father of Jeanette, their little cousin,-how he was abrutit, or so brutalized that he would drink three weeks without eating. This, however, is brought up as an argument that wine is nourishing. On the same point, one of them had before maintained that those eat less who drink wine, telling me that mountaineers who have no wine eat half as much again; but I turn the point the other way, that those who do not drink wine have a better appetite. I ask them whether those mountaineers are not strong and hardy, and it is granted that they are. To-day, Henri, the youngest, maintains that those who do not drink wine have not so much vigor; they may have as much strength, but they are not so active. "Oh, madame, when one drinks wine, that makes one lively and active!" he says. He is quite handsome, and looks very well to-day when I see him, perhaps for the first time, without his hat. On the question of strength, I tell him that I should like to have them tried with some of our harvest-hands at home that do not use intoxicating drink. They tell me that most men cannot drink for three weeks, as little Jeanette's father did, for they have not the means; but they can drink for several days, until they have spent all their money, and then sleep and go to work. Madame afterwards tells me that her brother-in-law did not waste his means by drunkenness ; he knew well how to manage when he was not drunk, but his drunkenness caused his death. His legs swelled, and if he had wounds they did not heal. They have told me that there is a family here where both the father and mother get drunk, and they have a little one. does she do," I ask, "when both are drunk?" to the neighbors to get something to eat." before told me that there is not the want here that there is at Paris; for if any persons in the village are in need, one

"And what

"She goes Madame has

takes one thing and another takes another, until they are well supplied.

The weather has been much cooler here than I anticipated, but this Sunday morning the warm air, the smell of the vines in blossom, with the sound of the church-bell, are pleasant. The farmer's mother comes over, and wants me to sit down, and takes a seat herself, for a little gossip with us. She wants to know again from Mrs. L. whether America is a part of France. She says that I am thin, and I reprove her for not being complimentary. She offers me a pinch of snuff, and seems to be somewhat troubled at my not wearing a cap. She is a mountaineer from a neighboring department.

While the sons are away to-day, I ask Mrs. Lesmontagnes for whom they vote. She replies that they vote for deputies, but cannot be sure about senators. I ask whether I cannot inquire at the farmer's. "No," she answers; "they are ignorant. When it is time to vote, my sons have to tell them who are the republicans." She shrugs her shoulders, and adds, "It is not possible to get information there." There are a brother-in-law and two sons in the family, none of whom can both read and write,—nor can Toinette, our hired girl,—and yet Mrs. L. speaks of them as desirable persons, and says that the farmer can put by something every year.

Towards dinner-time I go out upon the front porch, and find seated there, back to the court-yard and facing the house, a true specimen of the genus loafer, with grizzly beard and red face. He has a large piece of brioche, or plain cake, a glass, and a pitcher of wine. I ask Mrs. L. why she gave him wine, knowing that they are choice of it. "He asked for it," she replies. "He did not ask for bread." "But why did you not put water into it?" "He

66

Iwould not have drunk it." "But why, when he looks like a drinking man, did you give him wine?" "To get rid of him. He will drink all that." She was alone; but soon I hear the voice of little Jeanette, who has got back from church. The drunkard is a man they know. He came here once when they were shifting the wine, and drank fourteen small tumblers, having before drunk a quart at the farmer's. If he had been drunk now, they say that he would not have eaten bread: he would only drink wine from place to place. It surprises me to hear how freely they speak of him in his hearing.

Being Sunday, we have a feast at dinner; and, what is more remarkable, Mrs. D. and one of the younger sons who is at home come into the dining-room to eat with Pierre and me. First, Mrs. L. has a potage of vermicelli; second, boiled beef and carrots; third, stewed cabbage, with two young pigeons taken off of the nest; fourth, a chicken, --the abominable woman taking the head and neck for herself. She had before spoken of liking the gizzard, but she does not get it. Then we have some sweet cakes and cherries for me,—I do not think they care a great deal about this fruit,—and then there is black coffee and rum.

We are going to the village fête. The dancing does not begin until five in the afternoon, and ceases at midnight. Perhaps we had a greater dinner because this is the festival day. We are going to leave only little Jeanette in the house. But what about that man who was here? "Oh, there is no danger of him," says Mrs. L. "He would never do any harm. I have seen him drunk fifty times. I have seen him lying in the middle of the road. But he would never hurt anybody, you see." His profession is repairing clocks and watches.

Having a private opportunity, I ask Pierre what he and

his mother were saying lately about the Virgin of Lourdes. He explains thus: last Sunday was their village festival,being the feast of St. Peter, their patron. It was also one of the movable feasts of the Church,-the feast of God, or the feast of the holy sacrament. It was really the second Sunday of the feast of the sacrament, and the first Sunday of the village festival, to-day being the second. It appears that the cure, or priest, did not want to go through the village last Sunday with his procession and pass by the preparations for the other festival, so he went in another direction, down by the pretty brook; and one of the reposoirs, or places where the sacrament rested, was a representative of Our Lady of Lourdes, which some man in the village had got up.

Mrs. Lesmontagnes accompanies me part-way this afternoon, but does not go into the village to the fête. She says nothing about it; but perhaps she is too serious. She takes me to her sister's, and her sister takes me to the village. Mrs. L. and I meet two or three nuns, who are out taking a quiet walk. She says that they would not go through the village on a fête-day: they would rather walk to one side.

At her sister's we find guests. The son, who is a soldier at Romilies, has come over to the festival with three of his fellow-soldiers. The dinner-table is not yet cleared, and the sister, Madame A., insists on my taking something. Will I not take coffee, or spirits of peppermint,—alcohol à menthe? At last, to get clear, I take some wine and water, and then our two hosts and Mrs. Lesmontagnes and I all touch glasses. As Mr. A. (the brother-in-law), and Mrs. A., and I are going to the village, we see people at work in the field at the hay. I notice it; and Mr. A.-he whose brother is a curé-speaks against such things being done on Sunday. His manner is not methodistical; it is

more like reproof, mingled with a sense of greater importance. It could not have been from ideas concerning the Lord's day, like those of most Protestants, or he would not have gone to the village fête. When we arrive at the village, the most remarkable thing about the fête is its entire want of religious character; another remarkable thing is that the gens d'armes shut the restaurants at midnight. These doubtless are those soldiers from our cantonal town of whom I have lately spoken. This fête makes me think worse of the people, partly because it is so puerile. Mrs. A. takes me to see the sights; Mr. A. doubtless finds friends at one of the restaurants, or in some of the private houses, as private persons in the village generally keep open house for their friends during the festival. One of the first things that we visit is the lotteries. Mrs. A. calls my attention to the "beautiful things" exposed at one of these booths, which things are mostly of earthenware and glass; there are spoons too, and in one a French clock. The second one I think more magnificent. Here is an upright wheel of fortune, and the woman in charge is giving out cards; price, two sous, I believe. When ready, she gives her wheel a turn or two, and proclaims the winning number, and then a rustic comes up closer and receives a neat pair of candlesticks; they look like plated ware, but are clumsy; are they not glass prepared in some way? At the third lottery booth, the things to be raffled for are on revolving tables. At the most beautiful one you have to pay ten sous for a chance, and there are more chances of gaining, and if you happen to get that little flag on the edge, you may make your own choice. When we arrive

Mrs. A.; I sus

here, the woman in charge whispers to pect that she wants her to get me to take something. Mrs. A. calls my attention to the elegance of a basin and