One cannot but regret that in most parts of France to-day, the picturesque costumes of the peasants are almost a thing of the past. In out-of-the-way districts, it is true, they still linger here and there, but they have to be searched for, as a rule, to be seen.

"Ah! ces jolies costumes sont perdues," said the manageress of our hotel at Poitiers, and she assured us they were only now to be found far away in the country. However, we discovered a few examples at market time in the city. Some of the caps fit close to the head, and have a frill round the face. The opportunity for a little individuality in pattern occurs at the back, where is the fullness and body of the cap. Some again consist only of a plain fold of linen, and boast two long streamers at the back; while others have the added dignity of a high peak (as given in picture,) which always confers a certain air upon its wearer, "an air of distinguishment" which impresses itself always upon the beholder.

The long, striped, navy-blue blouses which the men affect here, reach to below the knees, and are loose and open at the neck. Over them they wear, in bad weather, the invariable loose black cape with pointed hood drawn over the head. I saw one or two blouses of soft lilac silk, fastened at the neck with quaintly shaped little silver buckles.

A French market is the purgatory of the innocent.

This was ruthlessly shewn forth on market day at Poitiers. The squealing, the clucking, the squawking are unceasing and insistent everywhere. No one can fail to hear them. But it requires the quiet, observant, sympathetic eye to see the other, less evident, forms of distress. By means of this last, however, one sees the mute suffering in the eyes of the turkeys, for instance. Sometimes a turkey would be blinking hard with one eye, while the lid of the other rose miserably every now and again. While I was standing by, some passing boy, with fiendish cruelty, set his dog at a pair of turkeys lying close at his feet, helpless and terrified, their feet tied tightly together. At a little distance off I could see one of these unhappy creatures hanging head downwards, its poor limp wing being brushed roughly and jerked carelessly by all who passed that way.

Then there were the rabbits. What words could describe the excruciating panic to which they are subjected, when one remembers their timidity and nervousness in a wild state. No worse misery could be devised for them than the prodding and punching and tossing up and down which they receive on all hands as they await, amidst the babel of noise around them, their last fate. The only members of the dumb creation who seemed fairly indifferent to their surroundings, and indeed to regard them with a certain grim humour, were the ducks. Everyone is aware that there exists in France the equivalent of our Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, but my experience convinced me that it is not nearly so energetic as is our own society.

Many of the men were shouting their loudest at the stalls over which they presided. One, I noticed, who offered for sale a curious little collection of odds and ends was proclaiming their value thus:—

"Voila! toute la service—Toute la SÉminÉe! Tous les articles! Tous les articles!"

Another was crying out, "Toute la soir!" as he lifted on high a bundle of coloured measures.

The "coloured end" of the market was undeniably the fruit and vegetable stalls. There, side by side, everywhere one's eye roamed, lay long sticks of celery, cooked brown pears, little flat straw baskets full of neat little, bright green broccoli; the soft olive green of the heart shaped leaves of the fig throwing into vivid contrast the delicate peach and tawny brown of the dÉneufles (medlars). Here, the deep flaring orange of the sliced citronne would jostle the cool white, veined, and unobtrusive green of a neighbouring leek, its long, trailing roots lying on the counter like unravelled string. There, would be the cÉleri rave with its round, bulgy, cream-coloured stumps exchanging contrasts with the deep myrtle tint of the crinkled leaves, puckered and rugged, of a certain species of broccoli.

All around reigned a pandemonium of sound. Upon a cart close to the grey old church of Notre Dame, stood a woman singing "Des Chants RÉpublicans," to the accompaniment of a concertina. Her audience was mixed, and somewhat inattentive. It consisted of soldiers, market women, children, all jabbering, jostling, laughing, and singing little catchy bits of the song. Overhead was a gigantic, brilliant red umbrella. The whole scene was fenced by market carts of all sizes and shapes whose coverings presented to the eye every variety of green linen.

The Church of Notre Dame has three magnificent doorways, full of the most exquisite design and moulding, in perfect preservation. Indeed the whole outward presentment of the church is exceedingly fine, so that one is sensible of keen disappointment, when, on going inside, one is confronted with painted pillars and tawdry, artificial flowers flaunting everywhere. The singing here is very inferior to that which we heard in the churches of Bordeaux; and in neither Notre Dame, nor the cathedral, was the great organ used at High Mass, nor at Vespers.

During the service of Vespers at which I was present, one of the priests played the harmonium, surrounded by a number of choir boys. Whenever it seemed to him that some boy was not attending, he would strike a note, reiteratingly, until he managed to catch that boy's eye, when he frowned in reproof. It was a case of the many suffering because of the misdoings of the one! One of the oldest of the smaller churches at Poitiers is that of St. Parchaise. This church, I found, is kept open all night, and a stove kept burning during the winter months, for the sake of the aged and infirm poor, who have no other refuge.

When I went in at five in the afternoon, it was already growing dark, and a priest was just lighting the lamps; the stove had already comfortably warmed the building, and I could see sitting about in obscure corners, old peasant women. Others were standing quietly before some pictures, or kneeling before a side altar.

By far the most interesting building to the antiquary in Poitiers, is the curious old Baptistery de St. Jean, dating back to the fourth century. It is filled with old stone tombs of the seventh or eighth century, and some as early as the sixth. Upon one of the latter is the inscription: "Ferro cinetus filius launone." On another was: "Aeternalis et servilla vivatisiendo." I noticed a curious double tomb for a man and a woman: in length about five feet. PÈre Camille de la Croix discovered this baptistery, and was instrumental in having it preserved, and the tombs carefully examined.

PÈre Camille himself is one of those striking personalities at whose presence the great dead past lights its torch, and once more stands, a living power, before the eyes of the present. Such a personality breathes upon the dry bones beside our path to-day, and they rise from silent oblivion and lay their arresting hands upon our sleeves.

He is a splendid-looking old man, with long white beard and eyes that are living fires of energy and enthusiasm. When I first met him, he was sitting cataloguing MSS at a side table, in the musÉe, in a very minute, neat handwriting, sombrero on head. I stayed talking to him for some little time, and amongst other things, he said rather bitterly, "The monuments and baptistery belonged to France; if they had belonged to Poitiers they'd have been destroyed long ago." I had made a few little rough sketches of the tombs, and as he turned over the leaves of my sketch-book to tell me the probable dates of each, he gave vent to a resounding "Hurr—!" and pursed his lips together. When I mentioned that I had been told by someone that he spoke three languages, he said decisively and emphatically, "Il dit faux."

He lives in a curious, high, narrow house by the river, with small windows and iron gates; and the greater part of his time is given up to the deciphering of old manuscripts, and writing records of them; records which will be an invaluable gift to posterity.