stroke, a mother is left desolate, and the peace-maker, and PEACE-
LOOKER, of a whole society is laid in the ground with Caesar and

the Twelve Apostles.
There is something lacking among the oaks of Fontainebleau; and

when the dessert comes in at Barbizon, people look to the door for
a figure that is gone.

The third of our companions at Origny was no less a person than the
landlady's husband: not properly the landlord, since he worked

himself in a factory during the day, and came to his own house at
evening as a guest: a man worn to skin and bone by perpetual

excitement, with baldish head, sharp features, and swift, shining
eyes. On Saturday, describing some paltry adventure at a duck-

hunt, he broke a plate into a score of fragments. Whenever he made
a remark, he would look all round the table with his chin raised,

and a spark of green light in either eye, seeking approval. His
wife appeared now and again in the doorway of the room, where she

was superintending dinner, with a 'Henri, you forget yourself,' or
a 'Henri, you can surely talk without making such a noise.'

Indeed, that was what the honest fellow could not do. On the most
trifling matter his eyes kindled, his fist visited the table, and

his voice rolled abroad in changeful thunder. I never saw such a
petard of a man; I think the devil was in him. He had two

favourite expressions: 'it is logical,' or illogical, as the case
might be: and this other, thrown out with a certain bravado, as a

man might unfurl a banner, at the beginning of many a long and
sonorous story: 'I am a proletarian, you see.' Indeed, we saw it

very well. God forbid that ever I should find him handling a gun
in Paris streets! That will not be a good moment for the general

public.
I thought his two phrases very much represented the good and evil

of his class, and to some extent of his country. It is a strong
thing to say what one is, and not be ashamed of it; even although

it be in doubtful taste to repeat the statement too often in one
evening. I should not admire it in a duke, of course; but as times

go, the trait is honourable in a workman. On the other hand, it is
not at all a strong thing to put one's reliance upon logic; and our

own logic particularly, for it is generally wrong. We never know
where we are to end, if once we begin following words or doctors.

There is an upright stock in a man's own heart, that is trustier
than any syllogism; and the eyes, and the sympathies and appetites,

know a thing or two that have never yet been stated in controversy.
Reasons are as plentiful as blackberries; and, like fisticuffs,

they serve impartially with all sides. Doctrines do not stand or
fall by their proofs, and are only logical in so far as they are

cleverly put. An able controversialist no more than an able
general demonstrates the justice of his cause. But France is all

gone wandering after one or two big words; it will take some time
before they can be satisfied that they are no more than words,

however big; and when once that is done, they will perhaps find
logic less diverting.

The conversation opened with details of the day's shooting. When
all the sportsmen of a village shoot over the village territory PRO

INDIVISO, it is plain that many questions of etiquette and priority
must arise.

'Here now,' cried the landlord, brandishing a plate, 'here is a
field of beet-root. Well. Here am I then. I advance, do I not?

EH BIEN! SACRISTI,' and the statement, waxing louder, rolls off
into a reverberation of oaths, the speaker glaring about for

sympathy, and everybody nodding his head to him in the name of
peace.

The ruddy Northman told some tales of his own prowess in keeping
order: notably one of a Marquis.

'Marquis,' I said, 'if you take another step I fire upon you. You
have committed a dirtiness, Marquis.'

Whereupon, it appeared, the Marquis touched his cap and withdrew.
The landlord applauded noisily. 'It was well done,' he said. 'He

did all that he could. He admitted he was wrong.' And then oath
upon oath. He was no marquis-lover either, but he had a sense of

justice in him, this proletarian host of ours.
From the matter of hunting, the talk veered into a general

comparison of Paris and the country. The proletarian beat the
table like a drum in praise of Paris. 'What is Paris? Paris is

the cream of France. There are no Parisians: it is you and I and
everybody who are Parisians. A man has eighty chances per cent. to

get on in the world in Paris.' And he drew a vivid sketch of the
workman in a den no bigger than a dog-hutch, making articles that

were to go all over the world. 'EH BIEN, QUOI, C'EST MAGNIFIQUE,
CA!' cried he.

The sad Northman interfered in praise of a peasant's life; he
thought Paris bad for men and women; 'CENTRALISATION,' said he -

But the landlord was at his throat in a moment. It was all
logical, he showed him; and all magnificent. 'What a spectacle!

What a glance for an eye!' And the dishes reeled upon the table
under a cannonade of blows.

Seeking to make peace, I threw in a word in praise of the liberty
of opinion in France. I could hardly have shot more amiss. There

was an instant silence, and a great wagging of significant heads.
They did not fancy the subject, it was plain; but they gave me to

understand that the sad Northman was a martyr on account of his
views. 'Ask him a bit,' said they. 'Just ask him.'

'Yes, sir,' said he in his quiet way, answering me, although I had
not spoken, 'I am afraid there is less liberty of opinion in France

than you may imagine.' And with that he dropped his eyes, and
seemed to consider the subject at an end.

Our curiosity was mightily excited at this. How, or why, or when,
was this lymphatic bagman martyred? We concluded at once it was on

some religious question, and brushed up our memories of the
Inquisition, which were principally drawn from Poe's horrid story,

and the sermon in TRISTRAM SHANDY, I believe.
On the morrow we had an opportunity of going further into the

question; for when we rose very early to avoid a sympathising
deputation at our departure, we found the hero up before us. He

was breaking his fast on white wine and raw onions, in order to
keep up the character of martyr, I conclude. We had a long

conversation, and made out what we wanted in spite of his reserve.
But here was a truly curious circumstance. It seems possible for

two Scotsmen and a Frenchman to discuss during a long half-hour,
and each nationality have a different idea in view throughout. It

was not till the very end that we discovered his heresy had been
political, or that he suspected our mistake. The terms and spirit

in which he spoke of his political beliefs were, in our eyes,
suited to religious beliefs. And VICE VERSA.

Nothing could be more characteristic of the two countries.
Politics are the religion of France; as Nanty Ewart would have

said, 'A d-d bad religion'; while we, at home, keep most of our
bitterness for little differences about a hymn-book, or a Hebrew

word which perhaps neither of the parties can translate. And
perhaps the misconception is typical of many others that may never

be cleared up: not only between people of different race, but
between those of different sex.

As for our friend's martyrdom, he was a Communist, or perhaps only
a Communard, which is a very different thing; and had lost one or

more situations in consequence. I think he had also been rejected
in marriage; but perhaps he had a sentimental way of considering

business which deceived me. He was a mild, gentle creature,
anyway; and I hope he has got a better situation, and married a

more suitable wife since then.
DOWN THE OISE

TO MOY
CARNIVAL notoriously cheated us at first. Finding us easy in our

ways, he regretted having let us off so cheaply; and taking me