what common counselling has done for us all
these years, and would still do but for the
innovating spirit of the times, here follows
a short account of a recent visit to these
places:—

It was as sharp a February morning as you
would desire to feel at your fingers' ends
when I turned out—tumbling over a
chiffonier with his little basket and rake, who was
picking up the bits of colored paper that had
been swept out, over-night, from a Bon-Bon
shop— to take the Butchers' Train to Poissy.
A cold dim light just touched the high roofs
of the Tuileries which have seen such changes,
such distracted crowds, such riot and bloodshed;
and they looked as calm, and as old,
all covered with white frost, as the very
Pyramids. There was not light enough, yet, to
strike upon the towers of Notre Dame across
the water; but I thought of the dark pavement
of the old Cathedral as just beginning
to be streaked with grey; and of the lamps
in the "House of God," the Hospital close to
it, burning low and being quenched; and of
the keeper of the Morgue going about with a
fading lantern, busy in the arrangement of
his terrible waxwork for another sunny day.

The sun was up, and shining merrily when
the butchers and I, announcing our departure
with an engine-shriek to sleepy Paris, rattled
away for the Cattle Market. Across the
country, over the Seine, among a forest of
scrubby trees—the hoar frost lying cold in
shady places, and glittering in the light—and
here we are at Poissy! Out leap the butchers
who have been chattering all the way like
madmen, and off they straggle for the Cattle
Market (still chattering, of course,
incessantly), in hats and caps of all shapes, in
coats and blouses, in calf-skins, cow-skins,
horse-skins, furs, shaggy mantles, hairy coats,
sacking, baize, oil-skin, anything you please
that will keep a man and a butcher warm,
upon a frosty morning,

Many a French town have I seen, between
this spot of ground and Strasburgh or
Marseilles, that might sit for your picture, little
Poissy! Barring the details of your old
church, I know you well, albeit we make
acquaintance, now, for the first time. I know
your narrow, straggling, winding streets,
with a kennel in the midst, and lamps slung
across. I know your picturesque
streetcorners, winding up-hill Heaven knows why
or where! I know your tradesmen's inscriptions,
in letters not quite fat enough; your
barber's brazen basins dangling over little
shops; your Cafés and Estaminets, with
cloudy bottles of stale syrup in the windows,
and pictures of crossed billiard-cues outside.
I know this very grey horse with his tail
rolled up in a knot like the "back-hair" of
an untidy woman, who won't be shod, and who
makes himself heraldic by clattering across
the street on his hind legs, while twenty
voices shriek and growl at him as a Brigand,
an accursed Robber, and an everlastingly-doomed
Pig. I know your sparkling town-fountain
too, my Poissy, and am glad to see it
near a cattle-market, gushing so freshly,
under the auspices of a gallant little
sublimated Frenchman wrought in metal, perched
upon the top. Through all the land of France
I know this unswept room at The Glory,
with its peculiar smell of beans and coffee,
where the butchers crowd about the stove,
drinking the thinnest of wine from the
smallest of tumblers; where the thickest of
coffee-cups mingle with the longest of loaves,
and the weakest of lump sugar; where
Madame at the counter easily acknowledges
the homage of all entering and departing
butchers; where the billiard-table is covered
up in the midst like a great bird-cage—but
the bird may sing by-and-bye!

A bell! The Calf Market! Polite departure
of butchers. Hasty payment and departure
on the part of amateur Visitor. Madame
reproaches Ma'amselle for too fine a susceptibility
in reference to the devotion of a Butcher
in a bear-skin. Monsieur, the landlord of The
Glory, counts a double handful of sous, without
an unobliterated inscription, or an
undamaged crowned head, among them.

There is little noise without, abundant
space, and no confusion. The open area
devoted to the market, is divided into three
portions: the Calf Market, the Cattle
Market, the Sheep Market. Calves at eight,
cattle at ten, sheep at mid-day. All is very
clean.

The Calf Market is a raised platform of
stone, some three or four feet high, open on
all sides, with a lofty over-spreading roof,
supported on stone columns, which give it the
appearance of a sort of vineyard from Northern
Italy. Here, on the raised pavement, lie
innumerable calves, all bound hind-legs and
fore-legs together, and all trembling violently
—perhaps with cold, perhaps with fear,
perhaps with pain; for, this mode of tying,
which seems to be an absolute superstition
with the peasantry, can hardly fail to cause
great suffering. Here, they lie, patiently in
rows, among the straw, with their stolid
faces and inexpressive eyes: superintended
by men and women, boys and girls; here, they
are inspected by our friends, the butchers,
bargained for, and bought. Plenty of time;
plenty of room; plenty of good humour.
"Monsieur François in the bear-skin, how do
you do, my friend? You come from Paris
by the train? The fresh air does you good.
If you are in want of three or four fine calves
this market-morning, my angel, I, Madame
Doche, shall be happy to deal with you.
Behold these calves, Monsieur François!
Great Heaven, you are doubtful! Well,
sir, walk round and look about you. If you
find better for the money, buy them. If not,
come to me! " Monsieur François goes his
way leisurely, and keeps a wary eye upon the
stock. No other butcher jostles Monsieur