With such an entire absence of wholesome mental exhilaration, it does not surprise us to see that there is an inordinate number of _Débits de Vin_, dingy vaults, furnished with deal tables and benches, where the imbibing of thin potations drawn in jugs from the cask, forms a popular solace. I am bound, however, to add, that whether from the weakness of the liquor, or an indisposition to spend, there is little or no external demonstration of drunkenness. As a whole, the people are sober and thrifty in their habits. Here, as in other towns in France, intemperance in tobacco-smoking is greatly more conspicuous than in stupefying liquors. I see it stated among national statistics that the quantity of cigars smoked in France during a year, would, if put end to end, go twice round the globe at the equator. In this monstrous wastefulness, the female population take no part. It is impossible to over-rate the painstaking assiduity of the humbler class of women, both old and young. Their small industrial occupations for a subsistence are most meritorious. One of their pursuits is the sale of roasted chestnuts, an article much in request. In one of these female vendors I took some interest. Verging on eighty years of age, and with a wrinkled countenance that would have been the delight of Rembrandt, this poor woman carried on business in a packing-case, which stood on end without a lid, placed at the termination of the Quai Bonaparte. Here seated in her box with her chauffer and bag of nuts, and cheerfully chattering to her customers, or to the _douaniers_ who loiter hereabouts in sky-blue uniforms, she made a living by her petty merchandise, exemplifying what may be done under depressing circumstances to rise above a degrading dependence on charity.