ng heiress, sends for her father,
describes his pious and loyal _protege_, and proposes marriage. Her
father objects--says that his daughter cannot afford to marry a poor man,
or that she does not wish to marry at all--or that he or she has some
other preference.

'Monsignore insists. He assures the father that what he is proposing is
most favourable to the salvation of his daughter, that he suggests it
principally for the benefit of her soul, and that the father's objections
are inspired by the Evil One. The father breaks off the conversation and
goes home. He finds that his daughter has disappeared. He returns furious
to Monsignore, is received with the utmost politeness and is informed
that his daughter is perfectly safe under the protection of a cardinal
who himself did her the honour of fetching her in his gilded coach. "You
have only," the Monsignore says, "to be reasonable, and she shall be
returned to you."

'The father flies to the cardinal.

'The same politeness and the same answer.

'"Do not oppose," he is told, "the will of the Pope, who, in this matter,
seeks only your daughter's happiness here and hereafter. She is now with
me. If you will give up your sinful obstinacy she shall be restored to
you to-day. If not, it will be our duty to place her in a convent, where
she will be taken the utmost care of, but she will not leave it except to
marry the person whom His Holiness thinks most fitted to promote the
welfare of her soul."

'I have known several cases in which this attempt has been made. With
such timid slaves as the Roman nobility it always succeeds.'

[Footnote 1: The Jewish child who was taken away from his parents and
converted.--ED.]

_Thursday, August_ 15.--This is the fete of St. Louis--the great fete of
Tocqueville. Madame de Tocqueville and Madame de Beaumont spent much of
the morning in church.

Beaumont and his son walked to the coast to bathe. Minnie, Ampere, and I
strolled among the deep shady lanes of the plateau above the castle.
Throughout Normandy the fields are small and are divided by mounds
planted with trees. The farmhouses, and even the cottages, are built of
primitive rock, granite, or old red sandstone. At a distance, peeping out
of the trees that surround them, they look pretty, but they, have more
than the usual French untidiness. The outhouses are roofless, the
farmyards are full of pools and dung heaps, which often extend into the
road; and the byroads themselves