usly in the air. "This comes from America," he
cried, "six thousand leagues away!" And the wine-shop audience looked
upon it with a certain thrill.

I soon became a popular figure, and was known for miles in the country.
_Ou'st-ce que vous allez?_ was changed for me into _Quoi, vous rentrez
au Monastier ce soir?_ and in the town itself every urchin seemed to
know my name, although no living creature could pronounce it. There was
one particular group of lace-makers who brought out a chair for me
whenever I went by, and detained me from my walk to gossip. They were
filled with curiosity about England, its language, its religion, the
dress of the women, and were never weary of seeing the Queen's head on
English postage-stamps, or seeking for French words in English Journals.
The language, in particular, filled them with surprise.

"Do they speak _patois_ in England?" I was once asked; and when I told
them not, "Ah, then, French?" said they.

"No, no," I said, "not French."

"Then," they concluded, "they speak _patois_."

You must obviously either speak French or _patois_. Talk of the force of
logic--here it was in all its weakness. I gave up the point, but
proceeding to give illustrations of ray native jargon, I was met with a
new mortification. Of all _patois_ they declared that mine was the most
preposterous and the most jocose in sound. At each new word there was a
new explosion of laughter, and some of the younger ones were glad to
rise from their chairs and stamp about the street in ecstasy; and I
looked on upon their mirth in a faint and slightly disagreeable
bewilderment. "Bread," which sounds a commonplace, plain-sailing
monosyllable in England, was the word that most delighted these good
ladies of Monastier; it seemed to them frolicsome and racy, like a page
of Pickwick; and they all got it carefully by heart, as a stand-by, I
presume, for winter evenings. I have tried it since then with every sort
of accent and inflection, but I seem to lack the sense of humour.

They were of all ages: children at their first web of lace, a stripling
girl with a bashful but encouraging play of eyes, solid married women,
and grandmothers, some on the top of their age and some falling towards
decrepitude. One and all were pleasant and natural, ready to laugh and
ready with a certain quiet solemnity when that was called for by the
subject of our talk. Life, since the fall in wages, had begun to appear
to them with a more serio