43+ THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY, 



time to be famous as having the largest church and the best par- 

 ish schools in the whole province of Auvergne. 



Issoire has a long, long history, which is duly set forth in Jo- 

 anne's "Guide-Book," but which I have luckily forgotten. Its 

 story is one of castles and robbers and chivalry, with here and 

 there a fair dame and an ancestral ghost, perha]3s, but of this I 

 am not so certain. Once Issoire fell into the hands of the famous 

 knight, Pierre Diablenoir, the Duke of Alengon. After plunder- 

 ing all the shops, burning the houses, killing most of the people, 

 and scaring the rest off into the woods, he set up in the public 

 square a large column bearing this simple legend : " Ici fut Is- 

 soire ! " (" Here was Issoire "). Were it not for this touching fore- 

 thought, we might be to this day as ignorant of Issoire's location 

 as we are of the site of Troy. 



But the years went on, the wars were ended, the rain fell, the 

 birds sang, the grass grew, the people came back, and Issoire arose 

 from its ashes. To-day it is as dull and cozy a town as you will 

 find in all France. It has now, according to Joanne, a population 

 of 6,303 souls, and a considerable trade in grain, shoes, millstones, 

 brandy, and vinegar. The streets of Issoire are narrow, and the 

 houses are crowded closely together, as if struggling to get as near 

 as possible to the church for protection. The city lies in the fer- 

 tile valley of the little river Couze, surrounded by grain-lands 

 and meadows. Toward the north a long white highway, shaded 

 by poplars, leads out across the meadows and hills toward the 

 larger city of Clermont-Ferrand, the capital of the department of 

 the Puy-de-D6me. Issoire is inclosed by an old wall, and, where 

 the highway enters the town, it passes through a ponderous gate, 

 which is always closed at night, as if to ward off an attack from 

 some other Duke of Alengon. 



I strolled out one midsummer afternoon on the road leading to 

 Clermont. When I came to the city gate I first made the acquaint- 

 ance of the octroi. A little house stands by the side of the gate, 

 and here two or three gendarmes — old soldiers dressed in red coats 

 with blue facings — watch over the industries of the town. Wheel- 

 barrow loads of turnips, baskets of onions or artichokes, wagon- 

 loads of hay, all these come through the city gate, and each pays 

 its toll into the city treasury. One cent is collected for every five 

 cabbage-heads, or ten onions, or twelve turnips, or eight apples, or 

 three bunches of artichokes, and other things pay in proportion. 

 This payment of money is called the octroi. The process of its 

 collection interested me so that I gave up all idea of a tramp across 

 the fields, sat down on an empty nail-keg, and devoted myself to 

 the study of the octroi. 



The octroi is an instrument to advance the prosperity of a 

 town by preventing the people from sending their money away. 



