There are two other influences at work upon the artisans of France; one exclusively masculine, and the other an influence equally strong with each sex—the wineshop and the public ball. Statistics assure us that France leads the list for the consumption of alcohol—and statistics are weighty and respectable matter. But can it be true? one asks one’s self in amazement, remembering the evil sights of London and the astonishing absence here of drunken men in the streets. Now and then you will meet such a thing as a drunken man, but the sight is unusual enough to attract notice. Tippling is the general form of drinking to excess here. The men go into the wineshop to have a drink, and to talk things over. There is always something to be talked about, and the public bar is the best place to have it out with your neighbour, and the _marchand de vin_, sly rogue, is accused of supplying queer, unwholesome drinks that provoke thirst, so that one drink follows another. The _marchand de vin_ sells more than liquors. He is the local post-office keeper, sells stamps, postcards, tobacco, and usually has a rude little dining-saloon where workmen and coachmen gather. So it stands to reason that there is a great deal of coming and going, of movement and life; there is always something to be learnt in the way of rumour, and someone to listen to you in the hour of revolt. Thus many private and personal revolutions are planned here and it is decided here whether, on the occasion of public functions, the cry shall be, _Vive l’Armée_ or _Vive la République_. As a different decision will probably be taken at the next wineshop, when these valiant heroes meet in the streets we are threatened with a renewal of the barricades. After the first or second shudder at these menaces, the citizens come to take them very quietly. I remember the afternoon the Chamber of Deputies met under the protection of the troops, when the whole large Place de la Concorde was laid out in bivouacs, mounted police and cavalry gathered in knots around groups of resting horses, both sides of the bridges guarded by lines of _sergeants de ville_ through which a needle could not pass, except by wily and clever entreaties; egress to the avenues, Rue de Rivoli, Rue Royale, all severely barred. You rubbed your eyes, and wondered if the city were besieged. Well, not a soul sought to cross the Place de la Concorde, except some curious, inoffensive spectator like myself. So quiet, so still and silent, was everything that it was impossible to account for all these regiments and this look of a besieged city. Visiting a friend who lives near the Pont des Invalides, she informed me that two young English girls had just left her in a state of acute disappointment. “We came to Paris to see the great French Revolution, and there was nothing.” That has been the true state of affairs in Paris for the past two or three years. We were constantly sallying forth into the streets, and