enter, and find an elderly gentleman with a benevolent look. It is he who has been expecting me, and who says that I shall stay there until the morrow. He is looking for his brother and wife from the south of France; but he has heard of several places where I may obtain board or lodging. Then the domestic comes and conducts me to a neat room with a waxed-floor, like the rest, with a mahogany bedstead, a wardrobe,-the door of which is a great mirror, -and a French clock. Mr. C. is a widower. On the wall is an engraving of Emile Souvestre, the author, beneath which is written, "Mr. and Mrs. CSouvenir of the family Souvestre." Under this hangs, in a frame, a bunch of black hair, rather long. My host has kindly inquired whether I have eaten, and told me that he dines at half-past six. The domestic asks whether I wish to wash, and then takes me to a little closet, partly filled with sticks of wood. She apologizes for these, but not for what is worse,-namely, the small amount of water. As I wish to take a bath in the morning, she tells me that there is a man who brings up two buckets of water for three sous, and I give her the change. Mr. C.'s rooms cost him about three hundred dollars a year, there being no gas nor water introduced. I ask Marie whether I cannot take the things into my own room to wash, but she fears that there will be spots upon the waxed-floor. A man comes "all the fifteen days," or once a fortnight, to polish the floor, but the spots that get on between-times are her care. She empties the water out of the window of the little closet into a large funnel, whence a spout conveys it down. At dinner only Mr. C. and myself sit down. His sons are married and living elsewhere. We have first a clear soup with little or no thickening, but with bits of bread in it. After this an omelet is served, and this Mr. C. tells me is the only dish added upon my account. There are two bottles of wine,—white and red,—but only the white is opened. It was made by one of Mr. C.'s sons. We have bread with the omelet, and after this course le potage au feu, or piece of boiled beef with carrots, probably the same from which the soup was made. The next course is a fine cauliflower, eaten cold, with salt, pepper, vinegar, and oil. Afterwards a bit of fresh cheese, oranges, almonds, and raisins. The housekeeper will observe that there is not a great deal of labor for the domestic in such a dinner (all the bread that I see in Paris appears to be baker's bread). There are several changes of plates; but the number seems to be adapted to the supposed habits of English and Americans. This is quite a fine house, near one of the boulevards. It belongs to a widow. On the first floor are stores. The next is the entresol, where those live who keep the stores. On the next floor is the apartment of the owner herself, an appartement being a suite of rooms. Madame the marchioness, however, does not occupy the whole of this floor, but rents a part of it. The entry and staircase are very neat, and are furnished all through with the same carpet, this and the entry gas being furnished by the owner. Even up the five flights of stairs the floor of the landing is black and white marble. Entering Mr. C.'s door, we are in a neat little ante-chamber or vestibule, also paved with black and white stone, and furnished with curtains, chairs, a hat-rack, with a simple bracket for a candle, and upon the wall a yellow hand-bill with a notice of some free lectures in which Mr. C. is interested. The first room that we enter from this is the dining-room, with two win - dows looking upon a little yard. It is simply furnished, and beside it is a little office or study. Opening from the dining-room is also the door of the salon or parlor. Then there are two sleeping-rooms, the bit of a kitchen, two little dressing-closets, and the water-closet, without water. Marie sleeps in the mansard above, a flight of outside steps going up to it. Her wages are, I believe, nine francs a week. In her little kitchen is a furnace or range, covered with tiles or plates of white faïence. There are seven places in the furnace where small charcoal fires can be made, and where she can boil, broil, or stew. For roasting there is something separate, a sort of quite small, upright, portable furnace, grated in front. In this charcoal is burnt, and a tin-kitchen or roasting-vessel is set before it. Beside the furnace is a shallow stone sink, with a great earthen pan. There is an earthen pot with an earthen lid for boiling, and a number of earthen pipkins are standing round, while handsome copper and tin vessels hang on the wall. There is room for two small tables, but two persons would with difficulty work in the space left vacant. The floors-that of the narrow passage and of the dressing-closet into which I am shown-are of tiles. The room in which I sleep was madame's. If it were not for the regular, rather handsome cornice running around the room I should think that it had been partitioned off; for the door that goes out into the narrow back entry is apparently cut in the partition, and papered over with the same hangings as the room, there being just a little glass handle for opening it. This has the effect of scenery in a theatre, especially as the gilt ornament of paper which goes around the room near the floor is also carried over the door, all looking like an attempt to conceal it; but I afterwards hear that such doors are made to avoid taxation. I understand that Mr. C. and his wife were friends of Emile Souvestre, author of "The Attic Philosopher" (Le philosophe sous les toits). Mr. C.'s father was a physician in a town in the north, and he himself was a teacher and lawyer. He now holds real estate in different places, and has retired from active business, being over seventy. His wife, who was originally a Protestant, was a person very highly esteemed. I often heard her spoken of, but obvious reasons prevent my mentioning the work which she established in Paris. One of their sons is a cultivator, a vine-grower; and the other a machinist. Mr. C. was originally a Catholic, but is now a free-thinker: he says that he believes in God and in the immortality of the soul. His wife and he had only a civil marriage, which, indeed, is the only legal marriage in France; but all the religious and fashionable world add the church marriage. The two sons of Mr. and Mrs. C. were married in this latter manner; one of them, I believe, is a Protestant. Mr. C. is an ardent, a devoted republican; perhaps this is a reason for his receiving so kindly a plain person from republican America. When he tells me that his landlady is the widow of a marquis,—“ Ah!" I say; and he doubtless perceives some eagerness that displeases him, for he adds a little roughly, "It is no matter what she is." My countryman, who gave me a letter of introduction to Mr. C., is an ardent advocate of peace, being also of Quaker origin. But with his sentiments Mr. C. does not entirely agree he thinks that the Americans did well to go to war with Great Britain for their independence, and that the French did well to help us. Sunday, April 28th.-At seven, Marie gives to each of us a cup of very strong chocolate, served unceremoniously, without saucer or tablecloth. Bread in the loaf, wine and oranges are also upon the table. The chocolate is too strong for me, and I take wine and water; Mr. C. being kind enough also to bring some cheese. At eleven he will have his regular breakfast. He has ordered a hackneycoach, and is ready to take me this morning to seek a boarding-place. I want cheap board in a private family where English will not be spoken. I had been told, however, by a Frenchman in my own country, that I cannot find board in a private Parisian family, but I will at least try to obtain it. As we ride I hear the cry of something for sale, and I ask Mr. C. whether they cry things to sell on Sunday. He answers, "We don't keep Sunday in Paris. We amuse ourselves. We go into the country." However, I am told that there are good Catholics and good Protestants who observe Sunday, but that the greater part of the people do not. As we go, I observe that the greengrocer woman offers spinach, or some similar plant, boiled and chopped up all ready to warm and put upon the table. We enter a court-yard, where a man and woman are carding wool, and a street-singer, probably a beggar, is chanting. In the fourth or fifth story of a house we find the family of a Lutheran minister who take boarders, their charge being three hundred francs a month for children or young people. Here is a young man in a uniform, which indicates that he is a pupil in some Lycée. This is a high grade of school; higher, I afterwards understand, than the college. At another place we find that the mother of the family is occupied giving a lesson. She teaches French, and her daughter painting. Six Norwegian ladies are boarding here, and another is expected to-morrow. We see two of them; young, well-looking, and well-dressed, but they are |