Charles E. Stowe, Harriet Beecher Stowe compiled from her letters and journals by her son Charles Edward Stowe

[242] the air of observation, but not of curiosity. By and by M. Charpentier came in. He began panegyrizing “Uncle Tom,” and this led to a discussion of the ground of its unprecedented success. In his thirty-five years experience as a bookseller, he had known nothing like it. It surpassed all modern writings! At first he would not read it; his taste was for old masters of a century or two ago. “ Like M. Belloc in painting,” said I. At length he found his friend M., the first intelligence of the age, reading it.

“What, you, too?” said he.

“ Ah, ah!” replied the friend; “say nothing about this book! There is nothing like it. This leaves us all behind,--all, all, miles behind!”

M. Belloc said the reason was because there was in it more genuine faith than in any book; and we branched off into florid eloquence touching paganism, Christianity, and art.

Wednesday, June 22.

Adieu to Paris! Ho for Chalons-sur-Saone! After affectionate farewells of our kind friends, by eleven o'clock we were rushing, in the pleasantest of cars, over the smoothest of rails, through Burgundy. We arrived at Chalons at nine P. M.

Thursday, 23, eight o'clock A. M.

Since five we have had a fine bustle on the quay below our windows. There lay three steamers, shaped for all the world like our last night's rolls. One would think Ichabod Crane might sit astride one of them and dip his feet in the water. They ought to be swift. L'Hirondelle (The Swallow) flew at five; another at six. We leave at nine.

Lyons.

There was a scene of indescribable confusion