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where it deposits its pennies. The hand is always out for the pourboire in France, and it is seldom that it fails to get it. Respectably dressed children do not hesitate to beg from every one at Christmas time. They besiege the houses of the wellto-do, every child expecting sous, and the grown boys and girls much more. did not know this at first, and when the pretty children, neatly dressed, came to call on us, showing us little trifles in the most engaging way, we only thought they were charming-"the French have such pretty manners!"-never suspecting the deep design behind the attention paid us. Even the priests, educated men, will take a pourboire, not at all pretending that it is for the poor. It is difficult

at first for an American to understand this; his own just pride and self-respect prevent. It hurts him to think that one who might be a gentleman can condescend to such meannesses; besides, he hesitates, fearing to give offense. There is no offense, except in the withholding.

A characteristic feature of Ecouen is the number of artists one meets sketching out-of-doors, regardless of the weather. Their contrivances to keep warm are exceedingly ingenious. M. Frère has a little low cart with a high back and top. It can be easily drawn by one man. In this he sits, well wrapped up, and draws and paints, perfectly protected from the wind. If it is a warm day, he covers himself with rugs and sheep-skins, and sits where he chooses. But the winters here are much milder than in New York. Violets blossom in the open air, and early in February the buds begin to swell.

Sabots are an institution" here. No one is so rash as to neglect slipping his feet into a pair if he wishes to walk in the garden when it is at all damp. Rows of sabots are ranged along the veranda of a well-regulated country house, madame's coquettish little wooden shoes in amusing

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THE CHÂTEAU.

contrast with the gigantic specimens in which the lords of creation delight to install themselves. Sabots are excellent to stand in when one is painting out-of-doors in wet weather, for the water can not penetrate the soles, and felt slippers worn inside keep the feet warm. Among the lower classes there is a prejudice against wooden shoes. No peasant will acknowledge that he owns a pair, even if he is at the moment standing in the fatal felt slippers which betray him beyond a doubt. Probably it is because the wooden shoe was so long the mark of inferiority and subjection.

The quantities of clothing worn by the peasantry is wonderful. Thick quilted petticoats are seen in all European peasant costumes, but only French women understand the art of wearing these clumsy garments with jaunty grace.

When Édouard Frère first came to Ecou

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en, a poor struggling young artist, he made no attempt to disguise his poverty, but worked bravely on, his gentle, sympathetic nature endearing him to the common people, whose homes and simple manners he loved to depict. He has founded a school in art, if school it can be called where none have succeeded in seizing the peculiar sentiment and feeling of the master. His style can be copied, the technical details mastered, but the spirit is his alone.

Frère has now painted for over forty years, but he is still an indefatigable worker. By eight o'clock in the morning he is at his painting. Before the dew is off the ground he may be seen hurrying along, picture in one hand and paintbox in the other, to the spot which he has chosen for his day's labor. A good old peasant one day remonstrated with him for toiling so hard at his time of life. "No, no, Père Bisseville," cried the artist; "if they should take away my work from me, they would take my life." He works in the kitchens and living-rooms of the peasants, always painting his pictures with their peculiar surroundings, thus catching the true spirit and feeling of the scene. "Studio pictures" he de

tests. No two of his pictures are alike, and only in this way could he secure their wonderful variety in subject and treatment.

He seems never to get tired. After a long day's work one may see him at evening hastening along, picture under his arm, and a train of small models following after, each with camp-stool, paint-box, rugs, or wraps, for it matters not whether the weather be hot or cold, whether it snow or rain, so that the light is what he requires. He plants his camp-stool in the street, and quickly seats himself, arranges his wraps, and is instantly at work, never looking at the passers-by unless some acquaintance accosts him; then his greeting is very cordial. For half an hour, perhaps, he can work in the fading light. When it is quite gone he hurries home with his picture; everything else is left in a peasant house, which he has rented. It is old and dingy. Here he sometimes works, seldom or never in his splendid studio. His evenings Frère spends in drawing from the antique, as carefully as if his artist life had just begun. No picture is ever sent away before he has made a pencil sketch of it for Madame Frère's

album. She has volumes of these, and it is delightful to turn them over. In every sketch there is charming life and fresh

ness.

M. Frère is slight and delicate in form, with a refined, artistic face, and an exceedingly gentle, courteous manner. He is a charming host. Madame Frère receives several evenings in the week in a simple, hospitable style. She looks very handsome in a pretty cap and silk gown, and entertains very agreeably. She speaks English, having learned it when a young girl in England.

One of our party had just arrived in France, and having unfortunately neglected Mr. Hood's friendly counsel— "Never go to France unless you know the lingo;

If you do, like me, you'll repent, by jingo"she found that this accomplishment of Madame Frère's added very much to her comfort. In the course of the evening she was very much startled, however, when the cakes and wine appeared, to hear her hostess from the opposite side of the room ask, in very distinct tones, "My dear mees, may I give you a leetle grog?" The grog was a not disagreeable mixture of lemons, hot water, and some kind of spirit. The weather had suddenly become chilly, and we Americans, accustomed to a warmer atmosphere, were not at all disinclined to accept the steaming glass. We soon discovered that we alone of the company had so indulged. Our French friends think, no doubt, that American ladies are accustomed to imbibe ardent spirits at their evening entertainments.

After a while M. Frère read aloud a modern French play, with a pleasant voice, and in a naïve, gentle manner, that were very agreeable. This is always his custom on one evening in the week. Any one who likes can come. These friendly hospitalities give a stranger a very homelike feeling. Occasionally in the course of the evening, if conversation flagged, or there was no reading, Madame Frère would sing some verses to herself in a gentle, soft voice for a few minutes, then return from the clouds and devote herself again to her guests.

On the last night of the old year all their friends and acquaintances pay their respects to the distinguished artist and his wife, and watch the old year out with them. On this evening they have dancing and music and a great deal of gay

ety. M. Frère dances all the time as enthusiastically as he does everything else. Their only son is also an artist. He is married, and lives in a pretty, artistic fashion quite near his parents. He was a pupil of his father and of the famous Couture, who now resides at Villiers-le-Bel.

Madame Frère has told us many interesting facts about their early life here. Thirty-five years ago they came to Ecouen, Frère a young, unknown artist, very poor, but full of enthusiasm and love of work. They lived at that time in a very modest cottage-a little thatched peasant house with an earthen floor and a big fire-place. In summer, when the weather was fine, they carried the table out to in the open air. "Very coquette," she the pretty grass-plot, and ate their meals

told us, was the little house. She made it pretty in a simple way, and they were very happy. The town was much more picturesque in those early days. The fine old forests had not been swept away; many interesting old buildings have since disappeared. A restaurant then stood on the site of the present hotel. It was a queer place. On entering, the guests stumbled down three or four rickety steps to reach the principal room. But once there, an artist's soul would have rejoiced, it was so Rembrandtish in its effects of light and shade. Fortunately, M. Frère has many studies of this fine interior.

In those happy days there was no wall about the pretty grass-plot under the great chestnut-tree before the church, and the villagers on summer evenings danced under its shade. It was here that M. Frère, dancing gayly with a village maid, once missed his footing, and rolled over and over with his pretty partner till they reached the foot of the slope.

Édouard Frère is the king of Ecouen. While he lives, no other artist may usurp his throne. But he is so amiable a sovereign, albeit modestly conscious of his own merits, that no one envies him his preeminence. There are other artists, however, younger men of the new generation. Indeed, Ecouen is a perfect nest of artists. Few places surpass it in convenience for a genre painter. M. Frère has made it easy for the younger artists. The peasants are so accustomed to his running in and out of their kitchens, sitting down with them and painting their family life, that they take it quite as a matter of course

STREET IN ECOUEN.

when an artist walks in with his campstool and paint-box.

The social atmosphere of Ecouen is very different from that of Paris, where the artists see but little of each other, and rivalries are apt to be strong and bitter. Here almost every one has a reception evening once or twice a week. Friends and acquaintances come in for an hour or so, there is a simple entertainment of cakes and wine, and lively chat is kept up with out ceasing. Some of the artists are well known in America. Our old friend M. Paul Seignac lives in a pretty house in the midst of a fine garden, through which one must pass to reach his atelier. His pictures of peasant cottage life are familiar to Americans. A pleasant vein of sen

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timent runs through them all. M. Duverger's pleasant house and garden, with its prettily arranged walks and terraces, its flower beds and handsome vases filled with brilliant flowers, is a charming place for a morning stroll. One night I remember, when the air was full of the rich perfume of the June roses, our kindly host led us through the winding paths to M. Dayola's fine studio at the end of the garden. It was like a fairy scene. The moonlight fell on the walks and shrubbery, lighting up everything with its soft splendor. M. Duverger's own atelier is in his house, and is fitted up with all the appliances for a genre painter. His pictures are too well known in America to need description here.

Among the younger artists who have formed a school of their own in Ecouen none stands higher than M. Luigi Chialiva, a young Italian. His compositions are exceedingly fresh and vigorous. His subjects are generally landscape with figures, not figures with landscape, as was the old manner. Neither is subordinate to the other. He has a fine studio connected with his house, and from this opens a great conservatory. It has no plants, however. Here he works in cold weather, and can thus get the out-of-door effects that his subjects require. It is a lively, pleasant scene when the artist works, as he loves to do, in his garden. There he sits under his big umbrella, life always around him, his models-turkeys, geese, sheep, children-grouped about. Every little while his cheerful voice rings out, "Voyous, voyous, restez tranquille," to the restless sitters.

Just before leaving Ecouen I saw on his easel a fine picture, nearly completed, of a young girl standing on the shore of a river surrounded by sheep. She is looking at a boat in the distance, and stands with folded hands in a charming, simple

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attitude. Soft sunlight bathes the whole landscape with a tender atmosphere. The sheep are grazing or drinking in the river, and are drawn and grouped with the wonderful skill for which this artist is celebrated.

Several Americans have been studying with M. Chialiva for several years.

George Todd, a friend and pupil of M. Chialiva, has one of the most artistic homes in Ecouen. Entering the gate, after having rung a warning peal at the big bell, and received a vociferous greeting from the fierce dog, which happily is chained, the visitor passes on to the studio, where the genial artist awaits him. The studio is very attractive, with a large conservatory attached, where the artist works in bad weather. It is filled with splendid flowers in full bloom. The studio proper is decorated with fine old tapestries, antique brasses, and ancient carved furniture. On the easels stand pictures, finished and unfinished, in water-color and oil, very beautiful and varied in design and finish. This artist, the chosen friend of many brilliant men, is himself a man of remarkable character.

The animal painter Schenck has a studio in the town, two enormous rooms, so large one can hardly see to the end of them. He is fond of painting his figures and animals in blinding snow-storms. Every autumn he goes to the mountains of Auvergne to make sketches. It is a desolate region, and in October already covered with snow.

At his house he has a fine collection of animals-mountain ponies shaggy and picturesque, shepherd dogs, and sheep of every variety of breed. Pretty little goats skip about, climb into the pony-carriage, and rest on the handsome cushions. When chased ignominiously away, they presently skip back again with an innocent air, as much at home as on their native rocks. Nowhere in France has an art student better opportunities for study than in Ecouen. His mind is not diverted from work by the thousand distractions of the gay metropolis, and yet a half-hour's ride brings all its advantages within his reach, and here he has some that in Paris could be obtained only with great expenditure of time and of money, and many that the city can not give. Though so near the great metropolis, the little town has not lost its simplicity. Material is ready to the artist's hand. He can not step out-of

doors without seeing a picture in every group he meets. The peasants still wear their becoming costumes and retain their rustic ways, and this is invaluable to a genre painter. There are still many old cottages whose fine interiors are the joy of an artist's heart. But, alas! these are destined soon to pass away before the vandal hand of (so-called) improvement. Many have already been torn down; the others will soon follow.

At the hotel one can get a comfortable room for twenty francs a month; for two francs a day a good dinner. If three or four choose to club together, they can get a very pretty little house for four hundred francs a year. A servant can be engaged to come in by the day. She attends to the rooms, cooks the dinner, clears everything away, and departs till next morning. Housekeeping can thus be carried on very comfortably and cheaply. The (wrongly termed) mistress of an American family would envy its simplicity. Early in the morning the butcher's boy comes, puts his hand through the open kitchen window, where a piece of paper is pinned containing the order for the day. In the afternoon he returns with the côtelette de veau or biftek, which he places in the same convenient depository. Next comes the grocer's boy to take his order. Vegetables are brought to the door every morning in heavy carts. Of course one must keep a sharp watch to see that he is not cheated. In that respect Ecouen tradesmen differ little from those of New York.

No great outlay is needed for furniture. Dressing - tables, wash-stands, and ottomans can easily be improvised out of boxes covered with chintz or muslin, and an artist must have been very neglectful of his opportunities if he has not picked up some bits of bric-à-brac. A Dutch clock, a few pieces of old china, a cast or two, with his own sketches disposed upon the walls, give a cheerful look to the rooms at very little expense.

It is important to keep one's eyes open for every opportunity to enlarge one's stock of bric-à-brac. Many picturesque old "bits" can be picked up in country places. The trouble in dealing with these peasants is that as soon as you begin to bargain with them they fancy that their wretched old furniture is worth mines of gold. At Mère Josephine's the other day I found an old chair, excellent to paint, but short in one leg. That defect is easily

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