"Dreadful people, these French! They have no domestic life. The very word Home is not to be found in their language. They live in the street, in the public gardens, in the cafes, in the theatres, anywhere but under their roof." Such is the opinion which you will hear expressed by nine out of ten of all the Americans who go to Paris. Even those who are old residents confess with a sigh that this harsh judgment is but too true. To be sure, the fluent censor is a little embarrassed, if you ask abruptly, "Pray, sir, how many French families do you happen to know?" But he quickly recovers assurance, and answers glibly, "Know? why have I been so many years in Paris, and do I not know people?"

He knows everybody—that is, everybody that is to be seen in public. Perhaps he has received his education in Paris. He has been a student in the Latin quarter. He is an habitué of all the cafes on the Boulevards. He frequents all the theatres, and can tell (at least through his opera-glass) the box of every distinguished family. Nay, more, has he not been admitted into society? Can he not report the talk of French salons? Has he not had the entrée at Alexander Dumas'? Possibly at Lamartine's and Guizot's? Nay, more, swelling with Republican pride, has he not been invited to the balls at the Hôtel de Ville, and even at the Tuileries?

After such a string of triumphant inquiries, a modest stranger is pretty well "shut up," and remains silent, as his informant follows up the victory; "No, no. I tell you, there is no domestic life in France. A Frenchman lives only in public. The fireside, the foyer is hateful to him." It hardly occurs to this confident talker that a man may visit a country, and even live in it, and yet, after all, not know much about it; that he may see thousands in the streets, in the gardens, or the shops, in business, or at court, and yet see none in the interior of their

own dwellings; that, in fine, it is one thing to see people, and another to see and know family life.

A stranger coming into Paris, sees only the outside of the French. The life he sees is the life of hotels. In the shops he meets only tradespeople and grisettes. At court he meets a class higher in position, but often no better in morals. But neither of these classes is the best representative of the finer qualities of the French character. The class most worthy of respect is the upper class—the haute bourgeoisie-composed of the wealthier merchants and bankers, distinguished advocates, learned professors, and literary men. This is the class which is most important to know to judge the French fairly, and yet into which it is most difficult to penetrate.

To what, then, amounts this boasted knowledge of French society? Travellers see the outside of Paris-the tinsel and gilded exterior of the French capital. But of its interior life they are almost wholly ignorant. Hence the opinions which they give, are about as intelligent as those of a Southerner who comes North in the summer to spend his money, and goes to Saratoga, and Newport, and Niagara. In New York, he stops at the St. Nicholas Hotel, or the Metropolitan, and perhaps finds himself surrounded by flash men and fast women. He goes

back, swearing that New York is the most dissolute, depraved, corrupt city on earth, when the poor fool has not been admitted to the intimacy of a single respectable family.

The exclusion of such men from society is far more rigid in France then in America, for here the interior of a family is guarded with more sacred care than with us. French parents are quite

shocked at the freedom with which American papas and mammas allow strangers to visit in their families. They are wary of those whom they admit to their households. They are suspicious

of foreigners more than of their own countrymen. And with reason. For of the one or two hundred thousand strangers always in Paris, a large part have come for nothing but to enjoy a life of pleasure. And, I am sorry to add, that of all the mauvais sujets who infest the French capital, young Americans are about the worst. Hence it is not strange that our countrymen find it not so easy to circulate where they will, and even old residents complain that it is hard to get into French society!

very

Ten years ago I spent six months in Paris. I saw the monuments of the city, I saw also a revolution, and many thrilling events. But of the domestic life of the French I saw nothing. Nor were others better off. At that time I had a friend there, a former member of Congress, who had spent a large part of his life abroad, who was in Paris when it was occupied by the Allies, and remembered distinctly the morning that Marshal Ney was shot. We lodged in the same house, and every day walked and dined together. This summer, when we went to Paris, I turned into the old street to see if, perchance, any trace of him lingered about the place. Lo, there he was still-in the same hotel, in the same room, dining every day at the same restaurant in the Palais Royal, and spending the evening at Galignani's. Here he has been off and on for forty years, and yet, from what I know of his habits, I will venture to say that he does not know, with any intimacy, a single French family. And yet, if you were to ask him, he would deliver a lecture an hour long on the immorality of the French capital, and would be astounded if you were to intimate that there were portions of French society which he had not seen.

But the second time that I visited Paris, it was with one who had been born in that city, and there passed all her early life. To come back to Paris now was like coming home. And so, no sooner were we within the walls, than we began to haunt the old familiar streets. What endless walks we took along the Boulevards, looking up to the fronts of the houses, half expecting to see the win

dows open, and some dear, familiar form step out upon the balcony. So strong was the impression of these scenes revisited, that it was several days before we could muster courage to ask if those we knew were living or dead! Many a time we drove to a street of which we knew every stone in the pavement, and rang with a trembling hand, and asked if the loved ones were there still. Generally, if they had not died, they were living in the same house. The French do not change their abodes—and many, many we found in the same spot where we had parted years ago—merchants in the same counting-houses, lawyers giving counsel in the same chambers, artists in the same studios. How strange were the memories which came back, as we turned into the old courts and passages, and heard our own footfall on the accustomed stair. Our friends included some of all professions-lawyers, and physicians, and pastors, artists, and architects, and profesTime had made changes in their positions, if not in their habitations. One was a prosperous merchant, another a distinguished painter; one had served as an officer in the Crimean war, another had become a member of the French Academy.

sors.

But in all we found the same cordial manner, the same warm, true heart. It was worth crossing the sea to witness the first look of surprise, then the joyful recognition, and the cordial greeting. Of course we cannot lift the veil from scenes so sacred. I will give you but a glimpse of one or two home-circles, which may show you how strong are the affections which bind together a French family. Among others whom we visited, was an old teacher of drawing. We found him and his wife still living in the same spot. I allude to them, not to repeat how affectionate they were to us, but to note the love which existed among themselves. They had one son, who was a competitor for the National prize of engraving. These prizes are offered by the Government, and the successful candidate is sent to Rome, for five years, at the public expense. But the tests to which they are subjected are the most rigid and severe.

The competitors are shut up in the Louvre for three months, unable to go out or to see their friends. This young man was not permitted even to see his mother. When we were first in Paris, in June, he was undergoing this honorable imprisonment. And when we returned in September, he had not yet been released. While this trial was going on, it was even painful to see the anxiety of the parents. This boy was their darling and their pride. His mother could hardly speak of him without tears-a touching rebuke, it seemed to us, to those mockers who say that there is no family affection in France. It was a relief to us when we saw, a few days after, that the concours was at last concluded. Partly owing to his age, for he was the youngest of all the competitors, the first prize had been awarded to another, but his name received honorable mention. He will enter the lists another year, and no doubt will be successful.

But a few days before we left Paris, we went to seek a very old friend of Mrs. F., even from her school-days, a wealthy merchant in whose kind home she had passed many a happy day in her girlhood, when she had a vacation from her boarding-school. We could not leave without seeing him. But was he still living? We had not heard from him for years. It was, therefore, with a mixture of hope and fear that we drove to the street, and stopped before the gate of the court. True enough, the name was still there. But this is often retained, even when the head of the house is gone. I ascended to the counting-room, and asked for Mr. T. Instantly a gentleman, with a kind, open countenance, came forward to meet me. I asked if he knew Madame F., of New York. His face brightened at the name, as if he were about to hear tidings of his own daughter, and when I added that she was in Paris, and in the carriage at his door, he rushed down to meet her, with arms wide open, as if to embrace a long absent child.

"Now

that a very dear friend of hers has just arrived from America, and wishes to meet her." The appointment was at once concluded, and the day found us at the place. It was a charming country box-just like an English Cottage, surrounded with trees, with a lawn in front. The family were sitting on the piazza, and our entrance was a signal for a general salutation. An hour later, the father, with his son, his partner in business, returned from the city, and the circle was complete, The mother of the family was absent. having gone to the Pyrenees for the health of a daughter. But beside the father was a maiden sister-the kind aunt who, in so many French families, performs the part of a second mother, and the former teacher and beloved friend, and the son with his newly-married bride, so simply and modestly dressed that it quite made me ashamed when I thought how American brides are flounced and feathered. We sat down to dinner in the merriest mood. What charming gaiety was there, what cordial manners, what hearty kindness, what true domestic affection and happiness! Those were golden hours. Here, then, I exclaimed, is the proof that there is no domestic life in France! All I can ask for my countrymen is, that their hills and valleys may be dotted all over with spots as bright and green.

This is not an isolated case. It is but a fair specimen of what may be found everywhere in France, in this upper middle class. The same tender affection, the same devotedness to each other, the same constancy and truth, are the light of ten thousand happy homes.

XXIV.

HOW THE TOWN OF STEPHENSBURG, OTHERWISE NEWTOWN, WAS SOLD FOR A FLAGON OF PUNCH.

The Captain proceeded toward the Ordinary without further reflections, or at least utterance, and was soon entering the door of the main apartment.

A disagreeable picture awaited him. The handsome widow was leaning familiarly upon Monsieur Jambot's shoulder, and conversing confidentially with that gentleman. Whether she had heard the sonorous neigh of Injunhater, and arrayed for his rider's benefit this pleasing little tableau-or whether the idea of making her admirer jealous had never entered the mind of the lady, we cannot say. But she certainly exhibited great surprise and confusion. Monsieur Jambot only scowled.

On this trying occasion Captain Wagner acted with that consummate knowledge of the female character which his friends declared made him so dangerous. He squeezed Monsieur Jambot's lily white hand with the warmest and most fraternal regard-greeted Mrs. Butterton politely but with easy indifference-and then turning his back in a careless way, proceeded to converse with Mynheer Van Doring, taking no further notice either of the Frenchman or the lady.

The result of this stratagem was soon apparent. Mrs. Butterton pouted, tossed her fair head, and abandoned the vicinity of Monsieur Jambot, whose teeth began to grind against each other.

know too well what is expected of a soldier in presence of the fair sex. As you were conversing with Monsieur Jambot, I was too polite to interrupt you.”

And the Captain raised his head with martial dignity and hauteur, with which was mingled a proud misery.

Mrs. Butterton put her handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed. The Captain set his teeth together, and summoned all his resolution.

Another sob issued from the handkerchief. Monsieur Jambot rose to his feet with ferocious rapidity. In a moment his little dress-sword was drawn, and he had confronted the Captain, whom he charged, in a voice hoarse with rage, with making Madame "grieve."

Captain Wagner drew his sabre, courteously saluted, and took his position with the coolness of an old swordsman. It was then that Mrs. Butterton threw herself between them with sobs and tears, beseeching them to be friends-for her sake, for the sake of goodness, gracious-and on other grounds.

"For the sake of a lady," returned Captain Wagner coldly, "I am prepared to do anything. But blood will come of this, or the devil take it! Blood, sir!"

And the Captain struck ferociously the hilt of his sword, which weapon he slowly returned to its scabbard. Monsieur Jambot declared his entire willingness to fight all the Capitaines in the world, singly or together-and then with his hands superbly placed upon his hips, and his hat cocked fiercely, sauntered carelessly from the apartment.

Then commenced a terrible scene between the Captain and Mrs. Butterton. We forbear to relate the particulars. The lady was the pleader-the soldier was the dignified listener. For a long time he remained obdurate-in the end he melted. When Mrs. Butterton brought him Jamaica with her own fair hands, and provided all else which he wished, with smiles breaking through tears, the

Captain fairly succumbed. He took the chubby hand and kissed it gallantlydeclared he was more her devoted slave than ever, and then busied himself in mingling his morning dram, for which he possessed a receipt known only to himself.

"Really, my dear madam," said the worthy, now completely mollified by the sight of breakfast coming in, "you are the paragon of your sex. You resemble the goddess Diana, or I'm a dandy!-Diana rising from the sea; for which reason she was called Diana Urainy. You are her very image!”

"La! Captain!" said the lady with a simper, "you are really too flattering!"

At the same moment a loud and harsh noise on the stairway was heard calling. "Who's that, in the devil's name?" said the Borderer.

tleman the flagon of delightful punch which he had just brewed, with every ingredient, and in the highest perfection.

"Take that up, Hans, my hogshead," said the soldier handing him the cup, "and present it to the Major with the respects of Captain Wagner."

Hans obeyed and very soon descended again, with a request on the part of the Major that Captain Wagner would brew him another supply. To this task the Captain, who had meanwhile attended to his own wants, addressed himself immediately—and very soon after the justice made his appearance. He was a little weasen man, with a dried up physiognomy, of a fiery red hue, and carried himself with an immense affectation of dignity and superiority.

"My dear Major!" cried the Captain, "I am really delighted to see you—you

"I'll wager my head against a sixpence that he didn't see the way to bed, madam."

And the Captain's black mustache curled until his long white teeth resem bled icicles pendant from the eaves of a house.

"I fear he was-intoxicated," was Mrs. Butterton's reply with a divine smile; "how shocking!"

“Oh dreadful, awful, really deplorable, my dear madam, and what's he calling for?-there again! like the growl of a bear, or I'm a dandy !"

In fact Major Hastyluck was calling violently to old Hans, the waiter.

"Goming, sir," said Hans quietly: and ascending leisurely, he was heard. conversing with the Major. He reappeared and announced that Major Hastyluck was impatient for his morning draught. All at once a brilliant thought struck the Captain. He had secured the votes of precisely one half of the justices, for the establishment of the county seat at Winchester-and Major Hastyluck's vote would decide all. The reflection stimulated the worthy to a tremendous exertion of politeness. This was no less than to send up to the official gen

open, just as breakfast is coming. How is your health?"

"Hum!-hah!-thank you, Captain Wagner, pretty well, pretty well. You are lately arrived, sir ?”

66

Precisely, from Belhaven on the Potomac down there."

"A thriving place."

"Yes, but by no means equal to Winchester, or I'm a dandy!”

"Hum!-perhaps-hum!"

And with these oracular words Major Hastyluck sat down to breakfast, slightly staggering as he did so. His appetite once satified, he rose with the same oracular expression and air. The Captain soon followed, and lighting a corn-cob pipe with a reed stem which he took from the mantlepiece, he addressed himself to business.

"How did you like that beverage I sent you, my dear Major ?" said the Captain sending forth clouds of foamy smoke; "was it a scorcher-as mild as milk, and as strong as a yoke of oxen? eh ?"

"It was a pleasant draught," returned the justice, "I will freely say, more pleasant than any which I have tasted for many years-ahem!"

"The fact is I make it by a receipt