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—

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.

LETTER V.

Our Italian seemed troubled in regard to an apparently new glove which he tore badly in raising a window. After a long, disconsolate look at it, he took from his travelling bag, needle and thread, and went carefully at work to repair the injury, but made a bad tangle of it. As F. had implements handy, including a thimble, she offered to mend it for him. He accepted graciously, and his handsome face grew luminous as he watched his pet glove grow whole under her deft fingers. What might he do for us? Would we drink wine with him? ‘No, thanks,’ we said. What else he offered, to show his gratitude, we could not understand; when out from his pocket he took a phrase-book of Italian and English words, and pointed to the sentence, ‘Shall I sing for you?’ We gladly acquiesced, and to our great delight he poured forth one of the grandest, sweetest voices I ever in my life listened to. It was like Brignoli’s in his best days. He sung the choicest airs from different operas, and warbled, in his own musical language, tender songs. The distinguished-looking French gentleman joined us in thanking him for making the hours pass so delightfully—for it is a long run from Paris to Geneva. We find fellow passengers, in this country, much more thoughtful of the comfort of others than they are in England or America. We also like the steam-cars here much better than our own, unless one always rides in a Pullman. Even many of the second class cars have high backs and cushions, all softly upholstered. Early in the afternoon a thunderstorm struck us, and we had heavy showers. Later the sun shone out brightly, and set gorgeously in red. At six P.M. we made our first stop, at Dijon, and had at the station a fine table d’hôte dinner, wine included, and we did all justice, for we were as hungry as bears, not having provided ourselves with a luncheon, thinking we should stop somewhere for one. Remember this, all who go from Paris to Dijon. Much refreshed, we continued our journey to Macon, where we had planned to spend the night, but our polite and helpful Frenchman, who had all along the road kindly given us much information of the country we came through, assured us that if we did so we could not reach Geneva until three P.M. the next day, but if we kept on to Ambrieau, and would spend the night there, we could take an early morning train and reach Geneva at eleven A.M. So this we decided to do, bidding here our kind informant adieu, as his home is in Lyons, hoping to be able in the future to accept his invitation to sometime go through his silk factory, under his escort.

We rolled into the little station at Ambrieau about ten P.M., our Italian companion keeping on to Genoa, waving his last farewell from the car window, with a white silk handkerchief in one hand and a scarlet one in the other. To our dismay we found it raining in torrents, intensely dark, and not a car or carriage, nor man or beast, to be found. The only live article around was the station-agent, to whom we hurried back, fearing he too would disappear, which he was making hasty preparations to do. We ascertained from him that the principal inn of the place was more than a mile distant, and no way of reaching it at that hour of night but to walk. Near by, he said, was a small house where he thought we could get a room and be comfortably lodged, and assured us we should be safe. We could do nothing but accept. He piloted us across the street and into the front room of a house, where some men were sitting around a table drinking beer. A pretty girl was waiting upon them, with whom our escort had some words, and without giving us attention she filled a glass with beer for him. We began to feel a little uncomfortable, and again asked our leader if we were safe. He answered ‘Oui, oui;’ but still stood there. All at once we thought of his expected franc, on putting which into his hand he retreated, leaving us in the care of the pretty maid. She took our bags, and we followed her, through a dark rear room, then through a large bare kitchen, out into the back yard. She led us on, through the furious rain, up two long flights of stairs, built on the outside of the house, and on the landing unlocked a door with a huge iron key, which door creaked and squeaked on its hinges, as if they had not been disturbed for many a day. As getting the door open was the work of some minutes, we were pretty thoroughly soaked by the time we stepped into the queer-looking entry, with its stone floor and roughly plastered walls. Out of that we went into and through a long, narrow, crooked hall, with a shrine at the extreme end, to our room. It was a small one, with bare floor—a single bed, one chair, and a table with a wash-bowl and pitcher on top, the former about as deep as a soup plate, and the pitcher minus water and handle; but enough of the former was dripping from our clothes to equalize conditions. We found it impossible to turn the lock of the door, so placed what furniture the room contained against it, feeling sure that the ‘Blessed Mother’ in the shrine outside would keep us from all harm. We left lighted our two long candles—found the little bed sweet and clean, and soon forgot our tribulations.

Ambrieau, July 6th.—A clear morning, and our trust not misplaced. We are safe, and are refreshed by our night’s rest. After being served with a bowl of black coffee and some blacker bread, for our breakfast, on a clean wooden table, we paid our little bill of five francs, and went our way rejoicing. At seven A.M. we were facing Geneva, rushing into and through the prettiest valley of country we had ever seen. The Alps towered up on both sides of us, and in the valley were clusters of thatched and vine-covered cottages, with open doors, near which contented grandmothers sat knitting and watching the children playing at their feet, while the younger women could be seen, not far away, minding the flock of geese or the herd of sheep. I am told there is much affection for each other exhibited in the simple homes of these peasants: often the entire families of several generations live under one roof in entire harmony and peace. These ‘ganders and geese’ are wonderfully wise, if what a travelling companion told me is true. She said that when a male child is born in these homes, the ganders form a line, and march around the house, but when the other sex is born they hide themselves. Poor ganders! Probably jealous.

At eleven A.M. we reached Geneva, and found our room at the Metropole ready for us. It is really an elegant one, spacious, and in the front of the house, with windows to the floor, by which we can sit and look out upon the Jardin du Lac and the beautiful blue waters of Lake Geneva, or Leman, often called. Our early breakfast not having been a very nourishing one, we decided to take another here before going out. A good one it was, and was quickly served. While enjoying it, a lady came to us, an American, and told us where to buy furs, where diamonds were the cheapest, and where we could find the best places to purchase watches—giving us her card at the same time. We were afterwards told that a number of American ladies make quite an income from commissions earned in this way. An open carriage was soon at hand, and from it we took our first look at Geneva. There is nothing very remarkable about the place, as a city. There are many hotels, and upon the quay are numerous elegant stores, mostly jewelry stores. In some of these we saw the beautiful enamelled watches, that are nowhere else so exquisitely made. Watches in almost everything saw we here—in necklaces, bracelets, canes, and umbrellas, and at all prices. We went into one of the factories, and found that women do much of the fine work, a certain number working only on certain parts, and therefore constant practice makes them extremely dexterous in their specialty. They were well dressed, and looked intelligent and contented.

Here the lake receives the waters of the Rhone, and about midway of the fine bridge which crosses it is Rousseau’s island, on which stands a bronze statue of him. The upper streets of Geneva are very hilly, and the older part is quaint and odd in its buildings, like the old French towns. We saw the house Calvin lived in, and went into the church where he preached his hard logic, but we could shed no tears for his departure from this world, but might for the suffering Servetus, whom he caused to be burned for not believing as he did. It has always seemed to me that the stern, dogmatic Calvin showed a spirit of malice, as well as great uncharitableness, but of course, in those days very few lived who considered it right for one to have an opinion different from their leaders. What a huge bonfire there would be if freethinkers were thus treated in these days! And was it not Calvin, also, who caused the Prince of Condé to be punished because he made himself agreeable to ladies, and thereby injured the interests of God? That reminds us of one club man who is always at his club when we want him for better purposes. Has he a little of the spirit of Calvin?

This city is full of associations of intellectual lives which bring fragrance of good deeds, the good works of Mme. de Staël, her Father Neckar, of Pestalozzi, Père Gérand, and many others.

In the afternoon we took a sail up the lake. The shores are closely dotted with hotels, fine residences, little villages, picturesque chalets, fronted with green, well-kept lawns, running to the water’s edge, on the one side of the lake, while the Alps rise high and dark on the other. We landed at Nyon, and climbed innumerable steps to see an old castle, from which we had charming outlooks. We sailed back to Geneva at the hour of sunset. All my life I had heard much of the sudden, striking color changes that sunset produces on the summits of the Alps—and we have seen them in all their great beauty. At one instant, the terraces of mountain tops looked as if clothed in gold, and next as if painted crimson,—and as the sun sunk lower they were left huge dark piles, casting their shadows over us. On landing, we took a walk, and inspected the much-heard-of monument of the Duke of Brunswick, for the erection of which he left plans and money. Did not admire it. It is very ‘giddy,’ but the placing of it there poured funds into the treasury of the town. We looked at the pretty little American church with a tender interest, for one dear to us was married within its walls. In the evening we went to an open-air concert, and a very good one too, in the garden in front of our hotel.

Called at an office to see about getting front seats on diligence, for our trip to Chamouni to-morrow. F. speaking French the better, did the talking, but was assured we could have no front seats for the next day, and we were about coming to the conclusion that we should have to take back ones, much to our disappointment; but it is here as almost everywhere else, if you are willing to take ‘back seats’ you may never take front ones, and this time I was not willing. Remembering the potency of the silver key, I resorted to that as a forlorn hope, mixed in with my poor French, and succeeded in securing the desired places. On our way home, F. said she feared my earnestness and my not always grammatical French might place me in as bad a position as an American woman occupied, of whom she heard this story. She was rather proud of her somewhat limited knowledge of the French language, and fond of airing it. She went to secure places on a diligence for one of the Swiss mountain trips, and approaching the conductor, demanded—

‘Etes-vous les diligence?’

‘Non, Madame, pardon; Je suis le conducteur.’

Lady—somewhat angry at the correction—said excitedly, ‘C’est tout de même; Je prenderai deux places dans votre interieur?’

July 9th, 1888.—Never a pleasanter morning dawned for a ride on a diligence! Ours was a new one, painted in bright colors, and we had the two seats between the driver and conductor. Our six strong horses wore strings of bells about their necks, and we started off right merrily. The road from Geneva to Chamouni is as familiar to tourists as the way from the Oxford to Boston Common, but all do not see it alike, and you have not seen it at all, so I know you will enjoy hearing of it, told to you in my way. The road over which we rolled was simply perfect, and the panorama in front of and about us, magnificent. We went through the valley of the Arve, past well-cultivated farms, and little factories run by water turning the big wheels, past pretty chalets, nestled in green, stopping often to change horses and drivers, when the pretty Swiss children would gather about us and entreat us to buy their nosegays of wild flowers. There is something so pathetic in the faces of these little ones, that we could not find it in our hearts to disappoint them, so our decorations became as thick as those of a brigadier-general.

But soon we leave these rural scenes, and strike into scenery so grand that I fear it is beyond description. Imagine us going over the road, with the river tumbling, foaming, along by its edge, the mountains towering up on each side of us, some rocky, others covered with green pines, with a sheet of mosses, lichens, and mountain blossoms at their bases, and frequent cascades of water rushing down pell-mell from tremendous heights, forming vast clouds of vapor long before reaching the valley below, and sparkling in the rays of the sun like millions of diamonds. One long, narrow waterfall, fringed with green foliage, like orange leaves, well merited its name of ‘the bridal veil,’ so pure, lace-like, and fleecy did it look. ‘This will be a fine day to see Mt. Blanc,’ said our conductor, and soon the mountain chain, with every shape of peak, including Mt. Blanc, shot up like giant commanders above the regions of the clouds, in full view against the blue sky background, which blue was intensified by the snow-clad tips. After leaving the Baths of St. Gervais, a health resort approached through a beautiful avenue of trees, and where we dined, we find the road even better than at its beginning. These roads were built, and are taken care of, by the Government, and there is scarcely a stone or an uneven place on them. Every few miles we see crosses erected, some costly ones, but more of wood simply painted, with images of the Saviour or of some saint on the pedestals or in glass cases. Over the doors or windows of most of the houses are statues or pictures of saints, for we are in Catholic Switzerland now. Here too we are assailed by beggars, and from one house the whole family, including the grandparents, all ragged and dirty, besieged us for alms. What a blot is this upon beautiful Switzerland. On this road also we first saw victims of cretinism and goitre. We met one old beggar woman whose neck was so swollen that we could only see the upper part of her head protruding from the swollen mass of flesh beneath. We were told that the medical and scientific men of the country have for years endeavored to ascertain the cause and a cure for this loathsome disease, but have so far been unsuccessful. Many attribute it to the use of snow water, but I should be more willing to think the use of no water caused it, for dirtier, more repulsive-looking: mendicants I never beheld. At about seven P.M. we reached the little village of Chamouni, and alighted at our hotel without a feeling of fatigue, so comfortable and full of delight had been our trip.

LETTER VI.

Chamouni is a small town at the foot of the mountains, surrounded in all directions by grand scenery, and the river Arve rushing through it, but our impressions of the place we will give you to-morrow. We find our hotel full of people from all over the world, and, alas, we see by the register that some friends from Boston have just left. Why could they not have stayed one day longer? We rush from table d’hôte into the yard to see a party dismount from their mules after a day’s excursion in the mountains, and a tired but jolly crowd they were. ‘This is what you have got to do to-morrow, so pick out your thoroughbred,’ said F. I scanned the creatures, but took no stock in them; but mules have a wise look.

Chamouni, July 10th.—What a day this has been in my calendar, to be sure! Thanks be to the good Lord that I am alive to-night to tell you about it. This early morning, before breakfast, we took a stroll about the town, which is composed greatly of hotels, as this is everybody’s starting point for the mountain and glacier trips of this part of Switzerland. There are two or three churches here and some stores, and groups of small but comfortable-looking homes, but mules predominate—mules in the streets, mules in every yard, and mules on every corner; in fact, the principal part of the population is mules and the principal part of industry mule riding, at least one would so judge from the general aspect. We met a party of gentlemen coming from Mt. Blanc, who had made a hazardous journey, and for whom we had heard some anxiety expressed by their friends at the hotel, but they are safe, and we imagine the young, rosy-cheeked English maiden will now leave the telescope, where she has stood for so much of the time since our arrival, looking anxiously toward the ice-capped giant, hoping to see ‘Albert.’ There is probably much satisfaction to scientists in the ascent of Mt. Blanc, but to the man ordinary one would not think it would pay, as the results are often quite serious, even if one does get through with whole limbs—the skin generally peels from one’s face and the eyesight is often badly affected.

We stepped into the church for a blessing and back to our hotel, the D’Angleterre, for breakfast, with an appetite ready to devour anything. The table is excellent, and such butter! so sweet and fresh, that one eats an extra roll for the sake of the butter with it. Here we met some friends from America, who are to join us on our trip to the Mer de Glace. ‘But I do not wish to ride a mule; can I not be carried in a chair?’ ‘No, no,’ said the crowd, ‘here they come, mules and guides.’ ‘Come now, let us get started; you may have the first choice,’ said F. ‘Six mules and three guides. And is that what you engaged? I must have the whole attention of one guide.’ I opened conversation thus with the oldest man, who seemed used to being questioned: ‘Which is the easiest trotter?’ ‘Not much difference, all easy.’ ‘These saddles look hard,’ said I. ‘The softest in Chamouni.’ I walked around one mule, and he, eying me, brayed in disapproval, but by this time the rest of the party had mounted the other five, and I was helped to the saddle of this sixth one, wondering how my one hundred and thirty pounds avoirdupois looked at mule-back elevation, not daring yet to think how a back not made of iron might stand the ordeal. After a good deal of merriment in getting started, out of the yard we filed, a gay party, two ladies and three gentlemen, all thinking it delightful but myself. For a while muley was very demure, and the fearless riders kindly gave to me the most experienced guide, so we led the string. The zigzag path as we ascended the mountain, however, grew narrower and steeper, with now a big stone in the way, and next a slippery hole made by running water, and my beast gave me terrible shakings as if he would rather ‘go it alone.’ The young people in the rear were enjoying the scenery, and I could hear their gay voices and exclamations of delight, but I did not think it such a good time, for I had to give my entire attention to keeping on my saddle, such bumps into the air that mule did give me. My guide said he was young and playful, and there was no danger, which quite reassured me, notwithstanding he endeavored to whirl about very often, as if he had been stung, or had hit his crazy bone, or stepped on an electric wire. F. cries out, ‘Do not be frightened; you will get used to it.’ But when the creature suddenly jumped from the hand of the guide, a yard or two down the embankment, with the yawning precipice below, to eat a bunch of green grass he had spied, almost throwing the guide down, and I keeping on only by holding on to his neck with both arms for dear life, I concluded I would not wait to get used to it, and dismounted, feeling that ‘shanks mare’ was a safer medium of locomotion than a Chamouni mule. The creature knew well that he had scored a victory, shook his long ears satisfactorily, winked considerably and wisely, and walked along contentedly. And so did I. We saw many wild goats and one chamois, only that was in a little house and for the sight of it we had to pay. We met a number of pedestrians with their alpine sticks, and I gathered large bunches of lovely, bright-red flowers, called the mountain rose, somewhat like our rhododendron.

It took us about three hours to reach the summit where the Mer de Glace, the great sea of ice, came in sight. The glacier extends for about twelve miles, and at this spot is about two miles wide, a solid mass of ice with enormous cracks and crevices, with tall ramparts, turrets, and towers of ice, all glistening in the sunshine like crystal, scintillating with gorgeous colors. From the hotel piazza, which hotel, a new one, stands on the plateau above the gorge, the effect is dazzlingly grand. At the hotel we were provided with strong alpine sticks, with socks and shoes, for walking on the ice, and with fresh guides commenced our journey across. It was difficult getting along sometimes, but the beauty, strangeness, and fearfulness of it all more than repaid us for the physical exertion. We were on the ice, with frozen mountains and spires all about us. Many of the columns and pinnacles and huge pieces of ice looked like crystal cathedrals and palaces. In other places it appeared as if huge sea waves had been instantaneously frozen. A grotto had been naturally formed, into which four of us stepped. Deep crevasses, hundreds of feet deep, met us, some narrow enough to leap over, and others we passed over on little ice bridges our guides made for us. Midway we halted, looking about us, lost in wonder and amazement, when suddenly we were brought back to everyday life by a photographer, with his camera, suddenly appearing before us asking in plain English if we would have our pictures taken. Where the man came from we did not see, nor where he went we cared not, for we did not choose to be served up on ice that day. We crossed safely and recrossed at a different place, where the ice scenery varied as much as mountain scenery does from various outlooks, and we felt that never in our lives before had we seen anything so magnificent. As I was ascending the jagged points of the cliff to step on land, something fluttered like a feather before my eyes; but I soon saw that it was a butterfly; my guide caught it for me, and I had, as my trophy, a pure-white butterfly. My guide, an intelligent fellow, said he occasionally saw gray ones, but had never before seen a pure-white one there. A few yards from this sea of ice vegetation flourishes, and almost at its very edge I found a cluster of little blossoms resembling our ‘forget-me-not,’ only white instead of blue. They grew very close together, and none others of their kind were to be seen, and they looked as though they realized that they had been left out in the cold, far from home, and tried to comfort each other.

At the hotel we had a poor dinner, for which we paid a big price, but the magnificent views we here had from the house piazzas made up for it. Clouds began to thicken and we made hasty preparations for our descent. I exchanged mules, and the last one proved less frisky, but our going down the mountain seemed more hazardous than going up. Pretty Miss M., of Nashville, Tennessee, with her bright golden hair streaming over her blue cloth dress, led the van on my former steed, who, apparently feeling proud of his lighter burden, behaved very well, but we had not gone far when the rain poured as only it can pour in these mountains. We were all provided with umbrellas, but I had to use my hands to hold on to the pommel of my saddle, for my mule’s hind feet were higher than his front ones, and I preferred getting wet to being dismounted. A boy had trotted up the mountain with us, and kept near us on our way down, so I gave him my umbrella, as it was impossible for me to use it, to protect himself. (More of that umbrella later.) As we neared the valley it ceased raining, the clouds broke, and for a little while the sun shone brightly and sank slowly in the west just as we entered our hotel yard, the young people exclaiming to those who came out to greet us, ‘We have had a charming time,’ but I, with every article of clothing thoroughly soaked, and my body feeling as if I had been under a thrashing machine, parted with mule society most willingly.

Of our guides let me here say, in case you come this way some time, they were all careful, polite, and attentive to us, and from mine, although he could not speak one word of English, I gained considerable information in regard to Chamouni guides. They are formed into a society and are employed in rotation, sometimes showing sufficient gallantry, however, to allow ladies travelling without gentlemen to choose their guides, if for any reason they have a preference. These men, before they can be accepted by the club, must be familiar with the mountains and the glaciers and must be proven to be honest and reliable. My guide was evidently a man of observation, and told me the guides all liked Americans, they seemed to enjoy everything so much. ‘The American ladies look happy; the English ladies are sad,’ he said, probably meaning that they were not as enthusiastic, for the people of every country like to have its wonders appreciated. With aching limbs I retired early, and F. thought manipulation, with a little hot water and whiskey, might ward off a severe cold, and I submitted to the treatment, while the others, not a bit used up, went off for an evening’s ramble. I think they must have been brought up on mules.

Wednesday, July 11th.—When we went to pay our bill this morning we found amongst the items charged, ‘eight glasses of whiskey.’ ‘What does this mean?’ ‘Means that Madame has had eight glasses of whiskey.’ ‘There is some mistake; the only whiskey we have had was about half a gill, and probably not that, brought up to me in a wine-glass last night.’ ‘No, Madame, no mistake; we are very particular.’ ‘Do I look like a woman that has had eight glasses of whiskey? Take that off my bill, that I may pay what I owe you,’ said I, and I immediately counted out the amount, including one gill of whiskey. All of this in French, which I could not talk fast enough to show him the depth of my anger. F. was getting alarmed, and whispered, ‘Don’t mind; do pay it.’ ‘No, I will not pay one sou of it, for we do not owe it,’ and the clerk, seeing that I was determined, accepted what I gave him and receipted the bill. Now if that man was honest, he thinks we have defrauded him; if not honest, he will conclude American ladies are business-like at least.

After this scene we were about ready to jog along, our carriage in the yard waiting for us, to which I went to deposit some wraps, when my boy of yesterday made his appearance, and said, ‘I want my pay for carrying your umbrella.’ I looked at him with the stare of a maniac! ‘Pay! why, I loaned it to you, to keep you dry.’ I was in no mood to be imposed upon; but the boy began to cry, so I gave him a penny or two, and wondered what would be the next demand.

The carriage which was to take us to Martigny was like a buggy with the top tipped back, and a comfortable seat for us two and a short seat front of us for our driver. Two good horses and a bright morning. Our tickets had been purchased for this trip ‘half way by mule,’ but by losing something, I was enabled to exchange them. No more mule riding for me! We were told by friends that if others were going over the same route, by joining forces and hiring a two-seated vehicle, expenses for all would be much less. We spoke of this at the hotel office the day before, twice, but were each time assured that there was no one else going, and consequently our day’s trip was a costly one. At nine A.M. we bade our friends, who were going on to Geneva, adieu, and saw the last of Chamouni.

The Swiss are considered an honest people, but they either show great carelessness or we have several times been cheated. At the Baths of St. Gervais, upon paying for our dinner, they did not return to us enough change; we both knew they did not, and yet the man who took the money declared they did, and as we had not time to contend the case, we let it go. To be sure, there is some dishonesty everywhere, and some honesty that is a little hard to understand. The whiskey case might have been of that class; something like the bills of some American dressmakers, who, after charging for every possible thing that could be used in making a dress, modestly put at the end of the long list: ‘Findings, one dollar.’ I have never been able to find out the definition of that word ‘findings.’