A man rises, a man with a box,—and begins a rapid discourse upon his goods, offering for one franc a chain with an attachment, a set of shirt-studs, and a ticket for a dinner in Paris (we are leaving Paris!). He does not apologize to the reverend gentlemen for interrupting them, and they continue to look upon their books, with which they must be familiar. The man makes sales, and offers more goods. Plainly, all the money has not been spent in Paris. After selling a number of cheap trifles he gets out, which is wise. I leave at Creille, and by that car door close to which is seated the younger reverend. The young woman opposite tries to open the door for me, but the young reverend makes no such effort. As the door opens I hear something fall, and I see a tin can like a tall milk-can lying upon its side on the stone pavement. Some one lifts it: clear drops are falling from it; the lesser clergy finds a tongue: "It is ours."

A great difficulty which they have in leaving the Church is the question of subsistence. Ten years in the seminaries, learning what? An unfrocked priest might find it difficult to obtain a place as teacher or book-keeper. Victor told me how his mother and Mr. Carpentier induced a priest to marry a woman with whom he had been long intimate. He became an omnibus conductor, and his wife got work from a tailor; but he would stumble in going upon the top of the omnibus, and would make mistakes in change. Afterwards he got a situation in an omnibus office, and here he could get along better, as he could say that he had been a conductor, instead of being obliged to say that he had been a curé.

In the next car into which I enter, in my unnecessarily

prolonged journey, is a young woman, not fair, with a purple necktie, and just below, very conspicuous in the bosom of her black dress, a large, stiff, red-and-white carnation, and what looks like an equally large orange marigold,— leaves not being considered necessary. She gets out at Compiègne to get "a little glass," but does not find a restaurant. She says that she is from Paris. She wears light slippers, -apparently of blue-and-white linen. As she seems to apologize for them, I suggest that her feet are tired with the Exposition; but she says that the Exposition did not tempt her. She went to see that of the free workingmen. She says that I ought to have seen it. The price of admission was ten cents on week-days and five on Sundays. Probably it was here that my democratic dressmaker exhibited something of which she was telling us. I believe that I saw the building-quite a neat one-near the Exposition grounds.

Lately, at Paris, I said to myself, "Pleasant Paris!" but the country is very pleasant too. I see quantities of beets growing. At Compiègne, at a restaurant, I breakfast in haste on plenty of strong coffee, plenty of hot milk, enough nice sugar, and more bread than I can eat, for twelve sous. At Tergnier we have to wait three-quarters of an hour; and the young woman with the carnation tells me that her slippers cost thirty-nine sous. They are nailed or pegged, not sewed. While I am standing here, a woman in black says that I am English. I laugh, and say that I am not. She says I am not German, and insists that I am English. At last I tell her that I am American. From Tergnier to Busigny I ride in a car of "ladies alone." Two women have books,-one seems to be a story-book. The other woman wears a cap instead of a

bonnet. There is dignity in her countenance, and a religious expression. She is not reading, however, and I offer her one of my papers,-"The Little French Republic." She shakes her head, smiles, and holds up her rosary. After her prayers are finished she is very social, and so are others; and we have a lively time talking about the Exposition and boarding-places. We change again at Busigny, and I hear my nice-looking woman with the cap say, "My sister," and a big nun gets in, in a common brown dress with wide sleeves, a white sun-bonnet, or cap, with a black shawl over it; over her forehead a white band, and on her breast a crucifix. I am told that she is a Trappist (they collect for the poor); but she talks more than the Trappist monks do, and my nice-looking woman talks with her. At the station at Cambray I see a woman with a cap, who also sees me. It is Madame Salmier, wife of the ex-teacher with whom I am to board. She has accompanied her red-haired son to meet a person whom neither of them has seen before. As we enter the city of Cambray, we are stopped by an officer of the octroi, who wants to know whether I have any meat, etc. I begin to answer leisurely that I have no meat, when Mrs. Salmier cuts the matter short by declaring that we have nothing. Cambray has about twenty-three thousand inhabitants. Think of Lancaster, in my own State, establishing offices on all roads entering the town, and appointing officers to make the country-people pay a tax before they can sell their produce!

Now I am in the district of which Fénelon was archbishop; and while madame goes to do some errands I enter the cathedral, which has been remodelled, and looks too new to inspire reverence; but the vaulted roof I suppose to indicate age. There is a handsome seated statue of

Louis Belmas, bishop of Cambray; but what do I care for him? Did I not read Fénelon's "Télémaque" when a child? Over the high altar hovers a majestic marble figure with the hands spread out, and the legend in Latin, "This is my beloved Son." Does it mean the mass upon the altar? I see a nice place, carpeted, with music-stands and great books, and I enter the railing and sit down upon a chair and try to read one of the books. A man who has been cleaning comes and tells me that it is prohibited. I go, but ask, "Why prohibited?" He spreads his hands, shrugs his shoulders, and says, "Only priests can enter the choir." I ask a gentleman who comes in whether there is anything here about Fénelon. He says, very pleasantly, "Behind the choir;" and there is a handsome tomb, but modern,—of about 1824. . Above is the effigy of Fénelon, and, below, three small bas-reliefs. One represents him instructing the young prince; another shows him bringing back the peasant's cow; and the third I do not understand; but the gentleman says that it is Fénelon receiving in his palace the wounded after the battle of Malplaquet. Why should Fénelon be put behind the choir and Bishop Belmas near the grand entrance?

When we get into the wagon, Mrs. Salmier asks, "America, is China on that side?" Her husband is an exteacher, retired on his pension. To go to their house we leave Cambray and ride through a gate in the great wall,— a gate several yards through and over a little drawbridge,— and in a few moments we come to another wall and gate, and another drawbridge, and afterwards to a third, but the fourth is partly dismantled. On this side there were doubtless four distinct lines of fortifications.

On the road we pass patches of cultivated poppies going to seed; some have been pulled; the seeds are to make oil

for salad. We pass a mill with a great wooden wheel. It is to grind colza, flax, and poppy seeds for oil. Colza oil is used for machinery and leather, but they prefer to burn petroleum, which is cheaper. We stop at the village of Caulmain to call upon Mr. Salmier's sister. The villages have a very poor appearance, on account of there being no windows towards the street, or but few, which makes the houses look like stables. Brick is almost the only building material here. I find Mr. Salmier to be a worthy man,a republican. He tells me that under Louis Philippe universal suffrage did not exist: it was established in 1848. Under Louis Philippe a man could not vote for municipal counsellors (selectmen of the town) unless he paid a tax of about forty francs, nor for deputies unless he paid two hundred. Now every one is an, elector, whether he pays tax or not. He tells me that the best tillable lands here are worth about six hundred dollars an acre. This is limestone land, and doubtless of very fine quality.

In this part of France I see signs up saying that mendicity is forbidden in the commune, but I find that it exists, nevertheless.

I

July 28th.-Mrs. Salmier is surprised to hear that we have cows with us. "And horses?" she asks. They have no pasture-land here. Their limestone soil is all under cultivation, and the animals never go out to graze. Mrs. Salmier asks whether I will have milk for breakfast. tell her that I generally drink coffee with milk; so she makes it for all the family, and we sit down together,—Mr. and Mrs. Salmier, the two sons who are at home, the young daughter, and myself. They keep no hired people. men do not wear their hats at table. is broken up in the coffee of each

The

At breakfast bread person but myself.