meeting I missed him, and came back in an omnibus; but he and his wife walked home, in spite of his lameness, because the flags which he brought from the hall could not be taken into the omnibus. This morning, without eating breakfast, he is off early, to serve an old and valued friend, by superintending the bottling of wine. After eleven, when he returns, he says that he is quite exhausted.

In conversation, I remark that the lecturer last evening did not drink his wine. Before him there had been a decanter, a bottle of water, and some nice white sugar. They tell me that it was not wine, and Victor adds, "Rum." "Oh!" said I, adding something more. "That is good," said Victor; "you make very good rum in America." After the twelve o'clock breakfast he and I have a very long conversation, from which I learn that the Christian Brothers who teach are not always obliged to submit to an examination, as other teachers are. This subject is hard to investigate, but I finally understand that a letter from a superior sometimes qualifies a monk or nun to teach without passing the examination to which all others in France must, by law, submit before teaching either a public or private school. While on these subjects, I will add that a person in authority has told me that the reason that the public is not allowed to visit public schools, is political differences. "The law dates from 1850," says my informant, "from the Empire. The Republic will change it."

Victor is very much occupied to-day, for in the afternoon he goes to seek board for a friend. Nevertheless, we still have leisure to talk. He speaks with great warmth on the morals of the clergy; says that they are guilty of filthiness, the proceedings of the courts show it; that he was not married by a priest, and that none shall baptize any child of his. He and his wife unite in the opinion

of

that celibacy produces death at an early age, say about thirty; or loss of mental power at about fifty. "Those people," he adds, "began my education, and at the age twelve years I was very pious, so that when my mother came to see me and gave me my weekly pence, instead of buying barley-sugar, apples, and cakes, I gave the money to the priests, the curés; and Mr. Carpentier was more fanatical than I he continued to practise until he was eighteen' (to practise the rites of religion).

:

"But why do you not join the Protestants?" I inquire. Carelessly he replies, "It is not worth while; I do not need the religion of the Protestants in order to live or do good. I like the Protestants better than the Catholics, but that is no reason for my joining them."

He is told about our different sects, and how, if the great evangelical sects, being united, could exterminate the Catholics, Unitarians, and others, they would then begin to quarrel among themselves.

"That is why," he answers, "I would not care to have any religion."

"No," says one, in reply, "you must not be discouraged from seeking the truth because other men love falsehood.” "But I love truth," he answers.

"But, if you could prove that people who hold your sentiments are really good people

"Look at Mr. and Mrs. C. She gave her money, although she was not rich, to establish schools for girls, so that if they should marry and their husbands should abandon them, they would be able to carry on business for themselves. She was a freethinker.”

Monday, May 13th.-Victor gives their washing every

Monday to a man who comes from the country, and who brings back at the same time that of the previous week. This morning he brings me a large quantity of washed and ironed clothes, and the bill is something of a curiosity. Thus: eleven handkerchiefs, eleven sous; nine pairs of cuffs, eighteen sous; and six collars, six sous. Almost invariably these are very well starched. Altogether there are forty-three pieces, and the whole charge is about eighty cents. I cannot say that I think the people very well paid, but while in Paris I hear of a gentleman who was on a commission from France to our Exhibition, who was charged one dollar for doing up a shirt!

Upon my bed are long linen sheets. Madame tells me that for one person they only change the sheets once a month. One morning, when I am taking my coffee with milk, she puts a little into hers, saying that she is something of an epicure, a little gourmande. Milk is about seven sous the litre (nearly the same as a quart), and ordinary wine is about thirteen sous, yet I understand Victor to say that he and his wife drink three litres of wine a day. Then why should she be called an epicure if she puts milk into coffee? I am told that the cheapest tea is six francs the French pound (which is one-tenth heavier than ours). I have said that the only question asked me by the customhouse officer was whether I had tea. The cheapest coffee is three francs, or, unbrowned, two and a half. Their taxes, we may remember, are heavier since the war. Victor says that everything is taxed but perfumes, and that they ought to be.

To-day I go to Versailles, about thirteen miles from Paris. Here the Assembly or Legislature still meets, both the House of Deputies and the Senate, though the legislative

halls under Louis Napoleon were in Paris. Versailles is not beautiful after Paris; is any city? And at this time there is an immense amount of life in Paris.

Going to Versailles, I take my place in the waiting-room for second-class passengers, only separated from the firstclass by a low partition, so we can behold each other. Those gentlemen carrying papers and portfolios, I suppose, are deputies. As we go to the cars, one with gray hair is smoking, and public smoking, it seems to me, is much more common in Paris than in London. Arrived at Versailles, in walking from the station to the palace I see soldiers drawn up on a large open space. "What soldiers are those, madame?" I inquire. "They are the génie," I understand her to say, "from those barracks." The génie are engineers. "But they do not wear red trousers like those I saw in Paris." "No, this is undress" (of brown linen); "they are being exercised." I wait a long time in the antechamber at Versailles, and have a plenty of time to observe how the floor is laid, and see the busts around the room. I send a note to the deputy of whom I have before spoken, and an attendant takes it; but still I wait. I note the bright uniform of the attendants, their blue coats, red waistcoats, and gay coat-collars. There are many chairs and other seats around the room, all clean and comfortable but not showy; becoming to a republic, a country that has lately lost so much. After waiting a long time for the deputy, I venture to send a note to another. There are many persons present now, and I must be attentive to hear when the man in uniform calls out, "The person who demands Mr. Monier." The gentleman to whom I have last written comes, and I am at length admitted to the Chamber of Deputies, the Senate not being in session to-day. I am not much more than seated, high

come sooner.

up in the amphitheatre, when the gentleman appears to whom I had first written, with an apology for not having He had not seen my note, he had been on a committee; had I not received the tickets he sent me? am I alone? I find no pleasure in looking on at this great height, being unable to understand what is said. There are, indeed, ladies seated in the tier below me, but, of course, I cannot ask to be placed there. As I do not wish to remain, the deputy calls upon an attendant in plain clothes and desires him to show me around. I accompany him, and am shown pictures of the battles of Louis Napoleon, immense paintings about the Crimean war, the Mexican, the Italian, the Algerian. Does any one want to see them when there is so much more to see? The attendant also shows me the gorgeousness of the interior of the palace. The most interesting thing is the Senate-chamber, which the guide tells me was the theatre of Louis XIV., and here I imagine that great Frenchman, Molière, appearing in his own plays; but afterwards I learn that it was not such.

When I leave the guide and get out into the gardens, I find them very spacious and lonely; they want the life which makes the Luxembourg gardens so interesting. I think it was a Frenchman who said that what is wanting to make solitude charming is the presence of some one to whom you can say, How charming is solitude!

To-day the great fountains are not playing.

On a canal or artificial piece of water is a little steamboat, and a woman tells me that it was that of the empress. She had herself seen the empress several times. If she could be sure that I am a Bonapartist, probably she would say a good deal more.

Returning to the station, I inquire the way of a gentleman accompanied by a little girl. In the buttonhole of his