w approaching such familiar ground that the reader will hardly
expect more of us than to specify the closing route of our long journey.

From Bordeaux to Paris is about four hundred miles. As we left the
former city the road passed through miles upon miles of thriving
vineyards, those nearest to the city producing the brands of claret best
known in the American market. The route generally all the way to Paris
was through a charming and highly cultivated country, vastly different
from northern and central Spain. The well-prepared fields were green
with the spring grains and varied crops, showing high cultivation. Sheep
in large flocks, tended by shepherdesses with tall white Norman caps,
and picturesque, high-colored dresses, enlivened the landscape. These
industrious women were knitting or spinning in the field. Others were
driving oxen, while men held the plow. Gangs of men and women together
were working in long rows, preparing the ground for seed or planting;
and all seemed cheerful, decent, and happy. The small railroad stations
recalled those of India between Tuticorin and Madras, where the
surroundings were beautified by fragrant flower-gardens,--their bland,
odorous breath acting like a charm upon the senses, amid the noise and
bustle of arrival and departure. Now and again, as we progressed, the
pointed architecture of some picturesque chateau would present itself
among the clustering trees with its bright, verdant lawns and neat
outlying dependencies; and so we sped on, until, in the early evening,
we glided into the station at Paris.

There was a clear sky, a young moon, and a full display of the starry
hosts, on the night of our arrival in this the gayest capital of the
world. Four hundred miles of unbroken travel that day, so far from
satiating, only served to whet the appetite for observation. Ten years
had passed since the writer had trod those familiar boulevards; and now
hastening to the Place de la Madeleine we renewed acquaintance with the
noble church which ornaments the square, the purest and grandest
specimen of architecture, of its class, extant. Thence passing a few
steps onward, the brilliantly-lighted Place de la Concorde was reached,
that spot so emblazoned in blood upon the pages of history. How the
music of the fountains mingled with the hum of the noisy throng that
filled the streets! What associations crowded upon the mind as we stood
there at the base of the grand old obelisk of Luxor, loo