My dear Mother,—­We have taken the Fant House for this winter.  People say it is haunted.  As yet we have not seen any ghosts nor found any skeletons in the closets.  The possible ghosts have no terrors for me.  On the contrary, I should love to meet one face to face!  But the rats are plentiful and have probably played ghosts’ parts and given the house its reputation.  Those we have here are so bold and assertive that I have become quite accustomed to them.  I meet them on the staircase, and they politely wait for me to pass.  One old fellow—­I call him Alcibiades, because he is so audacious—­actually gnaws at our door, as if begging to be allowed to come in and join us.  We put poison in every attractive way we can think of all about, but they seem to like it and thrive upon it.  Johan, having had a Danish sailor recommended to him, allows him to live in a room up-stairs and to help a little in the house while waiting for a boat.  He is very masterful in his movements, and handles the crockery as if it were buckets of water, and draws back the portieres as if he were hauling at the main-sheet.

Mr. Robeson (Secretary of the Navy), who ought to know le dernier cri on the subject of the habits of rats, told us that the only way to get rid of them was to catch one and dress him up in a jacket and trousers—­red preferable—­tie a bell round his neck, and let him loose.  “Then,” he said, “the rat would run about among his companions and indicate the pressure brought upon rats, and soon there would not be one left in the house.”

This was an idyl for our sailor.  He spent most of his days making a jacket with which to clothe the rat, and actually did catch one (I hoped he was not my friend of the staircase) and proceeded to put him into this sailor-made costume, which was not an easy thing to do, and had he not been accustomed to bracing up stays and other nautical work he never could have accomplished the thing.  However, he did accomplish it; he tied the bell on the rat’s neck and let him loose.

The remedy (though uttered from an official mouth for which we have great respect) was worse than the evil.  The rat refused to run about to warn his friends.  On the contrary, he would not move, but looked imploringly into the eyes of his tormentor, as if begging to be allowed to die in his normal skin.  Then, I believe, he went and sulked in a corner and committed suicide—­he was so mortified.  We said one rat in a corner was worse than twelve on the staircase.

The Outreys (the French Minister) had their diplomatic reception, and sent cards to every one they knew and many they did not know.  The ladies who went expected Madame Outrey to be dressed in the latest fashion; being the wife of the French Minister, it was her duty to let society into the secrets of Parisian “modes,” but she was dressed in a simple, might-have-been-made-at-home black gown.  This exasperated the ladies (who had gone with an eye to copying) to such a degree that many went home with pent-up and wounded feelings, as if they had been defrauded of their rights and without supper—­which, had they stayed, they would have found to be the latest thing in suppers.