A Bundle of Letters from over the Sea

by Louise B. Robinson

LETTER IV.

June 26, 1888.

From London to New Haven by rail, and there took steamer to cross the English Channel. It was stormy and very rough, and nearly all but our party succumbed to sea-sickness. We could not remain outside, the storm was so severe, and the close proximity of the mal-de-mer victims proved a little contagious. The gong sounded for dinner, but I feared dinner and my stomach would not agree, and remembering my determination not to be sick, turned my back upon those that were, took a bright little story, and soon got so interested in it that I entirely got over my nearness to a capitulation. But we decided we liked the sea better than the choppy Channel.

We landed at Dieppe, and stepped upon French soil! We looked about the queer old French town with our usual enthusiasm and curiosity, and then proceeded to Rouen. Had three hours there. We dined in the garden of our inn, on a table in an arbor covered with yellow roses of a peculiarly sweet fragrance. The people looked at us with as much wonderment in their faces as we at them. And what a bedlam their clatter makes to be sure. Well for us that our escort can understand every language under the sun—good, bad, or indifferent. We took a carriage and were driven about the town. We went inside of three cathedrals, and we saw the spot where Joan of Arc was burned. The streets of the old town are very narrow, the houses queer and foreign. All of the women and children seemed to be sitting out of doors, with knitting work in hand. They wear little close caps and wooden shoes, and the skin of the women looks like shrivelled leather. I am told that the lower class of the citizens of Dieppe are very superstitious, that they believe, if the souls of those drowned are not prayed for by their living relatives, at every midnight, for one year, a terrible storm will arise, and the ghosts of the departed appear to them.

At four P.M. we took train for Paris, running through a pretty country, with fields of red poppies and large orchards of cherry trees, red with ripe fruit. We bought them at every station, and most delicious were they. The many hamlets or clusters of little thatched cottages, so very close together, looked at least social.

At eleven P.M. our train rolled into the station in the city of Paris; and such a babel! Why will these people chatter so fast? We had no trouble with our trunks, and with them were immediately driven to our engaged apartments, in Rue Clement Marot, where we are to remain during our stay. The name of the street has the right sound, at any rate, for Marot was not only a poet but a philosopher, and his philosophy we may need in ‘doing’ Paris.

Paris, Wednesday, June 27th, 1888.—Our hostess and her family have given us a cordial welcome, and we already feel quite at home. Our apartments are convenient and prettily furnished, and we are to be very happy here, I am sure. Our journey of yesterday tempted me to sleep late this morning, but F—— let in the bright daylight, with an exclamation of disapprobation at time in Paris being spent in slumber. So I was soon ready, feeling like ‘a new top,’ for the day’s whirl. We have here, served early in our rooms, or in the breakfast room, as we choose, rolls and coffee. At noon we have ‘déjeuner à la fourchette;’ at five, tea; and at seven a sumptuous dinner. A sweet young lady from Beverly and several New Yorkers are of the household, so we make a pleasant family party. We are near the Champs Elysées, and this part of the city is beautiful—broad, fine streets shaded with trees. We took an early drive in this vicinity, and were later left at the Salon, spending several hours there. What a bewildering collection of pleasing pictures! I do love these paintings of lovely faces, of home scenes, of restful bits of scenery, by these modern artists. We so feel them; we comprehend them; they gladden the heart as well as the eye. The painting which won the first prize this year was a battle-piece by D’Etaille. I recall a picture at the Metropolitan Museum, in New York, by this same artist. Meissonier had been his teacher, and he had also been chosen to award the prizes, but when he attempted to address this man, his successful pupil, he could not speak, and impulsively threw his arms about him and burst into tears and kissed him. Surely there was no envy there. We have seen many of Meissonier’s pictures here, and they are all wonderful in their exactness to nature. His portraits are very life-like, and one almost sees the blood go and come under the skin, so natural are the flesh-tints. Pictures, like poems, must be read to be appreciated. But to me, the most that I have seen of Turner’s I should label ‘Sanscrit,’ not being able to read them. For instance, the one called ‘Tapping the Furnace:’ I searched in vain in it for any object that looked like a furnace, and I thought of the story I had heard of the farmer’s wife, whose city cousin took her to see paintings in London. She looked at Turner’s ‘The Day after the Deluge’—put on her spectacles, and read the title: ‘Well! I should think it wur,’ said she and passed on. Great minds possess an intuition by which they can see farther into things than ordinary minds can, and such minds probably understand and admire Turner.

On the river Seine are hundreds of little steamers plying up and down, from which one gets good views of the river’s banks. From one we were much amused to see how the washing of Paris is done. The washerwomen bring their clothes to the river and wade in quite a distance, and rub them in the muddy-looking water. We saw old women, pretty girls, and children all thus at work. I cannot imagine what keeps them from having rheumatism, neuralgia, and all the diseases that flesh is heir to. How linen can be made to look white in such water I do not understand, and yet some which we had laundered, and returned to us this morning, was immaculate—white skirts and furbelows included, all for two francs a dozen.

We stepped from our steamer on shore, near Notre Dame, and entered this cathedral, which, from pictures and descriptions familiar to us, seemed quite like an old acquaintance. The exterior is a regular cruciform, with an octagon end. At the other extreme are two lofty square towers, and back of them a spire, surmounted with a gilt cross. The outside is also adorned with some massive statues. The multitude of statues, of bas-reliefs, of beautiful sculpture, in the interior of the building, is wonderful in design, richness and beauty. The subjects are mostly from church history. There are many statues of the Virgin and Child, and the expressions of all are angelic and peaceful, and yet each one greatly differs from the rest. The face of St. Martin, who is represented in the act of sharing his mantle with a beggar, to protect him from the cold, is heavenly in its sweetness and beauty, and one turns again and again to look at it. Some of the subjects, however, are not as pleasing or as helpful. The Last Judgment is portrayed in three parts: the second scene represents the separation of the righteous from the sinners, but the faces of the ‘elect’ had such a victorious, triumphant, ‘I told you so’ look, as they gazed down upon their condemned brothers and sisters, that my sympathies were entirely with the sinners, and I thought I should rather have cast my lot with them. Amongst the sculptures of the Arch is a remarkable one of the Saviour trampling the wicked under His feet, and motioning to Satan to drag them off to hell. This is not our idea of the Saviour, who has said, ‘Come unto me,’ and ‘There shall be one fold and one Shepherd.’ The sacristy of the cathedral consists of a lofty hall (all of the large churches of Europe have sacristies and treasuries, in which are kept the valuables belonging to the church) and in this one we saw wealth untold. Church utensils, mitres, crosses, crosiers, swords, and many other articles, studded with precious stones, dazzling in their splendor. The robes which were worn by Pius VII. at the coronation of Napoleon I. were exhibited to us: they were very richly embroidered with silver and gold. A statue, as large as life, of the Virgin and Child, made of solid silver, is also here.

We next went to the church of St. Eustache. The altar of this church is exceedingly high, and composed of pure white marble, exquisitely sculptured, and the church also contains fine frescoes. Took a glance at the church of St. Germaine, which was the favorite place of worship of the Empress Eugénie. Also took in St. Chappelle, where we heard some soul-stirring music. All of these cathedrals are rich in stained glass, and are of immense proportions and varied beautiful architecture.

Feeling that we could not comprehend the wonders of any more churches in one day, we changed our train of thoughts to justice, by going through the Palais de Justice and into several other handsome public buildings. My eyes were brightened, also, by a look at the glitter of brilliant gems in the shops of the Palais Royal, although the other wise minds thought time thus spent a waste. ‘Stores enough in New York and Boston,’ they said; but oh, not such stores! How bright, how tempting the contents of those windows were! The shopkeepers of Paris think all Americans millionaires, and under some circumstances it might be flattering to be thus considered, but in shopping in Paris it is unfortunate, as in many stores here I am sure they advance the price of articles when an American seems to wish to purchase. I very much desired to obtain an odd little pin in one of the shops, but found it much dearer than I expected. The next day the daughter of my hostess secured it for me for about half the amount they valued it at when they thought I wished to buy it. But this is not the principle of all the stores, by any means.

The cabs of Paris are a great convenience. They are cheap to employ, and are handsome and most comfortable, much the shape of our Victorias. They use good, well-kept looking horses, well harnessed, and the cochers are attentive and polite. For all of this one has only to pay one franc to be carried anywhere within the city limits, or two persons can ride one hour for two francs. When I think of my carriage bills at home, in the party season especially, I feel like staying in Paris—and riding on forever—it is such a great pleasure for so little money.

During the day, we secured tickets for the opera this evening, but there were as many forms to go through with as we have for the inauguration of the President of the United States, and when the desired articles are at last transferred to the purchasers’ hands, at the rate of five dollars apiece, they are so cumbrous that one needs a valet to carry them. Our own method of going to the ticket window and quickly securing our little pieces of pasteboard, for half the money, is much better. After a fully appreciated dinner at home we arrayed ourselves for the entertainment, knowing better than to go in street costume, or with bonnets on, this time. Our box was a lower one, in the centre of the row, and from which we had a fine opportunity of seeing the audience and the beautiful interior of this house. It is simply magnificent. The decorations are rich, light, and cheerful. The vestibule and stairways are gorgeous and dazzling. About the halls and corridors are placed tables, where between acts the ladies and gentlemen sit, and sip cool drinks and ices, chatting and laughing as if life were all a gala day. All are in full dress, and the ladies’ gowns are exquisitely made and worn; low corsages, with diamond necklaces clasped around the throats of the fair wearers, predominate. As these French ladies and their dark-moustached escorts promenade over the white marble stairs to the strains of the sweet music, it is a gay and festive scene. We watched, with much interest and admiration, one very beautiful girl, the very loveliest of them all, and how delighted we were when we heard her speak, and found her to be an American. The opera was ‘L’Africaine,’ and was gorgeously set and grandly rendered. It was one A.M. when we reached home, but our kind hostess was waiting for us, to have the pleasure, as she said, of serving us with strawberries and cream.

By the way, such delicious cherries, strawberries, raspberries, and apricots as we have here do not grow in America. The market women drag the fresh, luscious fruits in wagons through the streets, and for a few sous one gets his fill.

Thursday, June 28, 1888.—Another morning spent in the Salon, and I wish we could have had time to have given the entire day there. We lingered before our favorite pictures, and at last turned reluctantly away from them, as from living friends. Spent the next hour at the Trocadero and its beautiful garden. The hall in the ‘Palace of the Trocadero’ will seat 10,000 people. The aquarium and museum connected are of much interest. Some of the statuary and sculpture are so beautiful that it seems impossible that human hands could have carved the speaking faces from blocks of marble. It is opposite here that the Exposition of 1889 is to be held. Museums in Paris are as thick as plums in a Thanksgiving pudding. Going toward the Madeleine, we stopped in the flower-market; tables and baskets were piled with flowers,—tons of them—cut flowers, and potted plants in bloom, and selling for a ‘mere song’ compared with home prices. We have so often looked eagerly in the florists’ windows on Tremont Street, just wishing and longing for even one jacquiminot, but when that took a dollar we had often to be satisfied with looking. ‘And now,’ said F., ‘we will have all we want; we will wear them, and smell them, to our hearts’ content, and is not Paris delightful, and what a good time we are having!’ Loaded with sweet blossoms, we strayed into the Madeleine, and seated ourselves just as a bridal party was entering the other aisle. We were uninvited but sympathetic guests. The bride looked very young, with a pretty face and figure, and a confiding, trustful manner; and when the groom, rather a distinguished-looking Frenchman, took her hand, and promised to love and cherish always, our hearts and lips cried Amen! We hope this little bride chose her own husband, for husbands, here, we are told, are generally selected by the parents of the girls for them, and they rarely rebel. Nearly all marriages among the wealthy class are ‘mariages de convenance.’ Indeed, a young girl here has a sorry sort of a time of it before she is married; she cannot be alone with gentlemen long enough to know whom she would like to choose for a husband, and consequently is more willing to accept submissively the one chosen for her, for marriage brings to her more freedom, liberty of action, and pleasure.

Since here, we invited a French lady to go to an entertainment with us. She accepted, but came to us later to apologize and decline, as she found herself obliged to chaperone her daughter, who was going to a garden party with Monsieur M., and of course could not go with a man alone. ‘Why, what is the matter with her man? Is he a lunatic?’ said F. ‘I went shopping alone yesterday, and asked information about the shops and streets of several of the genus, and they all seemed sane and gentlemanly.’ ‘Yes,’ was the lady’s reply, ‘they knew you to be an American, and American girls can do as they please here, unmolested, for they have always so respected themselves that all respect them.’ We were glad of the compliment for our countrywomen. The new-made wife and husband, with bridesmaids and ‘assistants’ (as they term, here, the ushers) and their friends, passed from the church, with our best wishes. This noted church is Grecian in style. Its altars are of carved wood and gold. The huge bronze doors have illustrations of the Ten Commandments in bas-relief. The altar is richly sculptured, and one portion of it represents angels bearing Magdalen to Paradise on their wings. Our good escort lights candles in all churches we enter, and the longest ones too, for the forgiveness of our sins, so I trust ere we leave this land we may be immaculate.

Out of the church, with all its holy sacredness and beauty, into the sunlight and the brightness of the streets. A barouche is waiting for us, in which we are soon seated, and rapidly dashing along on the asphalt pavement of the most beautiful boulevard in the whole world, the Champs Elysées. The avenue is broad, flanked with stately residences and beautiful rows of elms and limes, and long shady parks. We sped along, meeting showy equipages filled with gay people, behind high steppers managed by light-colored costumed coachmen, with remarkably big buttons. Many are on horseback, and the broad sidewalks are filled with happy promenaders. Surely it was a merry sight, and all were enjoying it in the rich atmosphere of this lovely June day. We paused, to see the Arc de Triomphe, then passed under it to the Bois de Boulogne, a lovely park and driveway, with lakes, cool groves, fountains, cascades, rustic houses and seats, and everything beautiful to make it what it is, a delightful resort. We alighted, sailed about the lake in a Cleopatra-like barge, sat at a vine-covered table, and drank the sweet milk that a pretty, black-eyed milkmaid brought to us fresh from her cow, and felt that this was our ‘life’s holiday.’

A lady, a Bostonian too, but whose home has been here for several years, said to me to-day: ‘And so you live in Boston. Why, it makes me blue to even think of Boston, with its stiff society, its spectacled women, and its doleful teas!’ But I could not agree with her. Another lady, now living here, a woman of wealth and rare intelligence, told me that she spent a year in Boston, and that repeatedly she had been a guest at small parties and large ones, where she had not been introduced to any one of the assemblage. Such a neglect, in the best society of Europe, would be considered a great breach of politeness or a marked rudeness. Here, all persons invited to meet at the house of a friend consider it almost obligatory to speak with each other, if by chance or oversight they are not presented, and it is the custom for the hostess of an invited company to have her daughters and their young lady friends move amongst the guests, to see that all are introduced, and are having a pleasant, enjoyable time.

Shall I tell you our menu for dinner to-night? It will be, I am sure, rather different from your own. But at our Paris home everything is deliciously cooked and served, and E. says we had better make the most of it; food will not be as temptingly prepared for us in Germany. First, soup, followed by fish, cheese, and radishes, preserves and mustard, roast beef and maccaroni, potatoes, chicken and salad, cake, strawberries, cherries, and apricots, with wines of various kinds, all followed by coffee.

I forgot to tell you that in our drive to-day we met Sara Bernhardt; she looked very bright and happy, and not at all the dying ‘Camille’ that she was the last time my eyes gazed upon her. She has a fine home here, and receives all who choose to call upon her one day each week. She is charitable, helpful, and sympathetic to all, and the Parisians adore her.

Paris, June 29th.—It rained to-day, for even in Paris it must sometimes rain. We went to the galleries of the Louvre early, and were so absorbed that we remained until 4 P.M. E., our escort to-day, once lived six years in Paris, and the paintings in the Louvre were his old friends, so that the information he gave us was of great instruction and benefit. F., too, had been well drilled for the enjoyment by studying the old masters and by her readings of the schools of early art. Not being an artist myself like my two companions, I could scarcely enter their sphere of enjoyment, or see with their eyes, so looked in my own way. This, you know, is the largest gallery in the world, and contains the most of the valuable works of all the great masters, Rubens, Raphael, Murillo, Titian, Rembrandt, Claude Lorraine, Paul Veronese, and other world-renowned artists. The works of no artist are placed here until the artist himself has been dead ten years or more; they are retained in the Luxembourg galleries during the life of the painter. E. wished us to take certain pictures of Rubens first, of which artist he has great knowledge and a keen appreciation. He says it is impossible for us to see best many pictures in a short time, so we must take the best pictures and see them in many ways. The allegorical pictures relating to Marie de Medici were our first study, but the angels were very unangelic-looking to me. Each one looked as if tipping the scales at two hundred pounds would be an easy matter. In fact, all of Rubens women that I have so far seen look more earthly than spiritual. These pictures bring up many thoughts of the hapless Marie de Medici, a woman of great beauty, and of Richelieu, the intriguing, powerful Cardinal, whose influence was so great over the King, her son, Louis XIII. This woman, Rubens so often painted, died at last, after the implacability of Richelieu caused her to be banished from France, in the attic of the house where Rubens was born, in Cologne. The Salon Carré contains the great treasures of the Louvre, or the most of them. Here we saw the indeed beautiful painting of Mary Anointing the Feet of Jesus, and the even more wonderful one of The Marriage Feast at Cana, both by Paul Veronese. I cannot imagine a human mind even conceiving such a picture, much more putting it on canvas. It is simply perfect. Titian’s works have a great charm for me, and Raphael’s, also. We roam from room to room; my delighted companions turn their attentions to me often with remarks of this nature: ‘Now do look at this; it is one of the great works of the world.’ ‘You remember this happened in the reign of King or Queen So-and-so.’ ‘You recollect the story in the Old Testament of ——,’ and so forth and so on! I look; say, Oh yes! Am sometimes a little inwardly muddled, but quietly decide to know for myself what I honestly like best. Of all the Madonnas, I like Murillo’s the most. His colors, not as positive as those of Rubens, are warm, deep, and rich, with a certain peculiar softness of finish that no other artist has. Surely genius is God-given. We made no attempt to see the antiquities this time, but could not leave without paying our respects to the most beautiful of all women—the Venus de Milo. Our ever-gallant escort says, ‘No;’ no woman can be the most beautiful to him, who cannot extend her arms to greet him; but beautiful she is. A whole day in the Louvre, and yet comparatively how little of it have we seen. This evening we saw ‘Adrienne Lecouvrer’ played at the Comédie Française.

Saturday, June 30th.—The sun shone for us brightly again this morning, and we took an early drive through the always attractive streets and parks of Paris. Early as it was, crowds of people were to be seen, driving, walking, and sitting in the ‘sidewalk cafés,’ and under the trees, chatting, laughing, and everybody seeming to have plenty of leisure time. How is it that no one appears to be in a hurry here? One reason that the ladies have so much more time is because their housekeeping cares are so much less than those of Americans. Always, all of the laundry work is sent out, and much of the cooking of a household is done outside: bread, pastry, cakes, and roasts are prepared in special establishments, and sent hot and deliciously cooked to private tables, without a suggestion of ‘bakehouse’ flavor about them. The servants, or one of them does all the ‘planning’ and the marketing, rendering her accounts to her mistress weekly. Everything connected with the domestic part of a Paris home runs very smoothly, and with much less care and expense than in Bostonian homes. I remember once visiting a dear, busy, neat, systematic young housekeeper at her home in a country town in New England. One Monday morning her maid of all work overslept, and we heard this wide-awake, orderly mistress call her, saying, ‘Katie, get up; why, it is seven o’clock now, and to-day is washing day, to-morrow will be ironing day, and the next day baking.’ There are no such days in Paris! And I should think Parisians would say, ‘For which we devoutly give thanks.’

The gardens of the Tuileries brought up thoughts of Eugénie, who used to love the spot so well. The once-beautiful Empress whom the French people followed is now never mentioned, not even a picture of her seen in Paris windows; and once when I spoke of her to a dealer in photographs, asking why he had not a picture of her, he answered, ‘Remember Sedan.’

The long walk in the cool, crisp air made us hungry, and seeing some neatly prepared tables near we seated ourselves for a luncheon. The bouillon was good, and the chop fairly so, and the charges reasonable we thought, but when the bill was presented we were charged extra for service, for the napkins we used, and for the chairs we sat on. I asked the garçon why they did not charge for the air we breathed. Moral! Always make your bargains in Paris before consummating them.

The Luxembourg was near, and we spent most of the rest of the day in its galleries. Some of the masterpieces of Rosa Bonheur, Gerome, Couture and Meissonier are here. To see Cabanel’s Venus was of itself a great delight. I remember seeing the portrait of Miss Wolf, in the Metropolitan Art Museum, in New York, painted by this same Alexander Cabanel. There are two of Henner’s pictures here, one exquisitely lovely. He is considered one of the best living painters of the nude; his figures are remarkably graceful and modest, poetical studies of the flesh; and it is often an intense delight and relief to turn toward them, from the nudes of some other artists. We have seen his works also in several private collections, and wherever there is a Henner there is always a crowd, so lovely are they. One characteristic of them we observed, namely, that in every picture of his that we have seen his figures are not far from a lake, brook, or river, with the figure partially hid by shrubbery and trees, and one of our trio said that he was forcibly reminded of the old nursery rhyme,—

“‘Mother, may I go out to swim?’
‘Yes, my darling daughter;
Hang your clothes on a hickory limb—
But don’t go near the water!’”

A stroll in the beautiful gardens of the Luxembourg, and a visit to the Jardin des Plantes, with its botanical, mineralogical, and geological museums, and a visit to the monkeys—the cutest of all monkeys,—finished the day; and to-night we are to dine with a duchess. How fortunate we have a ‘noble’ escort. Otherwise, although we did ‘come over in the Mayflower,’ we might not have been called upon by, and invited to dine with, the Duke and Duchess de la R—— at their chateau near San Cloud.

Some of the customs here seem very odd to us. After a couple are married, they go to drive about the city; the wealthier class in their own carriages, the less wealthy in hired ones, and the poor on foot, but all arrayed in the wedding dress, with veil and the orange flowers. We met eight brides in one afternoon’s drive, and we have seen many others in the different museums and galleries. The French are indeed a pleasure-loving people. Every green spot, and they are legion, here is bright with life. Lovely children are out in great numbers with their dark-eyed, handsome bonnes. These nurses are very picturesque, with their white-frilled turbans on, from which hang lengths of broad white ribbon nearly to their feet. The babies themselves are generally costumed in the richest of laces, and often look uncomfortably loaded down with the big white hats even the tiniest of them wear, well covered with ostrich plumes. All seem to enjoy life—the middle classes and the poor in their own way as entirely as the rich in theirs. The parks and numerous gardens are filled with women sitting about with work or book in hand, seemingly perfectly contented with their condition and beautiful surroundings. They wander into the cathedrals and picture galleries at will, and surely such constant familiarity with beauty and art must have a refining influence. Of these poorer people, who have really been taught nothing, some have more knowledge of art than many Americans who have studied it. I, one morning, asked my chambermaid to assist me in wrapping up a few photographs I had in my room. In doing so she told me I ought to get Murillo’s ‘Birth of the Virgin’ and Titian’s ‘Holy Family,’ and recommended several art stores as excellent places to select photographs and etchings. The many and great variety of exhibitions of pictures here, offer instruction to all and are a constant spur to one’s ambition. The Parisians should be thanked by the people of every nation for throwing open their public institutions to all classes to enter ‘without money and without price.’ Paris thus gives freely to all who will accept a liberal education. The Comédie Française and the Conservatoire of Music and Acting give free instruction to all who have talent sufficient to be admitted. With the French people’s love for the beautiful, with their especial love for Paris, with their seeming contentment of position, with their hospitality and their never-failing politeness as we now see them, it does not seem possible that in times of rebellion and riot they so lose themselves as to burn and destroy that they have so dearly loved, and that they become disloyal and unreasonable toward each other. The burning of the Tuileries in 1871 was an exhibition of their insanity in times of excitement.

Here is my Paris edition of the New York Herald. I bless James Gordon Bennett every time I take up this little paper, so grateful am I to him for it. After struggling with French conversation, French books, French signs, French everything, all the day, it is a delight to me to see my own language in print, to see American news, and often to see the name of some one I know or know of. Oh, we do not realize how dear America is to us until we are far from her shores.

Paris, Sunday, July 1st.—And so the month dedicated to Juno is really gone. A month filled with joys has it been to us! It does not seem possible that it can be July. It has been so cool here,—cool and bright, just the weather for tramps.

First of all, dear, I must tell you a little of our dinner with the Duchess last night. How I did wish you were with me, and how every hour you are in loving thought and memory with me everywhere. I know just what you will do to-day. But no one will ever know all the kind acts you perform, all the sacrifices you make, save the recording angels. We gave considerable time to our toilettes last evening, even to having a French hairdresser. F. looked ‘smart’ in her Wörth-made pink gown, and in French conversation did us all credit. Only two of the sixteen guests spoke English, beside our host and hostess and ourselves. We were not only cordially received, but affectionately. Our hostess was charming in face and grace, and her husband not far behind. The halls, dining-rooms, and salon of the house were immense, with polished floors, and rugs, and the woodwork and furniture of the latter in white and gold. Everything was massive and stately, but with a cheerful, bright effect. The menu consisted of fourteen courses, served table d’hôte. The hostess was first helped, then the oldest lady at the table, and so on, down to the youngest lady present. Then the gentlemen in the same manner. I should think this custom would sometimes puzzle the waiters to know whom first to serve. The table was decorated with flowers, and the cumbrous gold candelabra were, with the gold service, very imposing. There was not an article of silver on the table. Every utensil was gold, china, or glass. It is a great error to suppose that, because Frenchwomen love dress and pleasure, they are not devoted mothers, true wives, and intelligent companions. Of course there are exceptions, and so there are in all countries. Our little party of last night was unusually bright, intelligent, and familiar with American history, her institutions, and her literature. They thought our language the hardest of all languages to comprehend or to speak. They referred to our many words ending with ‘gh,’ and each one pronounced so entirely differently. A gentleman who had been in New York said, if a business was to be stopped there they ‘wound it up,’ if clocks were to go they wound them up. Strings were wound up, and he one day received a telegram from the wife of a friend whom he expected to meet, which read thus: ‘Henry is wound up for the day; hopes to see you to-morrow.’ Did not know whether Henry was ‘stopped’ or ‘going,’ but understood later that he was indisposed. They asked us many questions about our own city, and one lady told me that she read in a paper that not long ago a man was imprisoned for preaching on Boston Common, but she supposed it was a mistake, as such a thing could scarcely have taken place in a free country. After dinner we had music and dancing, and bade our entertainers ‘Bon soir,’ having had a delightful evening with them, and feeling that the nice points of the social code, with dukes and duchesses, are not much different from our own.

Sunday in Paris is a great contrast to our New England Sunday. People go to church, to be sure, but they go to the theatre after if they wish to, and think it all right. It is the one great day for families to go into the parks and the woods and the gardens near the city. The larger shops are closed, not because it is Sunday, but because one day in the week is demanded by the employees for rest and recreation. Theatres, circuses, and hundreds of places of amusement are open, and are all thronged, notwithstanding the great exodus into the suburbs. One can hardly blame clerks and working people, who are in cages, as it were, every other day, for taking Sunday to see the green hills, breathe the country air, and gather flowers with their little ones, for Monday puts them in harness again. Going to places of amusement on Sunday is not just our way, but we are not here to criticise.

After early service in the American Church we took a boat up the Seine for St. Cloud, where have lived many kings of France. The palace where Eugénie, in the height of her popularity, so magnificently entertained, has never been rebuilt since its destruction in the siege of 1870. We sat on the broad, handsome steps which had led to the palace, with the leafy avenues of the parks before us, over which the lovely Eugénie, with her imperial husband, and the ladies of her court, clad in their costumes of the chase, had many times cantered. Here they entertained, at certain seasons, sovereigns, princes of the blood, ambassadors, and ‘lords and ladies of high degree,’ and everything that could be devised or money procure was placed before them for their pleasure. Music, games, dancing, and feasting went on—and the people paid for it. Although there never was and never could be the slightest unfavorable criticism upon the moral life of the Empress, her intense love of gayety, admiration, dress, and power caused her to forget the thousands of suffering poor so near her. Had she given more thought to them, with a helping hand, she could so easily have made their dark days less so. Beauty of person and power are rare gifts, but if they so dazzle as to make dim the more divine gift of a charitable heart and hand, they are to be undesired, and—

‘It were better to be lowly born
And range with humble lives in content.’

But the golden-haired, sweet-faced Empress, in her green riding habit, with the flowing white plumes in her hat, rides on under the arches of these beautiful linden trees, and is gone from our thoughts, and the memory of a gray-haired, childless widow in Chiselhurst rises before us. God help her! The fountains and cascades here, scintillating in the rays of the sun this bright morning, are beautiful, and the walks about are superb. We went to the very top of the hill, and were well repaid by the admirable views of Paris, the Seine, and the surrounding scenery.

Our long tramp made us hungry, so we turned our footsteps toward the café at the gate. The tables inside looked very attractive, but my comrades thought the ones outside more so, so we seated ourselves at one in a vine-covered arbor, for dinner table d’hôte. We have got so used to eating out-of-doors—in arbors in the country, and on pavements in town,—that you need not be surprised if I, some Sunday morning, invite you to baked beans and brown bread on the curbstones of the Oxford, and every bean served as a course.

The town of St. Cloud is built on the slope of the hill. The streets are very narrow, and the stores to-day are all open and well filled. Wandering about, I was attracted by the sound of music in a quaint-looking little church and stepped in. Upon coming out, my companions were nowhere visible. I sat down in a conspicuous place on some steps, to wait for them to find me. A richly dressed Frenchman walked past me several times. I felt that I was the object of his gaze—so looked in every direction but toward him, for here let me say that the French are really prolonged starers, notwithstanding their uniform courtesy and politeness. My imagination got the better of me, and I prepared for battle, trying to think of annihilating names in French, that I might call him should he dare address me, and looking at the strong handle of my parasol with renewed confidence. Secondly, I thought it might be good policy to pretend to be deaf and dumb—yes, should he speak, I will really put my finger to my ears and my mouth and he will think I am a dummy, planned I. Thus, with a reinforced feeling of safety and victory, I looked squarely up at him. Imagine my surprise when he raised his hat, and in fair English said: ‘Pardon me, but are you not Mrs. —— of Boston?’ It was Monsieur C——, who formerly taught French in my family. I need not tell you that I gave him a vigorous Yankee hand-shaking. He left America a year ago to take possession of an inherited property. Moral: Consider every man, everywhere, a gentleman, until you have proof that he is not. A Frenchman never sits when a lady in his presence stands, nor does he ever smoke or expectorate in a lady’s presence. Do the Americans? A French lady asked me, and I had to say with humility, ‘Yes.’ After this little incident my friends appeared, more worried about me than I about them, and we soon took ‘top seats’ on steam-cars and were carried to Versailles.

The gardens of Versailles are superior in beauty to any others that I have seen. I wish I could give you a good idea of them, as they appear to me this lovely day. Beautiful trees, shrubs, flowers of every size, fragrance, and color, orangeries, conservatories, palms, ferns, lakes, vine-covered seats, shaded walks, arbors, statues, grottoes cool and mossy, cascades, and the large fountains playing, with the Palace beyond, and the blue sky above it all—were indeed worth seeing. Linger longer outside we would like to, but the big, huge Palace is before us, and we must see a little of its contents. The galleries, or rooms, are of vast size, and are filled with paintings, sculpture, bric-a-brac, tapestries, and articles of intense historical interest. The State apartments, the living rooms of kings and queens, the theatre, and the chapel, with their frescoes and paintings, are a delight to us. In a suite of eleven rooms are pictures illustrating all the most noted events in the history of France. A white marble statue of the Duke of Orleans is very beautiful and remarkably graceful. We also noticed a fine statue of Joan of Arc. The chamber of Louis XIV. is absorbingly interesting, and is one of the gems of the Palace. The ceiling was painted by Paul Veronese, and was brought here by Napoleon I. from Venice. It represents Jupiter punishing Crime, and is of itself a day’s study, and more. The furniture and decorations of the room are rich and grand, said to be about as when the ‘Grand Monarque’ died in the room, entirely against his intentions and inclinations. The bedstead upon which he breathed his last, with the same hangings and coverlid, are here. It is a two-story one, and we wonder how he ever got on to it with any degree of dignity. This magnificent apartment of Louis Quatorze, peopled with ghosts of his time, brought to us many thoughts. This place, under his management, was made grand and beautiful, but at the cost of crippling the treasury of France and exciting discontent amongst her already overtaxed people, and it was not for their enjoyment, but for his own and his satellites’. In the queen’s card room the painted ceiling, by Le Brun, represents France, dispensing peace and abundance to all. What a mockery! At this very time, while royalty at Versailles was sipping wine from cups of gold, the hunger of the poor outside was beginning to make them mad. The painting of the marriage of Louis XIV. with Maria Theresa, and some of the battle pieces, are fairly well done. All that one has ever read of the greatness of Louis XIV., the evil of Louis Quinze, and the horrors of the Revolution, comes to one’s mind at Versailles. It seems to me that nowhere else could one so thoroughly feel and comprehend France,—her history and her changes. We saw the room in which Louis Quinze died alone, of small-pox, just as if he had never been a king. We saw the narrow passage where the beautiful Marie Antoinette went through to escape the fury of the Parisian mob, while the brave, noble Swiss Guards were cut down like grass. We thought of her standing on the balcony, between her innocent little ones, crying in vain to the howling throng for mercy; and yet Louis XVI., although a weak king, did not mean to be a bad one. F. says, her sympathy aroused for the ill-fated family, ‘How horrid the people were!’ Yes; but let not the name of Marie Antoinette make us forget the rights of the long-suffering and wronged people. These rulers were living in profligacy and luxury: the people, many of them, were in a starving condition, made so by the exorbitant demands upon them by Louis. Justice was not given them, and they took it, and the forced necessity of such terrible work made them maniacs. We feel sorry for mistaken royalty, and more sorry for the innocent, but let us go out into the beautiful gardens of Versailles, and see there the multitude enjoying its delights, instead of a few kings and queens, and be thankful. The palace and its gems are educators for them, and the gardens a place of rest, and may they ever thus remain. It was at Versailles that ‘good Queen Vic’ was royally entertained by Louis Napoleon, and it was also here that Emperor William was, later, crowned King of Prussia.

A hasty visit to Great and Little Trianon ended our day at Versailles. The first named was built by Louis XIV. for Madam de Maintenon, and although we had about had our fill of luxury, we grew enthusiastic over the Malachite Hall and the mosaics and bronzes we here saw. The Little Trianon, Louis XV. gave to Madame du Barry. Here we saw the old state carriages and harnesses. Madame du Barry’s carriage, in which she used to take her airings, cost 60,000 francs, and on state occasions she carried a bouquet of diamonds, which Louis had made for her at a cost of 300,000 francs. She had also a dressing-stand of gold studded with gems, and two cupids held a crown of diamonds above it, so made that whenever the owner looked into the mirror this crown was reflected as if resting upon her own head. This is an example of the way the revenues of France were then expended. Is it any wonder that there was a revolution?

An open carriage took us to the station, and again we took our places, on top of a steam-car, for Paris. This would be a delightful way of riding if only the engine would be sufficiently polite to turn its smoke in another direction than our faces. We had a fine view of the city and its suburbs as we approached it, and with dirty faces, tired feet, and our hands filled with French wild flowers and grasses, we reached Paris; and the ever-convenient cab soon landed us in Clement Marot. A friend had sent us tickets for the theatre, but we decided that we would spend the evening in the pretty drawing-room of our hostess and make it as nearly like a Sunday evening at home as possible. One of our number remarked how fortunate no one of our party has felt at all homesick. A bunch arose in my throat, but I swallowed it down, and I have told no one that often, when I think of the dear ones far away, longings for a sight of their faces will creep in.

Monday, July 2d.—Galleries and churches are not open to visitors on Mondays, so we planned for out-of-door sights to-day. The cheapness of these little, open barouches make us feel able to ride at any time. I wish I could take one home to Boston with me, cocher and all. We first went to the Arc d’Etoile, for the second time, and ascended to the top, for the views. It is said that the views from the Eiffel Tower, when completed, will surpass anything gained elsewhere, but those from the Arc d’Etoile are very grand.

This huge, superb monument of Napoleon I. stands in a ‘round square’ called the ‘Place d’Etoile.’ From this street twelve beautiful avenues lead, somewhat like spokes from the hub of a wheel. Now imagine this, and these streets built up with elegant residences, with pretty grounds about them, and the avenues filled with showy turnouts and merry throngs of people, promenading on the broad sidewalks, shaded by two rows of magnificent trees, and you get a little idea, with the picture I send you, of the Arc de Triomphe and its surroundings. The figures you see, which will look small on paper, are, some of them, over twenty feet high, representing Victory, Fame, etc. When we first walked under the arch, F. said, ‘I think this is a good deal like walking under the body of Jumbo,’—which experience we once had.

From the Arch we were driven straight down the beautiful Avenue des Champs Elysées to the Place de la Concorde, in which square stands the obelisk, the gift of the Pacha of Egypt. Immense bronze fountains are in the square, and large marble statues on pedestals, representing the country’s largest cities, around it. It is a lovely, peaceful spot, this glorious morning, with no signs of the terrible deeds that were once enacted here. But here it was the guillotine stood and did its murderous work. Here the rabble surged, crying for more blood. Here Charlotte Corday, here Marie Antoinette, met death. And here heads were cut off at the rate of forty or fifty a day; and men looked on, women sat about with their knitting, occasionally saying, ‘Look, there goes another.’

Do not dwell upon such horrors! we will go and buy some ribbons! Our first look into the Bon Marché. What a beautiful store it is, to be sure. The largest in the world. How the bargains tempt us! The clerks look bright and fresh, and are remarkably well dressed and intelligent appearing. And they have reason to be—they are all partners of this great money-making establishment, and time, opportunities, and means given them for study. The little articles here, fans, ornaments, toilet articles, handkerchiefs, gloves, etc., are irresistible, so pretty and so cheap. In one apartment, cake, cookies, bread, crackers, wine, tea and coffee, and the very best of their kind, are served to all who come, gratuitously. Wanamaker’s store in Philadelphia, and Shepard & Norwell’s, of Boston, are somewhat similar,—the first mentioned comparing very favorably, the second not as extensive but conducted partly on the same principle.

Leaving the Bon Marché we knew we had got our money’s worth, but had precious few coins left, so thought it a good time to see a little of the poorer class of this rich-appearing city. So into the Latin quarter are we driven. That sounds very intellectual and classical, but is really the old and poorer part of Paris. Here the streets are narrow, the men wear blue blouses, and the women look coarse and hard; exceptions there are, certainly, but such the general appearance.

Next, to Père La Chaise, the city of the dead. Much disappointed in its appearance. Does not compare with our beautiful Forest Hills. The walks are not well kept. Immortelles and shrivelled wreaths decorate the graves, instead of fresh flowers. Numerous monuments are here, and some very fine ones, but the most are costly without beauty. On the graves of children we saw toys, dolls, wooden horses, etc. We saw Rachel’s monument, and that of Abélard and Héloise, which is really beautiful. F. said she always meant to make a pilgrimage to this spot, from pure sympathy. We saw many names, on monuments, familiar to us from history; but as a whole, everything is too mixed up for it to be considered a beautiful cemetery. We saw a young girl bending over a grave in tears, and our own fell for her. She left a wreath on the, to her, precious earth, composed of white immortelles, with words made of the yellow flowers embedded in the white, which read, as nearly as we could translate, ‘To the loved man who was to have been my husband.’ That told the sad story. We thought Victor Hugo rested here, but one of our trio said no; at the Pantheon, he felt sure. ‘Well, he was a good and great man enough to have had two burial places,’ said F. And so say we all of us!

We went to the Hippodrome this evening,—sort of a fashionable circus; but not caring much for the entertainment, came out and walked about to see a little of Paris by gaslight—and such a sight! The entire population of the city seems to be poured into the streets. Bands of music playing in the squares; the sidewalk cafés have their tables surrounded with ‘evening dressed’ ladies and gentlemen. There are illuminated swings, merry-go-rounds, inclined planes, roller skating platforms, for the children, and all seeming to be respectably conducted. Paris is a clean city; the streets are like a well-swept floor all the time, no dirt to be seen. Two-thirds of the families live in apartment houses. These are better arranged than our Boston flats. The rooms are spacious, and no dark, windowless ones, as there is always an open court in the centre, to admit light and air, and about the windows facing these courts are balconies, pleasant to sit out on. The courts are cultivated, and either have shrubbery and flowers growing, or have grassy lawns, and this is all cared for by the landlords. The rents are much lower, also, than with us.

Tuesday, July 3d.—Too quickly the days go by. The weather is so deliciously fair and bright this morning that it is a joy to be alive. Out into the sunshine we go, ‘not caring a sou where, if only these days could last forever,’ said F. Yes, Paris is indeed fascinating, but we must remember that life is not all a holiday, nor would we wish it to be. We owe to our Maker something higher in aim and in good works. We owe to our beloved country ourselves, and the help of our acts and purposes. When human beings are born and bred in the same air, speak the same tongue, it is a disloyal thing to turn faces from each other. ‘United we stand,’ We heard of a party of Americans finding difficulty in entering Germany not long ago because they had no passports, so I thought we had better fortify ourselves with the documents. Hunted up the abode of the American Legation. Found the apartments to resemble the rooms of a private family, more than those of business. We were duly questioned, measured, and pen-portraits taken of us, and after a sufficient amount of ‘red-tape delay,’ the desired papers were in our hands. Very likely we shall not be obliged to use them, but they serve to tell us how tall we are, and, better still, that my nose is straight, which I never knew before.

We next went to the Pantheon, which is something of a reproduction of St. Peter’s at Rome, and is now devoted to receiving the remains of great men who have merited the gratitude of France. The church was formerly called the church of St. Geneviève, she having been the patron saint of Paris. There are some beautiful frescoes here relating to her life. The rich Corinthian columns, the marble groups, frescoes, and bas-reliefs, are all an interesting study. France is represented bestowing honors on her noted sons. On the frieze is this inscription: ‘Aux Grands Hommes La Patrie Reconnaissante.’ There are some beautiful frescoes here by Cabanel, which represent different scenes in the life of St. Louis. The one where Blanche of Castile, his mother, is talking with him is very lovely. The artist has succeeded in investing the faces of St. Louis with much beauty and spirituality. I looked at these paintings with great satisfaction, as I admire the results of Cabanel’s brush always. I thought, too, not only of St. Louis, but of Louis S. S., and wished I could see his pleasant face. I have so often called him my St. Louis. Please tell him this when you see him, and love to them all. Yet, with all of the objects I have told you of, and many, many others, the interior of the Pantheon has a cold, bare look. Underneath this building are immense vaults, and Victor Hugo’s remains are here. The coffin, covered with cloth, mounted and embroidered with silver, stands on trestles facing the tomb of Rousseau,—although the remains of the latter are at Geneva. A huge pyramid of immortelles is before us, that were brought, by those who loved the great man, on the day of his funeral. All that was mortal of him is here, but a mind that could give ‘Les Miserables’ must be working for good still, in the ‘great somewhere.’

Noticing the interest I felt in everything pertaining to Victor Hugo, a Paris friend, with us to-day, said, ‘Let us sit down and rest near these withered blossoms, and I will tell you a little about his funeral, which took place just three years ago this month, and of which I was an eye-witness.’ Although Victor Hugo was born an aristocrat, and was the greatest poet of France, his sympathy and love for the common people, and his strong and earnestly avowed republican tendencies, led him to request in his will that he should be carried to his grave in the hearse of the poor. And although this was done, never were such preparations made before for the celebration and the honoring of any dead. France claimed him as her greatest, noblest son. His body was laid in state, under the Arch of Triumph, on a catafalque draped with black velvet embroidered with silver, standing in a bank of flowers. Bands of crape were draped from the top of the huge arch to the ground. Through the day, and through the night, torches were lighted, and thousands of people visited the spot. It was known that he said it would be his choice to be laid without ceremony by the side of his wife, in the little country churchyard, but the people would not have it thus; only to the Pantheon should he be carried! But the Pantheon bore a visible cross, indicating dedication to the Roman church. Hugo could not rest there. His religion was of no sect. He believed in God and loved Him. He believed in his fellow-man—loved and helped him. His creed was the Golden Rule, and he lived by it. The Government ordered the cross removed from the building, and it was done, and on June 1st, 1885, all that was mortal of Victor Hugo—whose motto was ever ‘Fraternity, Equality, and Liberty’—was carried there, followed by the greatest and wisest citizens of France, her ministers, her soldiers, and her people. We arose, laid our corsage ornament—a beautiful fleur-de-lis—by the great man’s last resting-place, and turned away.

By the way, the French love this flower, the national emblem of their country. There is a legend about it, that runs like this: Clovis, who was an infidel, went to battle with the Germans. He fought bravely, but was losing ground, when he remembered his young Queen’s faith in God. He called in his despair upon this Great Being the Christians so trusted in, pledging himself to this God’s service forever if He would but give him this one victory. The battle was his, and he was immediately baptized. During the solemn ceremony an angel appeared and threw about King Clovis an exquisite banner embroidered with the lovely flowers of the fleur-de-lis. From that time to the French Revolution the kings of France bore the flower on their banners.

From the Pantheon to the Hotel des Invalides, a comfortable home for disabled soldiers and for aged ones, containing kitchens, dormitories, libraries, museums, etc. We chatted with a very old soldier with but one leg, and he said that he was much happier with that one than most men were with two legs, so well was he there cared for. Next, to the Tomb of Napoleon the First, and I should have known it to have been his burial place had I opened my eyes upon it unexpectedly, anywhere, so ‘Napoleonically’ magnificent is it all, in the Church of the Invalides, so called. Napoleon so loved Paris, that in his will he requested ‘that his body might rest on the banks of the Seine, amongst the French people he loved so well.’ Light for the interior of this building comes through violet-colored glass in the immense cupola, and falls with a peculiar, weird effect upon the sarcophagus, which seems to be of granite, and rests upon two large blocks of different colored stone, one upon the other, making a high pile. The foundation upon which this all stands is a crown of laurels, in green marble, on a floor of black and white, and upon which are seen the names of many of his victories. Twelve victories are also represented by the same number of colossal statues. The crypt containing the sarcophagus is round, and immediately under the dome, in the exact centre, and has around it a marble railing. We went down into this crypt, around the sarcophagus, to a chapel, where we saw the very sword he wore at Austerlitz, the insignia he wore, the battle colors, and the crown of gold given to him by the citizens of Cherbourg. At the farther end is the statue of the Emperor, with the characteristic lines of his face strongly portrayed, and it is clothed in the imperial robes. The gallery leading to this is always lighted by bronze funeral lamps. Other chapels, dedicated to different saints, are richly decorated, and the remains of a number of the relatives of Napoleon rest within them. At the entrance to the tomb, as the whole building or church is called, are two sarcophagi, dedicated, the one to Marshal Duroc, and the other to Marshal Bertrand, the devoted and true friends of the Emperor in his hours of trial. Way high up in the cupola, which is, I have already told you, right over the sarcophagus containing Napoleon’s dust, is a beautiful picture of Jesus, in the midst of angels, looking tenderly down. This crypt is in the centre to be sure, and yet is in front of steps which lead to the beautiful altar. The steps are of white marble, and the high, superb altar is of both black and white marble, with a canopy of gold, beneath which is a figure of Christ on the cross. The cost of this entire monument was nearly two million dollars, and is all so rich and effective that I hope my description of it will enable you to see it, a little, as with my eyes. The life of conquest and glory, defeat and suffering, which this man knew is without a parallel. His spirit left the body in obscurity and exile; that body now rests in the costliest of mausoleums. Here in this very city he once lived in a garret, and wandered hopelessly about seeking employment; here also he lived in palaces, and ruled everything before him. We have seen the Hotel de la Colonnade, Rue des Capucines, where he was married to Josephine, and it was at the Tuileries his divorce from her was proclaimed. His ambition was indeed his ruling passion, when he could put from him the woman who loved him, saying to her, ‘Josephine, thou knowest I love thee; to thee alone do I owe the only moments of true happiness that I have ever had, but my destiny overrules my will.’ Dying on his lonely bed, on the bleak, rude heights of St. Helena, without kith or kin to love him, what then to him were ambition, fame, or victories, even such as his had been?

We spent the rest of the day in the Cluny, an extensive old museum, containing statues, paintings, armor, and wonderfully beautiful tapestries, and rare antiquities of all descriptions. One exquisite and very odd piece of pottery so interested me, being entirely different from anything I had ever before seen, that I asked one of the near attendants where it came from; he answered, ‘Hades.’ Fearing I did not understand him, I asked the question for the second time, and called my companions to interpret, but ‘Hades’ he repeated, and we could say no more. F. said it seemed well baked, and told us a story of an Englishman who was travelling in France, and had with him a French courier, the latter speaking English a little, but making some peculiar translations. The English gentleman asked concerning a friend whom he knew to be residing somewhere in France. The interpreter innocently assured him that his friend had gone to Thunder in Burgundy. The Englishman, not knowing of the town Tounerre, drew his own conclusions.

Wednesday, July 4th.—A pleasant surprise awaited us this morning. Our hostess, in our honor, had thrown from our balcony our own glorious flag! Our stars and stripes! None other as beautiful in all the world floats. It seemed a part of our own dear land, our home and friends. We are up in the fifth story; the horses are kept in the first. The higher up the rooms are, the more desirable are they considered here, and the greater is the rent. We took an early drive, then spent a little time shopping, and made our way to the monumental chapel containing the tombs and monuments of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI., called the Chapel Expiatoire. Here is a beautiful statue of the unfortunate Queen, and one also of her husband, on the pedestal of which is inscribed, in letters of gold, his will, in which he commends his wife and children to his Maker, and expresses a wish that his wife may be allowed to keep their children, for her maternal tenderness for them he has never doubted. It all expresses the thoughts and feelings of a good man. The remains of the brave Swiss Guard who so faithfully defended the royal family, are also here.

A little more sight-seeing, a few social calls made, last lingering glances at the Palais Royal and the Rue de Rivoli shops, and home to dine. After dinner we, with the entire household, went to an out-of-door fête, in the streets and on the sidewalks of Paris, and a grotesque, comical, ridiculous celebration it was. Old and young were dancing in the streets; open booths for shooting, angling, and all sorts of games of chance were well patronized; cheap shows, theatres, concerts, cycloramas, and panoramas, all in full blast, and Punch and Judy doing their part vigorously; a beautiful girl, with a fine voice, and dressed in white silk, thus exposed to the public gaze, was giving a concert in the open air, and the crowd about her were really ladies and gentlemen; every jim-crack ever manufactured was for sale in the miles of tents temporarily erected;—and altogether it was a strange sight. I could not have believed it possible that intelligent men and women could have enjoyed such a conglomeration, but they seemed to. At midnight, after walking some distance to find our cabs, we were driven to Rue Clement Marot, through the Arch, and this grand monument looked even more grand in the full blaze of the electric lights. To-morrow we regretfully leave this beautiful city and our pleasant friends, who have done so much to make our stay here a happy one. Whatever is rich, Paris is richer. Whatever is grand, Paris is grander! Whatever is beautiful, Paris is more so. I hope to see it all again.

July 5th..—We left Paris at 10 A.M. to-day, leaving the house early enough to step into St. Chapelle for one more look at the incomparable rose window and the other remarkably beautiful stained-glass windows of this gorgeous church. The morning was a bright one, and as the rays of the sun streamed in upon us, through the rich colors of the glass, and mingled with the delicate blue tone reflected from the arched roof of the edifice, the effect was glorious. This exquisite ceiling is thickly dotted with gilt stars. The whole interior is decorated with gilt diamonds, with paintings of fleur-de-lis, St. Louis’s flower between. We went into the little chamber where the saintly King used to sit and listen to the church services, through a window opening into the nave. On reaching the station we found our friends waiting for us, to give us a pleasant send-off toward Geneva.