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Although this is the most northerly department of France, yet a deputy elected here in the fall of 1877 was from the Oriental Pyrenees, in the extreme south. Candidates generally make a profession of political faith, and that of this person had also affixed the name of MacMahon, the candidate being a Bonapartist. He was elected, but he was set aside in the chamber on account of having used too much pression, or persuasion: he had flattered the people too much. He went into the houses of workingmen and asked them how much they earned a day by weaving, and when they perhaps answered twenty or thirty sous, "But if I am elected," he said, "I promise you ten francs a day."

"And did they believe him?" I ask of Mr. Salmier. "Yes; and instead of gaining they lost, as their republican employer took away their work because they did not vote for him." Funny France! And when the Pyrenees gentleman was set aside, then this republican candidate, who is a great manufacturer in this department, was elected by more than four thousand majority. Mr. and Mrs. Salmier think that the laboring-man should support his employer. She says that they are ignorant people, who do not know how to read and write. But is it strange that a man who earns only twenty-five cents a day should have ignorant children?* So far I have spoken of the agricultural population, but this is one of the most celebrated manufacturing districts in the world. At Cambray is a statue of Batiste, from whom the French batiste, or linen cambric, derives its name. I have thought that our word cambric

* By the census of 1872, there were in the department above described, of persons over six years of age, fully thirty-six in a hundred who did not know how to read or write. By the census of 1870, there were in Pennsylvania, of persons ten years old and upward, less than four in a hundred who could not read.

And who has not heard of Lisle

comes from Cambrai. thread? I need scarcely mention for what Valenciennes is celebrated.


I HAVE said that Mr. Salmier, with whom I board, belongs to the fabric of the church. I suppose that the English would call him a church-warden. The curé and the mayor are by right members of the vestry, then there are five more, three named by the bishop (but here by the archbishop of Cambray), and two by the prefect or governor of the department. Thus church and state are both represented. However, the archbishop and the prefect are not to be supposed to know the people of all the little communes, and so the three appointed by the archbishop are proposed by the curé, and the two named by the prefect are proposed by the mayor. (All the church-wardens here are republican except one; but they were named under the Empire, when there was no question of a republic.) The money for paying the expenses of the church is obtained by the chairs in the church; some of these chair-rights are twenty-seven sous a year, some thirty-two, and some forty. The vestry gets part of the expenses of funerals, and six sous on masses chanted through the week. The money received by the vestry is expended in ornaments, candles, incense, and wine for the curé in the masses,-the wine costing forty francs yearly. The vestry pays also for all repairs in the interior of the church, the government paying for the outside; but the vestry does not furnish fuel, for they have no fire in

the winter. "Is it not very cold in winter?" I ask. "Yes; as for me, I do not go to mass when it is cold: I cannot," says Mr. Salmier. "I should think the curé would get sick," I say. "Oh, no; they are more hardy than we: they are ten years in the seminary without fire." "They have fire in the rooms in which they recite?" I ask. "No; only fire to do the cooking."

Mr. Salmier tells me that he once visited a Protestant temple, and that everybody sang and nobody talked. I do not understand what he means by the last part of the remark; but he explains that in their church the men talk. The women have chairs and do not converse, but the men stand back of them and talk, and the curé says nothing about it. Also, some of the men stand outside and talk loud enough to be heard within. Not more than half the men go to church. In summer they continue their work in the fields, and the weaver takes Sunday to cultivate his truck-patch. Of the men that do go, one-half leave when the mass is over, and do not wait to hear the sermon. A person in the village speaks thus to me: "In winter, when the curé comes down from the altar and goes into his cask"What?" I inquire, in surprise. "Chair


of truth. Don't you know what that is, the chair of truth?" Of course he means the pulpit. "When he goes into his chair the men, or at least half of them, go to the tavern. In summer they have not time,-they go into the fields to work. Perhaps those men who go to the tavern will come back when the preaching is done. The curé is not a good speaker: he tells things we all know."

At home, in townships containing from seven hundred to two thousand people, we should have more than one church. But more than one does not seem to be wanted in

the French villages I visit, which reminds me of the motto of the Guises," One faith, one law."

There are several points in which this part of France differs from what I saw farther south. First, it is proper for the young men to wait upon the young women home from the evening dance; second, I found the church door locked and did not get in; and, third, I had no difficulty in obtaining admission into the schools. In communes or townships that have less than five hundred inhabitants it is allowed for the boys and girls to go to the same school. But Boissières, in Central France, had about two thousand, and this commune has over seven hundred. All the forty years that Mr. Salmier taught here the boys and girls came to him together, but of late they have been divided. Three nuns teach the girls' communal school. One is paid by Madame Druvet to teach her daughter, and the other two by the commune. The commune gives nine hundred francs and Madame Druvet six hundred, the conditions having been made in advance that the three would come for fifteen hundred francs. Then they have their dwelling besides. The deceased Mr. Druvet put up this nice dwelling and the school-building at an expense of about five thousand dollars, and offered them to the commune on condition that the Sisters should be employed to teach. For three women to teach ten months in the year for five hundred dollars and their house-rent is not remarkable emolument, but the religious orders must be able to underbid others. If their living is guaranteed to them under any circumstances, of course they can teach lower. Marie, Mr. Salmier's young daughter, accompanies me to the school. The building is new, and in the front yard is a beautiful flower-bed. We

enter and pass through the house, seeing within a pretty young Sister in a gray dress and very peculiar muslin cap, with long ears pointing downwards and forwards. It must be some trouble to keep such caps done up. In one of the rooms is a fat lady in black. Marie says it is Madame Druvet. This is the first opportunity I have had to see that distinguished lady. We pass into the school-house, which is neatly built and divided into two class-rooms. The first teacher who receives me is another young and pretty Sister; there are very few girls in the well-lighted classroom, and the Sister does not let me hear them recite, saying that they are not ready. So we pass into another class-room and behold another young Sister of St. Anne,-not quite so pretty as the others. This class, too, is slender; it is harvest-time, when we have no schools with us in country places. I understand the teacher to say that children enter here at four, and stay until they can read. I ask if they recite the multiplication table, and she says something about their reciting the addition table, etc. There is no effort to show me anything at all. I see no maps nor blackboards ; but perhaps I do not stay long enough. When one is not invited to sit down, and when a person stands waiting upon you, it is not very easy to see and do much, especially if that person limits her own conversation. Several of the children have weak eyes, which I observe, but the teacher says that the doctor has not said what is the reason. As Marie and I are going away we meet a little one in the yard, coming with knitting in hand. The teacher, who is conducting me, says that the small class knit three-quarters of an hour a day. The others sew one half-day in the week, which Mr. Salmier thinks is not enough. As we are going I notice the pretty flowers in the yard, and the Sister says that they tend them themselves: it is recreation for

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