Within late years, tennis parties are beginning to introduce a little stir in certain select circles of small provincial towns, where these entertainments are still regarded as novel; but, speaking generally, the dulness of such centres in France cannot be surpassed anywhere. Social life is at as low a level as intellectual life. Few books are read, fewer still are discussed. The very aspect of the streets—with their sealed doors, shut persiennes, sullen absence of neighbourly trust and geniality, high-walled gardens—is morose and incommunicative. They wear, however, as compensation, a look of distinction, not infrequently accompanied by a picturesque charm. Should a river roll in view, or a little street slope down to a busy quay, where the washerwomen kneel and lend mirth and colour to the scene, while above, an old historic castle, high against the sky, on a dusty square, or the grey of Gothic stone and delicate spire add a hieratic note to the quaint picture you forget the unfriendly reserve of those barred and blinded houses, you forget the somewhat aggressive coldness and inhospitality of their front, in recognition of the tempered brilliance, the graceful and distinguished effects around you. Mingle then with the market-folk, and listen to their speech—pleasant vocables, rendered pleasanter still by vivacity of gesture and vividness of gaze; neat peasant women, in spotless caps and sabots, who look all the merrier because they are so hard-worked; tanned, wrinkled faces, that smile as they did in youth, hard-set, but not unkindly, in the rapacity of commerce; responsive to a joke, unflinching in the teeth of trouble, not destitute of a promise of comfort in life’s softer hours—though softness is the very last quality they betray. A genial hardness is, perhaps, the dominating character of the French peasant woman’s expression: it would never be safe to trust in the hope of finding her head napping and her heart too wide awake. But if she is not soft to others, she is implacably hard to herself. Her industry is amazing, and only less amazing is her resourcefulness. A more competent woman does not exist anywhere. Nothing of a dreamer, she is contented with her lot, provided only there is neither thriftlessness, waste, nor idleness about her. She will willingly work for four, if the men will honestly work for one. And while the men loiter and squander substance and health in the wineshops, this gallant creature continues to labour and save and scold, to deprive herself of small comforts in favour of others—a son, a daughter, as the case may be; and, thanks to her, the country ever prospers.