries; but some of the blossoms are pink, and people do not appear to prize the fruit. When we reach the village, Pierre and I go into a shop-I believe that it is "the office of tobacco"-to buy letter-stamps. He drops my letter into an old box upon the street, and all is done. This township has over two thousand people, the village being of considerable size, but I see no post-office. We pass the church, and Pierre tells me that it is three hundred and fifty years old, but I afterwards think that his estimate is too great. Pierre adds that the curé (the parish priest) speaks about the church, and says that they ought to have a new one, but the folks do not listen: the expense is too great.

"But does not the government pay?" I inquire. "Only one-third; the commune has to pay the rest."

We call upon the sister of my acquaintance Mr. Chevalier, and she accompanies us for a short distance. We hear music and dancing in a restaurant, and Pierre says that there is a wedding. Will it be good manners for me to go in? I inquire of Madame ———. She says yes; and we all three enter. The young people were married yesterday, but are still celebrating their wedding. The bride's home is some miles distant; the bridegroom is said to be rich; and they are dancing here because there is room. Three men with wind instruments are seated at a desk, and about seven pairs of young people are waltzing. The young women wear dresses of mousseline-de-laine, or similar material; the young men are without coats, and one wears a hat. Older men sit at a side-table with their wine, but older women are mostly absent. Pierre tells me that weddings are sometimes kept up until the third day, and says that this one may cost over a thousand francs. In the open air I see a dancing-floor: it was put up for their festival, the fête of St. Peter, which was celebrated last Sunday and Monday, and will be continued next Sunday.

At supper, among other things, I have vermicelli, which is good, and a part of a small goats'-milk cheese, with cream upon it; very good. You see hanging up at houses what look like large rustic bird-cages, but they are really cheese-cages. I also have excellent cherries, which one of the boys gathered; in common years they are two sous the French pound, but are now scarcer, on account of the wet season. There is wine upon the table, and Mrs. L. gets me to taste their piquette, which is not bad. It was made thus: Take about half a bushel of fruit (in this case dried apples and pears), and put it into a cask holding about forty-four gallons; fill up with water, and this will be ready to drink in eight days. It remains sweet about

twelve days, and then becomes slightly piquante. If it grows thick, add water, without any more fruit; about ten gallons may be added, and as much a second time. After the grapes are pressed, the matter remaining in the press may be used for piquette, putting about one and onehalf bushels to a cask; or any other fruit can be substituted.

Thursday, July 4th.-After breakfast I get a pitcher of water in the kitchen and drink a little. "Madame drinks water?" says Mrs. Lesmontagnes. "Yes," I reply, laughing; "don't you drink water?" "Some little." "One of my friends has not drunk any wine in twenty years," I say. "Oh, misfortune!" she cries: "go, go!" I reply that he is strict in his ideas on this point.

My breakfast is much the same as yesterday's, and the sons have bowls of soup, with peas in, in the pod. The oldest brother gives the others each the half of a small tumbler of wine, and offers me some, which I decline. Last evening they said that wine is wholesome after milk, but that milk after wine is poisonous. Thus,

"Le vin sur le lait, c'est de la santé.

Le lait sur le vin, c'est du venin."

At breakfast the boys have rye bread, which I could eat gladly were it not sour. One son cuts the loaf with his pocket-knife, and has a bit of boiled pork with it. But the careful mother confines herself, I fear, to low diet.

After breakfast, Toinette comes into my room with one of those funny, funnel-like things that I have seen at Paris, funnels without spouts. "My arrosoir is stopped up," she says. She lets out water around the pavement of the room to lay the dust before sweeping. She looks