are horsemen, and those tall men with blue trousers are the republican guard of Paris; and they are married, a young woman tells me.

"And cannot the others marry ?" I ask.

"They are paid more," she explains. The pay of the common foot soldier, besides his clothing and rations, is one sou a day.

On the street I inquire the way of a man, who asks me whether I can read. The streets of Paris are not regular, like ours in Philadelphia, but they are very beautifully named. Every little street and court has the name at every corner. There are pretty plates high up on the houses,-plates of blue faïence or porcelain, with white letters; and all I notice are new, except a couple on the street Fourth of September, named for the downfall of the late emperor, or the establishment of the republic.

I have just said that the streets are not regular; they run in so at acute angles, that when you are crossing without thinking of it-clatter!-drive!—comes a carriage. One day I was in danger of being caught between

two.

After supping at the restaurant of which I just spoke, I foresee that my evening will be dismal, spent alone at my lodgings, and I conclude to call on an American friend who has been several years in Europe. Not far from the great stone barrack, I find a railroad-office for tramways, as they call the street-cars. We rush into the office and get a round ticket of pasteboard, say number 63. I do not know what it means; but I am charged nothing, and I take it, and hurry out to a car where the people are showing their tickets; but some are before me, as 53, 54, 56, 59, and these must have a seat first. I remember what great difficulty there was about street-cars at our own Ex

hibition, and I do not know but I may be long detained; then word is given that there is room for several more on top, which as yet is quite an unknown country to me. At last I get a comfortable seat within next to a woman, who is quite social, and who tells me that I speak French well, —a grateful compliment, and a wonderfully rare one. The conductor comes and takes our six sous, and behold I have also the privilege of an exchange ticket, or correspondance. I must get out at the Barrière de l'Étoile, and go into another office and get a number as before. This time I get into an omnibus; but I must be very careful to hand the exchange ticket in entering, before the conductor has made up his list, if I do not want to get into difficulty. And I must not expect any driver to stop if the word complet is up on the outside, showing that all the places are taken. The omnibus stops at my friend's door, and I find her quite handsomely lodged at the second, or up only two flights of stairs. There are some elevators in Paris, but I never see I have mentioned that my friend Mr. C. answered me somewhat roughly when I was impressed with the fact of a certain lady's being a marchioness; but my American friend differs from him; titles are not displeasing to her. I think it is a duchess at whose house she has been when that lady was holding a lottery for the relief of a reduced family; and the conversation turns upon one of the Ministers of State or of legation. A conundrum is told concerning the late empress, and a bonmot of that extremely edifying monarch, Louis XV.*

one.

I remain at my friend's house until after nine, and walk

* On the fall of Louis Napoleon, after the battle of Sedan, Eugenie sought refuge for a short time with Dr. Evans, the American dentist. The question has been asked, Why did the empress go to the dentist? A cause de ses dents (Sédan).

back alone to my lodgings, about a half mile. I stop to inquire the way, and get along without any difficulty.

Tuesday, April 30th.-I wanted to mail a letter lately, and I found that there are offices at different places. Not far from my lodgings is one which I find to be about the size of a post-office in one of our country towns. There are two openings, where we can speak to the officers. After mailing my letter I inquire where I shall go, or to whom apply, to find whether there are any letters for me in the general post-office.

"In order to change your address ?" asks the clerk. "No," I reply, and endeavor to explain that some of my friends may write to me without knowing my number.

"Poste restante?" he inquires: but here I find myself in difficulty. I ask who is their postmaster-general, and he begins to speak of the Minister of the Treasury, or some such person. At length I explain to him that if letters are not called for at home they are advertised, and if not applied for then are sent to the dead-letter office. No, I understand him to reply, there is no such thing here; they would stay in the office. It is very convenient, however, to have these small offices, where your letter can be weighed and receive the proper stamps. But if you mail a letter and do not pay enough, the person who receives it will be charged double. I prefer our own plan of charging to the receiver only the amount still due; but then our post-office is not self-supporting.

The reader may observe my difficulty in conversing with the post official. He who has studied a language many years may still find difficulty in going to live among the people. It is not very flattering, when you enter a store and deliver a carefully-prepared sentence in French, for a man to jump with a smile and ask, "What you like, ma

dame?" and continue to speak in his imperfect English, fondly imagining, perhaps, that he speaks our language quite well.

I have received word of a private Parisian family in which I may be able to obtain board. Lodging as I now do, and taking meals at restaurants, is a lonely way of life, and quite the opposite of what I desired in coming here.

Posted up in Lenoir's shop is a handbill containing a copy of the "law tending to repress public drunkenness, and to combat the progress of alcoholism." I would like to read it and take notes, but I refrain on account of the presence of Lenoir.

On his table lies a copy of Le Siècle, a paper now in its forty-fourth year. Price at Paris, thirteen centimes (about two and a half cents); in the departments, twenty centimes.* The leading article in this paper speaks thus: "We have asked of The Defence, What think you of the Society of St. Joseph, which recognizes two classes of trade, one orthodox and well-minded, the other free-thinking and republican, and which says to its members, You must enrich the former and ruin the latter?" The Defence answers, “Is the buyer no longer free to buy where he pleases? Can he no longer choose who shall supply him? Assuredly the buyer is free to get whatever he wants and wherever he pleases; but does the Society of St. Joseph respect the liberty of its members when it draws up in advance and sends into dwellings the list of persons from whom they ought to buy their clothing, their provisions, their furniture, every object of luxury

* Centimes means "hundredths," one hundred making a franc. Modern France is divided into about eighty departments, which may be said to correspond with our States; but this is a consolidated not a federal republic. The governors of these departments are prefects; apppointed, not elected; and for life or good behavior.

or necessity? No; the Society of St. Joseph exercises upon its members a true inquisition. It is then we who place ourselves upon the soil of liberty in denouncing the Society of St. Joseph as an instrument of hatred and of civil war. Nothing is more odious than to mingle religion with the purchase of a hat or a cutlet."

To-day I see another great barrack, and marching away from it a company of soldiers, with knapsacks and without overcoats, taking their exercise. On the building is conspicuously painted, "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity." Opposite to the barrack is a green enclosure, a public garden. It is called a square, for they have adopted this English word. There are very few within when I enter. On a long bench sits a woman diligently darning stockings, and at a distance, on the same bench, a man reading a newspaper. The fountain plays; the grass is clipped and very green, and on it are a quantity of little birds; there is a large bed of flowers, whose fragrance is wafted towards me; horse-chestnuts are in bloom; into the blue sky towers the great dome of St. Augustine's Church, surmounted by a light, airy, ornamented construction and the inevitable cross; behind me is the great stone barrack. Beautiful Paris! All this the more beautiful in contrast with the dingy quarters I have left.

I am told that at Paris, Versailles, and the forts near there are, at this time, probably from forty to fifty thousand soldiers. The whole French army, without the reserve, amounts to about four hundred and fifty thousand. All the young men of France, at the age of twenty-one, are obliged