In the Poet’s Corner lies the mouldering dust of Thackeray, Southey, Milton, Chaucer, Dickens, and many, many others, whose works will live forever, and whose words and characters will carry companionship and comfort into many a household, as do the lines of our own Longfellow, of whom his English admirers have here placed a beautiful bust. It is of pure white marble, and the likeness excellent. It stands between the monuments of Cowley and Dryden. Some one had placed a fresh red rose in the folds of the drapery, probably some American, sight-seeing like ourselves, and it all brought our home so near to me that tears came unbidden

And now, even in this temple of the dead, how sure we feel ‘There is no death; what seems so is transition.’ A magnificent monumental chapel, with costly statues and sculptures, surmounts the tomb of one of the Henrys. Many other chapels, in memory of saints, are also here, with aisles and transepts filled with monuments. The beautiful rose window and the marigold window are worth crossing the ocean to see. But of the numberless wonderful things here I must not now tell you much more, only will tell you that the Coronation Chair we have touched, in which have been crowned all the English sovereigns from Edward the Confessor to Queen Victoria. I reluctantly left this sacred building impressed deeply with its wonders.

We next went to a gorgeous restaurant to dine, fully coming to the realization that we are still in the flesh. These London restaurants are a surprise to us, in the quantity of excellent food they give, well cooked and served, for very little money. I never before knew the real meaning of a good mutton chop, for we get none in America like these over here. The whitebait, here considered so great a delicacy, I do not ‘hanker’ for—should rather have a ‘Taunton herring.’

After dining, we visited a collection of paintings, an annual exhibition by English artists. After looking about there, we went to the exhibition of the Royal Academy of Arts, which gave us great pleasure. The Royal Academy is a private society, and from its fund supports a fine-art school; and the judges of paintings connected with the Academy are considered so perfect in their estimates, that it increases the money value greatly of a picture if accepted by them and hung at their exhibitions. We were told that on an average ten thousand pictures are sent them for every annual exhibit, but rarely over two thousand are accepted. This, of course, causes some hard feeling amongst the artists. A portrait of Sir William Jenner, physician to the Queen, by Frank Holl, R. A., was most life-like. Many portraits by Herkomer were also excellent, particularly one of his aged father and his own young sons. One painting, named ‘A Hopeless Dawn,’ by Bramley, attracted me greatly. It portrayed the full meaning of the quotation from Ruskin: ‘Human effort and sorrow going on perpetually from age to age; waves rolling forever, and winds moaning, and faithful hearts wasting and sickening forever, and brave lives dashed away about the rattling beach like weeds forever; and still, at the helm of every lonely boat, through starless night and hopeless dawn, His hand who spreads the fisher’s net over the dust of the Sidonian palaces, and gave into the fisher’s hand the keys of the kingdom of heaven.’ Besides the oils and water-colors, the collection of miniatures, etchings, drawings, engravings, and sculpture, all exceptionally fine, gave us a rare pleasure. We here met the first large assemblage of Londonites that we have seen. The élite of society were present, and many noted persons pointed out to us. The ladies do not dress as well as our own Americans, but I must give precedence to the English gentlemen for both good looks and style, courtly manners and taste in costumes.

Having occasion to be near the Houses of Parliament, we thought we would utilize time by going in then and there. But how to get in? We had not taken time, as yet, to call upon Mr. Phelps for letters, as we had meant to do later, having a letter of introduction to our Minister from a personal friend of his and our own. ‘But time in London is precious,’ said F., ‘so let us try.’ Parliament was in session, and being earnestly anxious to see its workings, we screwed our courage to its utmost tension and proceeded. After battling with a half-dozen Guards and coaxing another half-dozen, we found ourselves inside the Lobby. An immense concourse of ladies and gentlemen were in the corridors, waiting their turn to be admitted, and our chances without a pass began to look rather doubtful. However, with true Yankee pluck I looked over the faces of the officials, and finally settled upon an amiable-appearing one, belonging to a ‘Sergeant-at-arms’ and approached him—told him our situation, and appealed to him for aid. He was every inch a gentleman, and evidently anxious to assist us. Told us the only possible way to get in was to send our card to a member. Yes, but we only knew names of members, unfortunately; not one personally. Lowering his voice he said, ‘I have a brother inside, an official: give me your cards; I will send them to my brother to give to Hon. —— ——. He is the champion and the favorite of all ladies, and never refuses, at any sacrifice, to do them a favor.’ We wrote ‘Boston, U. S. A.,’ in the corner of our pasteboards (which is, we find, a good place to hail from), and they went from us to seek their fortune and ours. Word soon came back, brought by a handsome page, that Mr. —— was then delivering a speech, but would see us soon. We waited some time, with much about us to take our attention, when a Guard called in stentorian tones, ‘The Hon. Mr. ——.’ We arose as we were told to do by our new-found ally, and saw approaching us a small, pleasant-faced gentleman, who immediately extended his hand with words of welcome, as if we were expected guests. To the kind-hearted, gallant, and courteous Irish M. P. shall we ever be grateful! A way was made for us into the gallery of the chamber of peers, from which we had a good view of the brilliant show below. Many ladies were present on the benches, mostly peeresses or relatives of nobility. Later, our kind escort sent for us to take seats in the ladies’ gallery of the House of Commons, which, not without difficulty, he had secured. We realize the great honor of being here, and yet it is a good deal like sitting up in an organ loft, or being placed, front side out, in a bread toaster, for we are separated from the M. P.’s by metal spokes. The reporters have a place under us, and the members occupy the other galleries and the three or four hundred seats about the tables. A member was speaking, but his enunciation was so poor that I failed to understand him; so spent the time in looking about. Gladstone was present, but did not speak; I had a very good view of him. He does not look at all ‘John Bullish,’ in the old sense of the expression, but is a refined, modest-looking gentleman, with rather a tired-out air about him. A number with wigs and gowns, some stiff-appearing functionaries wearing garbs that looked as if they were prepared for the stage, many pages rushing hither and thither, the buzz of voices, and the hand-clapping, all made a bewildering scene. It seemed very much out of keeping with the usually ceremonious proceedings of the Commons, to see the members costumed in perfect evening dress, wearing their hats.

In the House of Lords the throne is the chief object of interest, and the peers, upon entering, always salute it, I presume as something of a compliment to royalty. It contains three seats: the middle one is the Queen’s, the right-hand one that of the Prince of Wales, and the one on the left has not been allowed to be occupied since the death of Prince Albert. When the Lord Chancellor takes his seat in this room, he wears a red gown, an ermine mantle, a big wig, and a three-cornered hat. We thanked our new-made friend for his unusual kindness, for he really seemed determined to make us feel that showing us about was the greatest pleasure of his lifetime, and we left the Houses at ten P.M., with the workings going on as lively as if just commenced.

I think the manners of a Massachusetts legislative body superior in dignity to those of the members of the House of Commons. But who under the gilded dome on Beacon Hill would give himself as much trouble to entertain a strange English lady, as our member took upon himself to entertain us! Do not all speak at once, gentlemen.

Friday, June 22nd.—The clerk of the weather will come in rightfully for his share of praise, for another bright morning greets us. We took an early start for the National Gallery. Turner has here the most of his works. Some of his paintings, although not considered as masterly as his Slave Ship, please me better, but it seems to me he delights in capricious methods in the use of his brush. It is a treat to our eyes to see the originals of Landseer, Rosa Bonheur, and other works of artists which have become familiar to us from engravings. One of Raphael’s Madonnas is here, and long held our attention. London is full of artists, and in the galleries we see hundreds of students copying, and some excellent work they do. Here lives Herkomer, who was with us at one time, also Millais, Sir Frederick Leighton, Alma Tadema, and others whose talent has brought them large fortunes. The chimes ring out our hour for leaving, although our time here has not been half long enough. I love these chime bells! And nearly all of the churches have them, and sweetly do they sound their pretty airs.

A drive of about four miles brought us to the exhibition of the Royal Military Tournament. The pavilion contained an aristocratic audience, and the good horsemanship of the soldiers, on their handsome and well-trained animals, was a novel sight. A lady sat next me with her two little girls and their maid. The children had material enough in their bonnets to have covered them all over comfortably, but their legs were bare to the knees and looked cold, for the wind had changed, and a damp draught chilled us. I offered part of my lap-wrap to the little ones, and the mother kindly thanked me, but added, ‘They do not need it if only their heads are warm; they cannot take cold; one never takes cold in the legs, you know.’ And undoubtedly English mothers all agree with her, for the children’s limbs are universally unprotected from the weather. They wear heavy shoes but short stockings. I have already come to the opinion that it is not of much use to differ with the English. If we do, differently from them, they feel a little sorry for us that we do not know the better way, which is always their way.

This evening we went to the Covent Garden Theatre to hear Minnie Hauk, in ‘Carmen.’ Not wishing to take time to get into full dress, we changed our hats, substituting pretty, light-colored evening ones, and added fresh, sweet roses to our costumes, and started, and thought our appearance would do ourselves and all else credit. But to our discomfort, opinions differed, and we could not be admitted to our box without leaving our pretty head-gear outside, where they had no chance of being seen and admired. After getting comfortably seated, we looked about us. The ladies were dressed as if for a grand ball, silks, satins, velvets, and tulles, of every color, composed the gowns, invariably made décolleté—‘much, more, and most’ décolleté. Gentlemen were, of course, all in dress suits, and every one wearing and carrying flowers. It was indeed a brilliant scene, but I like the more modest costuming of our own countrywomen, in public places, better. Displays like this, it seems to me, should be made only, if at all, at private gatherings. The setting of the opera and the music were superb. Hauk’s voice has improved wonderfully since heard in America some years ago. She is a great favorite here, and many of the aristocracy were of the audience, and a loudly enthusiastic one it was. All the principal artists were deluged with flowers, and Hauk received a laurel wreath of solid gold leaves at the close of the last act. Prices to first-class entertainments here are higher than in America, and programmes have to be paid for always. They employ young women as ushers. Between acts, ices and cool drinks are brought to the audience, but a round price is asked for them. We lingered to see the people more distinctly as they left their seats. The ladies lack the grace and beauty of Americans, but look bright, rosy-cheeked, and healthful, but the gentlemen are certainly superior in looks, carriage, and physique. Our little newsy chambermaid tells us the London gentlemen all wear ‘stays.’ I wonder if they do!

Saturday, June 23d.—What an immense city London is, to be sure! Twenty miles long or more, and just as bustling at one end as the other. There is such a mass of everything that it is almost overpowering. To-day we have been driven through some of the best and some of the worst streets in the city. We saw ‘The Old Curiosity Shop,’ and many other spots immortalized by Dickens. We have looked into some of the old churches and some of the new ones. Have been into the best stores, and there are many fine ones. We find furs and silks cheaper, and cottons dearer than at home. We could not find a pair of French kid boots of a good shape in all London, and rubber overshoes are not kept at all. We walked across London Bridge to take a look at the river, crowded with barges, boats, ships, and water-craft of every make and shape. We took luncheon at the Holborn Restaurant, and thought we had stepped into a palace, so sumptuous were the surroundings. It was very pleasing to take our bouillon on a mosaic table, surrounded with Carrara marble statuary, and listening to the strains of lulling, restful music.

After replenishing the ‘inner man,’ we boarded a little steamer for a sail up the Thames. The banks of the river are full of interest. The water of the lower part is thick and muddy, and I should think that even a desperate, would-be suicide would turn from it disgusted. As we go up farther, where the shipping is less, it becomes clearer. Excursion steamers, barges, and yachts, freighted with humanity, are busily plying up and down, and the bridges open gracefully to let us pass. The river itself, with the Victoria Embankment on the one side and the Albert Embankment on the other, the fine buildings, the parks, and the noble trees, all seen through the rich atmosphere of this perfect June day, make a picturesque and enjoyable impression, not soon to be forgotten.

We landed, on our return, where we could take a carriage for Hyde Park. As we are in London ‘in the season,’ in the Park, about five P.M., we see all the ‘swelldom’ driving and riding, for it is here they take their airing. The Park itself is lovely, with large, perfect roads and walks, grand, magnificent old trees, plump, clean sheep and graceful deer grazing contentedly, as well they may in such quarters. The kaleidoscope views of the interminable throng in the ‘Drive’ and the ‘Row,’ the fine horses, the gorgeous equipages, the showy liveries, and the gay toilettes, are bewildering. Here surely is abundance of style. Here are hundreds of elegant turnouts, many with armorial bearings, fours-in-hand, sixes-in-hand, dog-carts, T-carts, tandems, and phaetons; footmen and coachmen in livery of red and white, and red and gilt, some with wigs and some without. Here comes a pony carriage with a load of laughing children, there an antiquated yellow-bodied ducal coach, with postilions well powdered and the dowagers inside looking powdered also; a low buggy with a light-blue body, and a blue-ribboned girl with ‘her young man’ beside her looking into her blue eyes; a black carriage hung high, footmen and coachmen in black, and the ladies within draped in crape. And this is Hyde Park! Solemnity and gayety! Prince and commoner meet, and all are lookers on. The boats on the Serpentine, and that wonderful pile of marble and bronze, the Albert Memorial, next attracted us. The marble groups representing the four great nations, and the bas-reliefs of great artists and poets, are fine. Although London is so immense and so crowded, its people have plenty of beautiful breathing spots, more beautiful than the people of any other city, unless the Parisians. To our hotel to dress and out to dinner, our first dinner here with friends.

Our visit in a London home, last evening, was delightful, we were so cordially welcomed and so hospitably entertained. The house, in one of the best streets of the city, was a large, square one with hall in the centre. The rooms were spacious, with dark finishings and furnishings, therefore not wearing the cheery look of our own homes. The massiveness of the elaborately carved furniture seemed to overshadow heavily the very few ornamental articles displayed. There were no paintings on the walls, but a small gallery in the rear of the house contained a good collection. The effect of the living rooms without the bright, living faces would have been somewhat sombre. I think a happy medium would be desirable, a little more bric-a-brac in European homes and a little less in our own, in which I have often had to navigate carefully to avoid running against ornamental articles. The English people are at their best under their own ‘fig-tree.’ They build homes for a lifetime, and for their children and grandchildren after them. They make but few changes in them, and the women particularly stay, or ‘stop’ as they would say, the greater portion of their lives in their homes, for as a people they travel but little. They are very hospitable after once having been introduced, and entirely at ease in entertaining, as an English household is rarely without its guests. Our host, an M. P., has a house in the country, and they only spend the ‘season’ in town. The English greatly love the country and out-of-door life and sports. Several friends of our entertainers had been invited to meet us, and we found them all very gracious and charming. I think the English are a good deal like a Devonshire pie,—wearing a thick crust, but when once the crust is broken the ‘goodies’ are unusually delicious. Our menu at dinner consisted of soup, fish, entrée, roast-beef, chicken, and desert, with wines and coffee. No carving was done at the table. The vegetables were brought in served in individual dishes. By the way, no vegetables are palatably prepared in England, for they are never seasoned. The English keep many servants, and at this dinner there seemed to be a servant for every guest. The English are great eaters, but they take plenty of time to do it in. The general appearance of the setting of the table was not different from our own home tables; perhaps more flowers, and more beautiful ones. I mention these details to show you that dinners informal here do not vary much from the same in America. Our pleasant evening with Mr. M. and his lovely family will long be remembered.

Sunday, June 24th.—No London fog yet! We have had but one unpleasant day since we have been here. To-day is simply perfect. There is a ‘shimmer’ about these lovely June mornings that can be felt but not described. Out with the crowd of churchgoers go we, and, to the credit of the English people be it said, they all go to church. We first went to old St. Giles’. Here we saw the tomb of Milton. What a safe, homelike feeling it brings us to hear in far-away lands our precious church service. Somehow it gives us a sense of security, of encouragement, such as a child in the dark feels, when he hears his mother’s voice.

From St. Giles’ we wandered into a church near by, where a young man was preaching to a large congregation. From his fine presence and good voice, we hoped to hear also a good sermon—but were disappointed. He seemed to suppose the Creator knew but little, and that it was his duty to inform Him: he told Him of the needs of London, and especially of the wants of his churchpeople. The only good part of the service was the music.

Later, we seated ourselves on a Thames steamer, which had evidently put on its Sunday dress, and sailed up to Kew. I can give to you no description of these beautiful gardens. They contain, I believe, the largest conservatories in the world. The ferns and the palms were forests of cool, green loveliness. The Victoria Regia lily is here, in unsurpassed beauty. We wandered off into a shady, retired nook, and seated ourselves on the grass, a lovely sheet of water in front of us, birds trilling their vespers about us, and the myriads of blossoms wafting to us their fragrant incense. It was all to us a sermon that was good for us. ‘For thou, Lord, hast made me glad through thy works; and I will rejoice in giving praise for the operations of thy hands.’

Next, we went by carriage to Richmond, a place of great historic interest and attractions. The drive was beautiful. The distant views were lovely. We passed many stately residences, surrounded by well-kept grounds, ivy and flowers in abundance. But the English will build high walls about their country homes, thus shutting themselves, oyster-like, from the passers-by. These unsightly walls spoil what would without them delight the eye. We stopped on Richmond Hill to see the beautiful views from that elevation, and were well repaid. The river going on and on, the meadows, the hills, the elms and the chestnuts throwing dark shadows, the heaths and downs, the farm-houses and the mansions, Windsor in the distance, and the peculiar mellowness of the whole landscape, were worth the looking upon. At Hampton Court we took a look at the rich tapestries and the paintings, including the ‘Hampton Court Beauties.’ This old court has echoed to the footsteps of many kings and many noted in history. Cardinal Wolsey fitted the place up in regal style, meaning to give it the honor of his own presence, but King Henry looked on with jealous, envious eyes, and asked him his reasons for having made so costly a palace. The wily Cardinal was ingenious in his reply, answering—‘To show how noble a palace a subject may offer to his king.’ This palace is now used as a home by members of the nobility whose incomes have been reduced. We spent a short time in the park and then started toward London, a distance of twelve miles or more. We were fortunate in securing front seats on a tally-ho coach, drawn by four handsome gray horses. We stocked ourselves well with delicious fruit, which the venders pass up to us on poles, temptingly arranged in little baskets, and on we went over a beautiful road, through the glorious Bushey Park, with its majestic elms and chestnuts. ‘O, we have no such rural beauty as England!’ said I. ‘But we shall have when we are as old,’ said my true American beside me.

And that reminds me of what a gentleman at Leamington said, in answer to my question, ‘How do you get the beautiful green your lawns wear?’

‘We only water the grass,’ he replied.

‘But,’ said I, ‘we keep our American lawns well watered and they do not look like yours.’

‘You forget, Madame, that we have watered ours for centuries,’ said he with a smile.

At last we enter the city, and drive through, through, through it, a long, long way. Crowds of people in the streets, crowds in the parks, crowds everywhere! Men are preaching on the corners, women singing, members of the Salvation Army exhorting and praying, and at last we reach our journey’s end safely. It is ten P.M., and yet not dark, so long are these English twilights!

June 25th.—The third one of our trio has again joined us, much to our satisfaction, and to-day we have been to the Crystal Palace, the Zoological Gardens, and have accomplished one hundred and one other things. In the palace there is much to be seen—pictures, sculpture, and other works of art. To-day an unusual crowd had gathered there to attend the concert in the large hall in the afternoon. We were fearful we might not be able, owing to the jam, to see all we came for, and here we desire to thank again the secretary of the association for his kindness toward us. If the English gentlemen are all like those we have come in contact with, I for one shall ever sing their praises. Here we heard ‘The Messiah’ by the ‘Handel and Haydn’ society. Albani and Lillian Norton were two of the artistes, which quite Americanized the company, and all were almost perfect in their parts. In the evening elaborate pyrotechnic displays were made, which with the colored lights and fountains, the bands playing, a company of ballet dancers performing out-of-doors, and the army of gayly dressed people, made it seem like veritable fairy-land. It is all alluring, but we must turn our backs upon it, as we have an invitation to ‘The Criterion’ to see Windom as David Garrick. The play was well acted, and when over, a supper at a fine restaurant near, where a choir of boys sang to us beautiful glees, with their sweet voices, ended another enjoyable day. We have seen much in London, and must leave much unseen, nor can I here tell you of the half we have seen, but have given you some ideas of what I thought you would best like to hear about.

Of our trip to Brighton I believe I have not said a word, but will now tell you a little about it, as it was different from any other. Brighton is the largest and most fashionable of all English watering-places, but as it is not yet the season there, the place had rather a deserted air. It is a city of brick, and the houses look as if built to remain forever, as does everything else in England. There is an esplanade of solid stone, with promenades on top; on the one side of it is the beach and sea, and on the other the large hotels and fine houses. A part of every day’s programme is to dress in one’s best, and promenade up and down the esplanade, but the promenaders all looked as solemn as if on their way to a funeral. The ladies smiled not, and the men looked as if they had iron pokers run up and down their backs, arms akimbo, heads bent back to assist the glass over one eye to stay in place,—all quite English, ‘you know.’ On the beach were plenty of ‘bathing machines,’ which are really bathhouses on wheels, bath-chairs, and children with their nurses, and in the surf a few bathers. The ladies seemed to have more on than our water-nymphs at Narragansett Pier, and the gentlemen apparently wore but little clothing; in fact, I was reminded of pictures I used to see in my geography, of the costumes worn by natives in—well, I think it was Africa; but they carried themselves, even in the water, with dignity. Our drive back to London on a tally-ho was delightful.

We have been favored here with pleasant weather, but I can imagine how grim and black certain parts of the city would look, in bad. They use much coal here, and, as everywhere else, it leaves its mark. We have seen the best of London, and we have had glimpses of her rich citizens and of her poor. There are many rich families here, because their wealth has been inherited, just as the poor have inherited their poverty. Families here keep in about the same groove that their ancestors did before them. The Queen is greatly beloved, and we all know she is a good woman and a gracious sovereign. Of the Prince of Wales, also, I hear many good things. But why should there be such a thing as ‘royalty?’ How much better and higher is the code of self-government, than servile obedience to any king or queen, human beings like ourselves. I could not breathe freely as a citizen of a country where son of mine could not take the highest place in the nation, if he were worthy of it and the people’s choice. Thank God that ‘in the land of the free,’ our own America, we can be whatever we make ourselves, and not what the accident of birth has made us. Of ‘Merrie England,’ however, I shall carry away with me grateful remembrances of her people, and a score of memories of the beautiful land itself, which will ever be a source of enjoyment to summon.

LETTER IV.

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,—