ty miles southward from Calais as in any part of England, but they
are mainly Elms and Willows, scarcely an orchard anywhere, and of course
no vineyards, for the Grape loves a more Southern sun. The cultivation
is scarcely equal to the English, though not strikingly inferior, and
the evidences of a minute subdivision of the soil are often palpable.
Fences are very rare, save along the sides of the railway; ditches serve
their purpose near Calais, and nothing at all answers afterward. I
presume wood becomes much scarcer as we approach Paris, but darkness
forbade observation.

By the terms of the enticing advertisement, we should have been here at
10 1/2 P. M., but, though we met with none other than the ordinary
detentions, it was half-past two on Sunday morning when we actually
reached the station at the barrier of the city. Here commenced the
custom-house search, and I must say it was conducted with perfect
propriety and commendable energy, though with determined rigor. Our
trunks and valises were all arranged on a long table according to the
numbers affixed to them respectively at Calais, and each, being opened
by its owner, was searched in its turn, and immediately surrendered, if
found "all right." I had been required to pay smartly on my books at
Liverpool, though nobody could have suspected that they were for any
other than my own use; so I left most of them at London and had no
difficulty here. [One unlucky wight, who had pieces of linen in his
trunk, had to see them taken out and put safely away for farther
consideration.] I did not at first comprehend that the number on my
trunk, standing out fair before me in honest, unequivocal Arabic
figures, could possibly mean anything but "fifty-two," but a friend
cautioned me in season that those figures spelled "cinquante-deux," or
phonetically "sank-on-du" to the officer, and I made my first attempt at
mouthing French accordingly, and succeeded in making myself
intelligible.

It was fair daylight when we left the railway station for our various
destinations. Mine was the "Hotel Choiseul," Rue St. Honore, which had
been warmly commended to me, and where I managed to stop _pro tem._
though there was not an unoccupied bed in the house. Paris, by the way,
is quite full--scarcely a room to be had in any popular hotel, and,
where any is to be found, the price is very high or the accommodations
quite humble. London, on the contrary, where the keepers of hotels and
lodging-h