One of the sources of amusement， during my sojourn at Jacournassy， was of a literary nature. My son Theodore was then busy collecting the materials for his book entitled "The Woman Question in Europe，" and every post brought in manuscripts and letters from all parts of the continent， written in almost every tongue known to Babel. So just what I came abroad to avoid， I found on the very threshold where I came to rest. We had good linguists at the châ；teau， and every document finally came forth in English dress， which， however， often needed much altering and polishing. This was my part of the work. So， away off in the heart of France， high up in the Black Mountains， surrounded with French-speaking relatives and patois-speaking peasants， I found myself once more putting bad English into the best I could command， just as I had so often done in America， when editor of The Revolution， or when arranging manuscript for "The History of Woman Suffrage." But it was labor in the cause of my ***； it was aiding in the creation of "The Woman Question in Europe，" and so my pen did not grow slack nor my hand weary.
The scenery in the Black Mountains is very grand， and reminds one of the lofty ranges of mountains around the Yosemite Valley in California.
In the distance are the snow-capped Pyrenees， producing a solemn beauty， a profound solitude. We used to go every evening where we could see the sun set and watch the changing shadows in the broad valley below. Another great pleasure here was watching the gradual development of my first grandchild， Elizabeth Cady Stanton， born at Paris， on the 3d of May， 1882. She was a fine child； though only three months old her head was covered with dark hair， and her large blue eyes looked out with intense earnestness from beneath her well-shaped brow.
One night I had a terrible fright. I was the only person sleeping on the ground floor of the châ；teau， and my room was at the extreme end of the building， with the staircase on the other side. I had frequently been cautioned not to leave my windows open， as someone might get in. But， as I always slept with an open window， winter and summer， I thought I would take the risk rather than endure a feeling of suffocation night after night.
The blinds were solid， and to close them was to exclude all the air， so I left them open about a foot， braced by an iron hook. A favorite resort for a pet donkey was under my window， where he had uniformly slept in profound silence. But one glorious moonlight night， probably to arouse me to enjoy with him the exquisite beauty of our surroundings， he put his nose through this aperture and gave one of the most prolonged， resounding brays I ever heard. Startled from a deep sleep， I was so frightened that at first I could not move. My next impulse was to rush out and arouse the family， but， seeing a dark head in the window， I thought I would slam down the heavy sash and check the intruder before starting. But just as I approached the window， another agonizing bray announced the innocent character of my midnight visitor. Stretching out of the window to frighten him away， a gentleman in the room above me， for the same purpose， dashed down a pail of water， which the donkey and I shared equally. He ran off at a double-quick pace， while I made a hasty retreat.
On August 20， I returned to Toulouse and our quiet convent. The sisters gave me a most affectionate welcome and I had many pleasant chats， sitting in the gardens， with the priests and professors. Several times my daughter and I attended High Mass in the cathedral， built in the eleventh century.
Being entirely new to us it was a most entertaining spectacular performance.
With our American ideas of religious devotion， it seemed to us that the people， as well as the building， belonged to the Dark Ages. About fifty priests， in mantles， gowns， and capes， some black， some yellow，杦ith tinseled fringes and ornamentation，杦ith all manner of gestures， genuflections， salutations， kneelings， and burning of incense； with prayers， admonitions， and sacraments， filled the altar with constant motion.
A tall man， dressed in red， wheeled in a large basket filled with bread， which the priests， with cups of wine， passed up and down among those kneeling at the altar. At least half a dozen times the places at the altar were filled朿hiefly with women. We counted the men，杘nly seven，朼nd those were old and tremulous， with one foot in the grave. The whole performance was hollow and mechanical. People walked in， crossed themselves at the door with holy water， and， while kneeling and saying their prayers， looked about examining the dress of each newcomer， their lips moving throughout， satisfied in reeling off the allotted number of prayers in a given time. The one redeeming feature in the whole performance was the grand music. The deep-toned organ， whose sounds reverberated through the lofty arches， was very impressive.
The convent consisted of three large buildings， each three stories high， and a residence for the priests； also a chapel， where women， at their devotions， might be seen at various hours from four o'clock in the morning until evening.
Inclosed within a high stone wall were beautiful gardens with fountains and shrines， where images of departed saints， in alcoves lighted with tapers were worshiped on certain days of the year.
Such were our environments， and our minds naturally often dwelt on the nature and power of the religion that had built up and maintained for centuries these peaceful resorts， where cultivated， scholarly men， and women of fine sensibilities， could find rest from the struggles of the outside world.
The sisters， who managed this large establishment， seemed happy in the midst of their severe and multifarious duties. Of the undercurrent of their lives I could not judge， but on the surface all seemed smooth and satisfactory.
