Saint Macaire is a very ancient Gallo-Roman town， where they show one churches， walls， and houses built fifteen centuries ago. One of the largest towns has a history typical of this part of France， where wars of religion and conquest were once the order of the day. It was taken and retaken by the Goths， Huns， Burgundians， and Saracens， nobody knows how many times， and belonged， successively， to the kings of France， to the dukes of Aquitaine， to the kings of England， and to the counts of Toulouse. I sometimes wonder whether the inhabitants of our American towns， whose growth and development have been free and untrammeled as that of a favorite child， appreciate the blessings that have been theirs. How true the lines of Goethe： "America， thou art much happier than our old continent； thou hast no castles in ruins， no fortresses； no useless remembrances， no vain enemies will interrupt the inward workings of thy life！"
We passed through Moissac， with its celebrated organ， a gift of Mazarin； through Castle Sarrazin， founded by the Saracens in the eighth century； through Montauban， that stronghold of the early Protestants， which suffered martyrdom for its religious faith； through Grisolles， built on a Roman highway， and， at last， in the dusk of the evening， we reached "the Capital of the South，" that city of learning朿urious， interesting old Toulouse.
Laura Curtis Bullard， in her sketch of me in "Our Famous Women，" says：
"In 1882， Mrs. Stanton went to France， on a visit to her son Theodore， and spent three months at the convent of La Sagesse， in the city of Toulouse."
This is quite true； but I have sometimes tried to guess what her readers thought I was doing for three months in a convent. Weary of the trials and tribulations of this world， had I gone there to prepare in solitude for the next？ Had I taken the veil in my old age？ Or， like high-church Anglicans and Roman Catholics， had I made this my retreat？ Not at all.
My daughter wished to study French advantageously， my son lived in the mountains hard by， and the garden of La Sagesse， with its big trees， clean gravel paths， and cool shade， was the most delightful spot.
In this religious retreat I met， from time to time， some of the most radical and liberal-minded residents of the South. Toulouse is one of the most important university centers of France， and bears with credit the proud title of "the learned city." With two distinguished members of the faculty， the late Dr. Nicholas Joly and Professor Moliner of the law school， I often had most interesting discussions on all the great questions of the hour. That three heretics朓 should say， six， for my daughter， son， and his wife often joined the circle朿ould thus sit in perfect security， and debate， in the most unorthodox fashion， in these holy precincts， all the reforms， social， political， and religious， which the United States and France need in order to be in harmony with the spirit of the age， was a striking proof of the progress the world has made in ******* of speech.
The time was when such acts would have cost us our lives， even if we had been caught expressing our heresies in the seclusion of our own homes.
But here， under the oaks of a Catholic convent， with the gray-robed sisters all around us， we could point out the fallacies of Romanism itself， without fear or trembling. Glorious Nineteenth Century， what conquests are thine！
I shall say nothing of the picturesque streets of antique Toulouse； nothing of the priests， who swarm like children in an English town； nothing of the beautifully carved stone faç；ades of the ancient mansions， once inhabited by the nobility of Languedoc， but now given up to trade and commerce； nothing of the lofty brick cathedrals， whose exteriors remind one of London and whose interiors transfer you to "the gorgeous East"； nothing of the Capitol， with its gallery rich in busts of the celebrated sons of the South； nothing of the museum， the public garden， and the broad river winding through all. I must leave all these interesting features of Toulouse and hasten up into the Black Mountains， a few miles away， where I saw the country life of modern Languedoc.
At Jacournassy， the country seat of Mme. Berry， whose daughter my son Theodore married， I spent a month full of surprises. How everything differed from America， and even from the plain below！ The peasants， many of them at least， can neither speak French nor understand it. Their language is a patois， resembling both Spanish and Italian， and they cling to it with astonishing pertinacity. Their agricultural implements are not less quaint than their speech. The plow is a long beam with a most primitive share in the middle， a cow at one end， and a boy at the other. The grain is cut with a sickle and threshed with a flail on the barn floor， as in Scripture times. Manure is scattered over the fields with the hands. There was a certain pleasure in studying these old-time ways. I caught glimpses of the anti-revolutionary epoch， when the king ruled the state and the nobles held the lands. Here again I saw， as never before， what vast strides the world has made within one century.
But， indoors， one returns to modern times. The table， beds， rooms of the châ；teau were much the same as those of Toulouse and New York city. The cooking is not like ours， however， unless Delmonico's skill be supposed to have extended to all the homes in Manhattan Island， which is， unfortunately， not the case. What an admirable product of French genius is the art of cooking！ Of incalculable value have been the culinary teachings of Vatel and his followers.
