FAREWELL TO LONDON.

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reached Portman Square, and little time had we for rest, for at ten o'clock we were to leave England. Our noble friend who first welcomed me to the Old World, came even at that early hour to say, "God bless you."

The trunks are packed-the carriage is at the door-my last words of England are written—and we must away to other scenes. But none can ever be more dear, more precious to my soul, than those which have filled the happy hours of my sojourn in delightful London.

VOL. I.-4*

CHAPTER XII.

July 21. THE railway from London to Dover passes within full view of Sydenham Crystal Palace. This building is of immense size, many hundred feet larger than the original in Hyde Park. It is upon the summit of a hill, and the grounds are to be terraced, forming hanging gardens, like those of Babylon. It was like a great mountain of glass, and all the sunlight of England seemed glittering upon its roof, concentrated there by some giant lens.

At Dover we tarried some hours, and visited the castle, overlooking the town. From the turrets, there is an extensive prospect over land and sea; the Chalk cliffs loom up like great spectres, and the "Downs of Dover" (famed for their mutton) stretch far away in the dim distance. A blue cloud resting as it were upon the waters, they told me, was the shores of France.

Dover is not an inviting-looking town, though it is quite large. We dined at the " King's Head," and soon after went on board the steamer; the wind was strong and cold: thus we were forced to seek the cabin, which was about the length and breadth of a good-sized dinner-table. Upon two settees we threw ourselves, and in a few moments the little steamer was rolling, rocking, tumbling, and pitching into the O! what hours of anguish, and of inexpressible torture

sea.

ARRIVAL IN PARIS.

83

were those! Women mourning-children screaming- -men groaning. All calling for "aid and comfort" from the wretched steward, who rushed" hither and thither," in voiceless despair. At last, the long and horrible hours ended in daylight and Calais. With feeble steps we walked up to the station house, had our luggage "visited," drank an excellent cup of coffee, seated ourselves in a well-cushioned and neat railway carriage, and were soon away to Paris.

When the mists of the morning gave place to the sun. light, I was struck with its wonderful radiance. It was pain. ful at first to the eyes. There was not, as in England, a light fleecy veil of clouds to soften its intensity. The country was not beautiful, the houses were small, the trees of diminutive growth, and planted in a formal manner around the fields. There were no fences, and but few hedges. The grass had not the rich green hue so remarkable in the "Seagirt Isle." But here, as every where in England, I saw the corn poppies, called by the French coquelicot. All the fields are covered with them, and for miles along the railway they grow so thickly, as to seem like a broad red ribbon. They are of a dazzlingly bright crimson, and give a cheerful look to even a barren waste. As we rushed along by acres of these glowing flowers, we often quoted the lines of Burns,

"Pleasures are like poppies spread;

You seize the flower,-its bloom is shed."

At the stations I often gathered them, but at the slightest touch the beautiful petals fell to the earth.

At eleven o'clock the domes and spires of Paris were visible, and the great wind-mills upon Montmartre. Then we entered an immense hall, roofed with glass, and were commanded to remain without the railway, while our trunks were

opened and examined. They were shut down, and we were permitted to depart.

We

The environs of Paris reminded me much of some of the Faubourgs of New Orleans. We drove to the Hôtel Meurice, Rue Rivoli, just fronting the gardens of the Tuileries. found pleasant rooms prepared for us, and most comfortable beds. I cast myself upon one, soft and yielding, with a sensation of delight, and my weary limbs lay softly in sweet repose, while my spirit wandered off into dream-land, there to meet the loved ones of home.

It was late in the afternoon when we awoke. We were dressed just in time for the most appetizing dinner at the table d'hôte of the hotel. As soon as we had finished our coffee, we joined a party of agreeable Americans, and drove up the Boulevards to the "Gymnase" to see the Spanish Dancers from Madrid, who are just now making a furore in Paris. Petra Camera is very wonderful for her agility. She rushed upon the stage like a wild bacchante, throwing herself in the most peculiar attitudes, one foot often higher than her head, and then bending back, until her head and feet seemed meeting. Then in came a throng with castanets, making most strange contortions and twistings of the form, quite worthy of an Eastern juggler. The applause was rapturous, but I must confess, grace was lacking in their movements. The play was "Love at Twenty," and most admirably acted by Rose Cheri. All the appointments of the stage were perfect, and the performers seemed ignorant of the presence of the audience. They acted as though they were in a parlor. The theatre is small, but well arranged. balcony runs around the front of the boxes. The women all wore bonnets, and were not very stylish in their appearance.

A

By one o'clock we were again in our parlor, and thus ended our first day in Paris.

RAILWAY TO VERSAILLES.

85

Sunday Night.-Seeing in the morning journal an announcement that the "waters would play " at Versailles, we determined to go thither. It was an exquisite morning, and thousands in their holiday garb were hastening to the station. We seated ourselves in the car, and soon came in a party of the bourgeoise. They were a merry set, and it was really diverting to hear them relate the incidents of the preceding fête: they seemed so full of enjoyment and life. Had they been princesses, they could not have appeared more

content.

Soon after we left Paris we saw the vinobles or vineyards. The vines are all tied to sticks, and are not permitted to grow more than two or three feet high. The railway passes along an embankment, and thence the view was very extended, and most charming. One of our travelling companions pointed out the deep ravine (through which passes the railway) where so many persons perished by burning a few years ago, in consequence of the doors of the carriages all being locked. This custom is very general throughout Europe. It had been a fête day at Versailles, and multitudes were returning to Paris. The fire burst out in the foremost car, and soon burnt the connecting link between that and the locomotive, which dashed on to the station, leaving the long train of passenger cars in this ravine (cut through an immense hill). The persons within the carriages could not escape, for the doors were all locked, and they thus lost their lives in the most frightful manner. Admiral d'Urville, and many high dignitaries of the land, women, children, and valuable citizens were destroyed in the cars.

At Versailles we left the railway. This city once had a population of one hundred thousand people. In the days of Louis XIV. it was in its full splendor. Now there are only thirty thousand inhabitants.

As we entered the court of the