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not so genial to us as Madame de F. and her daughter. Mr. C. speaks highly of this family. They are his friends; they are republicans; they are free-thinkers; they earn their own living. But they are full; I cannot board here. Mr. C. is obliged to make frequent inquiry for some of the persons he seeks, and much time and effort is thus consumed. There are no general directories in Paris. At every place at which he inquires, at the washer-woman's, the fruit-dealer's, or others, he says in parting, "Thank you, madame."

At length we come to a wine-seller's, who has a shop and little restaurant on a corner. He has a room to let in another building upon the same court-yard as is the house of which he occupies a part. I will call him Lenoir. Mr. C. has been here before me; he thinks well of the man, but does not like his wife. We go up with Lenoir to see the room, which certainly wants the modest elegance of the one I occupy at Mr. C.'s; indeed, it looks as if housecleaning time has come, but house-cleaning is not yet done. The room is about eight feet by nine; but, behold, there is a dressing-closet with a wardrobe! the closet being about five by five. The room-floor is of six-sided tiles, and a good sweeping and washing would not hurt it. Mr. C. asks whether I will look at the cabinet,-it is customary to see the cabinet. Whereupon Lenoir tells us where it is, and Mr. C. quickly mounts another flight of stairs, and we find the cabinet in an open corner of the entry: it is a water-closet without water. Does not my countenance express dejection and disgust? I am offered this lodging for thirty francs a month, but I cannot venture to take it for so long a period. I will merely engage it for a week, but must then pay ten francs. Mr. C. makes the very rash statement that all the people in England and America are accustomed to take a bath or wash themselves every day,

and Lenoir consents to let me have a bucket of water, and another bucket to empty water into. I can, of course, take my meals in his restaurant, if I desire. He is not accustomed to coffee with milk, but he can take some milk if I order it. As soon as I take the room, for which I pay in advance, Lenoir brings a piece of paper, and wishes to know my name, my first name, age, profession, place of birth, in what department, and my last residence. This, I understand, is to give to the police.

This finished, Mr. C. and I return to his home to breakfast, where we have an excellent steak, very well broiled, bread without butter, the two decanters of water and two bottles of wine, and it appears that the red is milder and more suitable for women. There is also cold meat and so

forth, and the table is covered with oil-cloth. In conversation with Mr. C. I have spoken of men not marrying in France, unless the bride has money. He rejoins that marriages are made upon too short an acquaintance, say of a fortnight; and that then the husband has mistresses, and the wife, lovers. "Is it so now?" I ask. "Not so much. so as under the Empire," he says. While speaking of morals, I may here add that upon a conspicuous street I have noticed the sign or advertisement of a clothing store, called "To the Good Devil," with a figure of the same. Then I question whether the moral ideas of the people are not all topsy-turvy. Some months after, however, in Belgium, a young gentleman, speaking in French of the parish priests, calls them good devils, which greatly astonishes me, till I learn that the phrase means good fellows, as we say, poor devil.

After breakfast my trunks are taken to my new lodgings, and I afterwards dine very nicely with Mr. C., and meet a young Swiss, who is in business at Paris, and who is polite

enough to wait upon me to my lodgings in the evening. Mr. C. advises me to buy my candles, instead of getting them from the wine-seller. He says that he always buys his when at a hotel, and his sugar for sugared water, a drink which pleases the French more than it does us. My young Swiss stops with me to buy the candles, and says "Goodevening!" in parting with the shopman. Upon the staircase he kindly strikes wax-matches, and lights me up to my room, then giving me the box. What a contrast to my hotel in London is this forlorn spot in which I am now domiciled; but only, as I hope, for a short time. And there are mean places in London, too.

CHAPTER II.

Monday, April 29th.-Down in the wine-shop there is a little room or closet partitioned off, where I can take my meals, if I choose. On the breakfast-table stand two glass bottles or jars, one of water; but the contents of the other are thicker, and there is something in the bottom. Is it pepper-sauce, with little pods in? No. Lenoir says that it is rusted water, and that those are nails within; it is ironwater; it is good for the stomach; people drink it. I breakfast on hot soup or a clear bouillon, and a bit of beef. On the card this is marked ordinaire, and the price is seven sous, or, as they express it, thirty-five centimes, for in their decimal system the franc is composed of one hundred centimes. To the foregoing I add bread, and Lenoir asks whether I want wine. No; but I will have some hot water and sugar; and having a lemon, I make lemonade.

He brings me three little flat squares of sugar for two sous. The price of a good-sized glass of ordinary wine is three I take a short allowance this morning; Lenoir's card would certainly afford much more. He has a mancook and two waiter-girls.

sous.

To-day I take a long walk to the Exposition grounds. On the Avenue d'Eylau is a sign, "Protestant Orphan Asylum for Young Boys." Another is of a girls' school, conducted by the Sisters of Wisdom. I fall into talk with an intelligent woman of the class who wear caps instead of bonnets. I ask whether they have public schools, and I understand her to say that there are laic schools, belonging to the city of Paris, where nothing is paid; and also schools of the brothers, and of the sisters, where nothing is paid but for books, pens, and so forth. We see a brother in a robe going into a school-building, and hear the sound of children's voices. I say that if I had time I might go into the school, but she does not encourage me to do so, saying that they will be forming the classes. I tell her that in my country they like to have persons visit the public schools, thinking that it encourages teachers and scholars. We speak of the police, and she tells me that the old sergents de ville are called guardians of the peace, which is the same thing as policemen. She signifies that the police are not so much regarded here as in England.

On the Avenue d'Eylau I see cans of tomatoes at twenty-five sous, whereas in Philadelphia I had lately seen them as low as six cents.

On the Avenue de Suffren, near the Exposition, there is a wonderful drinking-place. Wine and beer are drunk; and from the little glass, spirits as I suppose. I meet one man with a red face, quite drunk, his companion supporting him. It seems to me as if about one-third of the

women in this region are wearing caps instead of bonnets. A good many soldiers are upon the streets, but not very grand and warlike. A short and crooked one reminds me of the colored man's tree, which was so straight that it bent back the other way. These soldiers wear wide red trousers, long blue coats, red epaulettes, and straight-up caps, with a funny little straight feather in front. I hear that there are very many soldiers in the fortifications around Paris.

When, after much walking, I find the office of the United States commissioners, I am told that they have gone; but I find our commissioner of education, who kindly conducts me within the grounds, the Exposition not yet being open, and into Governor McCormick's office, but we do not find him. As I have charge of an exhibit from our country, I expect free admission; but I find that this has been already obtained by the French gentleman to whom the article was forwarded.

The charge for admission, however, will not be near so high as ours, being only one franc. I go to the restaurant Gaugloff, and cannot get coffee with milk for my supper. They say that the milk has been gone for some time. They are selling wine at four sous the carafon, or small decanter, very small; and coffee with milk is eight cents!

Opposite to the Exposition grounds there is an immense structure of stone, and a great court-yard within it. Over one door is the word "artillery;" over another is "cavalry." It is a barrack. I have seen the officers of the octroi of Paris in dark green, the octroi being the tax collected by French cities from those who enter them to sell provisions. In dark blue, I see the guardians of the peace; in dark blue, with red stripes down their trousers and with caps and spurs, the artillery men. Those soldiers with helmets

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