The case could not well be otherwise, when one reflects that by the last census it appears that every Frenchman over 16 years old and under 116 has at least one wife to whom he has not been married. This occasions a good deal of what we call crime and the French call sociability.
When we passed under that noble monument the Arch of Triumph, our mighty caravan was an unbroken mass, clear down the broad avenue to the Place de la Concorde. It must have been a wonderful sight from the top of the Arch; that high perch was black with people. All down the avenue the wide side-walks and all the windows of the lofty lines of buildings were filled with the young and the old dressed in their Sunday best, to view the show.
The curious names of towns and villages along the route woke many a memory that had nothing in the world to do with them. Among the rest the story of the Devil’s Gate. The miners near one of those sublime gorges which former earthquakes have cloven in the Sierra Nevadas, named the place with their usual felicity in that line. They called it by a Spanish name signifying Devil’s Gate. They never dreamed they were doing any harm. But a religious newspaper in San Francisco printed an editorial in which they were called to account—not in angry language, but in arguments and reasonings kindly put. They were admonished that it was not meet that men should honor the father of sin by naming after him the stupendous works of the Creator.
The miners called a meeting—nothing is done in California without calling a meeting about it. There must be a free, open, expression of opinion. In old times they always called a meeting, even when they were going to lynch a man who needed the most salutary and immediate hanging. The miners felt that they had innocently done a grave wrong in naming the gorge as they had. They wished to show the editor of the religious paper that they were not bad deliberately, and that in reality they were always ready to do as nearly right as they could and go to all reasonable lengths to earn the good opinion of worthy men. They discussed the matter in the meeting. They talked the subject over earnestly and feelingly, and then, by solemn and unanimous vote, they changed that name to—JEHOVAH’S GAP.
A peaceful Sabbath morning in the elegant-residence end of a large New England town. Time, 8 a.m. A deep shroud of new-fallen snow covers everything. To the limit of sight down the white avenues, not a creature is stirring, no life is visible. There is no wind, not even a zephyr; the stillness is profound. Presently, in the distance a negro appears upon Mr. Morgan’s long frontage, and another one appears at the same time on Mr. Newton’s long frontage. They disturb the Sabbath hush with a couple of muffled scrapes of their snow-shovels. They look up and discover each other. For the next half hour they lean upon their shovels and converse at long range in powerful voices. Now and then they spit on their hands, but that is as far as their activities get.
ALECK. Hyo, Hank, is dat you?
HANK. Hellow, Ellick—dat you? Is you a shovelin’ for Misto Morgan?
ALECK. Dat’s it.
HANK.
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