A Tramp Trip

tom to dine in the cardinal's palace on Sundays. On weekdays I frequented cheaper and less aristocratic quarters. Connected with one of the largest bazaars in Paris is a restaurant, where three thousand people daily dine at a cost not exceeding fifteen cents each. When I first went to this place I took a seat at a table, as one usually does in restaurants, and called for a waiter. None came, for there were none in the establishment. The workmen sitting by laughed. They made me understand by signs that each guest helped himself. I went to the counter, where I was given a piece of bread for one cent, a plate of soup for three cents, meat and potatoes four cents, a dessert of prunes two cents-ten cents for the entire dinner.

The most expensive item in Paris is fuel. I had a cosey little room on the Rue de la Harpe (Bayard Taylor stopped on the same street forty years ago), for which I paid fifteen cents a night. In this room was the tiniest sort of a stove. At most it could not consume more than a dozen sticks of wood a day; but wood is sold by the pound-five cents for a small stick. On cold winter nights I found it more economical to go to the theatre than to remain in my room. I saw Sara Bernhardt in Sardou's "Theodora" for half a franc-ten cents. Had I remained in my room, it would have required at least twenty cents' worth of wood to have kept me from freezing.

In the theatre I was followed by a woman in a white cap and apron, who demanded "pourboire" (drink-money.) She performs no service other than to smile upon you as you enter the theatre door. This smile she considers worth one cent. She was indignant at me for differing with her, and letting her stand, hand out-stretched, before my seat without giving the customary sou.

The curtains of most French theatres are covered with huge advertising placards. They claim the cards are not only more interesting than landscape paintings, but, what to them is more to the point, they are more profitable. Advertisers pay liberally for space on the curtains of the large theatres.

When I called on a lady friend in Paris I found her in a

state of excitement. She had just rented a flat and paid the rent. A few hours thereafter a brass-buttoned official with a cocked hat entered her flat and began counting the doors and windows. Iler astonishment was great. Next day her disgust was greater. Another official appeared, and she had to pay one hundred francs tax on the doors and windows! The fewer doors and windows in one's house in Paris the less are one's taxes. This seems to be putting a premium on darkness and poor ventilation.

One day in the Paris Bourse I occasioned something of a scene. I wore my broad-brimmed sombrero; in my pocket I had a bag of bread and prunes. I took a position in the gallery overlooking the mob of maniacs, and began eating my bread and prunes. For some moments the roaring and wild shouting continued, deafening as the noise of cannon; then of a sudden there was a hush. I looked down-they had caught sight of me; my unconventional appearance and proceeding struck them. The members of the Bourse pointed their fingers. threw up their hats, shouted, waved their arms frantically-it was a Pandemonium. I saw they wished to frighten me, and determined to maintain my post until the last prune was eaten. A gendarme put a stop to my heroic design. He interrupted me in the midst of a graceful bow that I was making to the hooting and jeering speculators, and conducted me out of the building.

at me,

The magnificence of Paris is not due to the beauty or grandeur of individual edifices; it is the tout ensemble that is imposing. When the third Napoleon said to Baron Hausmann, "Baron, a boulevard would look well here, let one be made," Baron Hausmann hastened to obey. After the old buildings had been demolished and the ground cleared for the erection of the new ones, the order would go forth imposing a heavy tax on the builder of a house inferior to a certain standard of height and magnificence. Handsome private buildings secured, Napoleon would then order a public edifice to be erected at each end of the boulevard, and perhaps a column or fountain

in the middle. These boulevards, with arrays of imposing private buildings on each side, at the ends magnificent temples or arches, in the middle fountains or Egyptian obelisks, render Paris the grandest city in the world.

In the Salle Cheminies, in the Louvre, is a painting which goes far to explain the love the French soldiers bore the first Napoleon. The scene is laid in Jaffa. His officers stand back, timid, hesitating, muffling their faces to avoid the deadly contagion; but the Little Corporal, pale, beautiful, fearless, touches his men, speaks to them, soothes the brows of the dying. The painting is one of great excellence. You forget that it is a mere picture. For the moment you see the soldiers, hear their dying groans, their cries of "Vive Napoleon!" In Versailles there are acres of paintings celebrating the exploits of the great emperor, but none tell such a tale as this "In the Pest-house at Jaffa."

When the Germans occupied the Versailles palace they carefully covered the Napoleon paintings, and after the siege left them in as good condition as they had found them. Should the French ever gain possession of the Rhine, I doubt whether they would show similar moderation towards the "Germania" monument. That lofty memorial of French defeat and humiliation would not long survive in French hands.

When I took a seat in a second-class compartment in the Paris station there sat opposite me a fussy Englishman. A friend, who had come to see him off, inquired if he had a nice seat. "Oh," replied the Englishman, "I have a space with my back to the horses." (He was riding backward.) This fussy individual assured me that the Channel was always "nahsty." "You will find it the nahstiest bit of water you ever saw." I had seen some rough weather on the Pacific; I had been on the Black Sea during an equinoctial storm; but by the time we landed at Folkestone I quite agreed with the Englishman that the Channel "was the nahstiest bit of water" I had ever

seen.

CHAPTER XXVII.

FACTORY LIFE IN ENGLAND.-THE SPINNERS AND WEAVERS OF HALIFAX.-TABLE OF WAGES AND PRICES.-TIMIDITY OF LONDONERS. -FRIGHTENED BY TIN CANS AND OVERCOATS.. - VEGETARIAN RESTAURANTS. — HOW TO LIVE ON FOUR CENTS A DAY. - AT THE GRAVE OF GOLDSMITH.-WRETCHED CONDITION OF LONDON DOCKYARD LABORERS.

ON landing at Folkestone I proceeded at once to Halifax, and delivered the letter of introduction I was fortunate enough to possess addressed to Dr. F. H. Bowman, a Fellow of the Royal Society, and a scientist of some repute, as well as chief owner of the largest cotton-mills in Yorkshire. In his great works fifty to sixty thousand pounds of cotton - yarn are spun per week, or about five hundred miles of yarn per minute! The three huge engines which supply the power are fed by mechanical stokers, and consume five thousand tons of coal a year.

"I will be happy to have you investigate the condition of our operatives," said Dr. Bowman, "and there will be no better way than to make you acquainted with some of the men. You can mix with them, be invited to their houses, see their families, their homes, and observe their general mode of living," saying which he touched a bell, and bade an attendant bring one of the spinners to the office. We continued chatting pleasantly for about five minutes, when the attendant returned, accompanied by a young man apparently not above thirty years of age.

"Ah, Mr. Sunderland!" said Dr. Bowman. "Mr. Sunderland, this is Mr. Meriwether, from America. He wishes to mix with the men-wishes to see how they live. Can't you help him?" The intelligent-looking workman smiled good-naturedly. "I'll do what I can, sir," he said, and so, under his wing, I set about my task.

"The rule," said Mr. Sunderland, "is to pay according to the amount of work done. Every Saturday we knock off at one o'clock, so that a week's work consists of only 561⁄2 hours. In that time a fairly good spinner or 'mule-minder' will earn on an average $7.20. A young woman will earn from $2.40 to $3.60. A young man of the same age (14 to 17 years), $2.88 to $3.60. Children under ten are forbidden by Act of Parliament to work in factories; and between ten and fourteen years of age they may work not more than one half the day, going to school the other half. For a week of 284 hours a child earns anywhere from 42 to 84 cents. An 'overlooker,' one who understands machinery, makes $9.60 per week. There are ten overlookers in the Bowman Mills. The superintendent of a mill gets about £3, or $14.58."

"These wages seem fairly good," said I, “but are not the necessaries of life so dear as to counteract the advantage of good wages?"

In response to this question Mr. Sunderland gave me some facts and figures, which I will put into the form of a table.

Table of Prices, Halifax, England, December, 1885.