back on Paris. It was
not regret I experienced on taking my seat in the cars for Versailles,
but that feeling of reluctance with which we leave places whose
brightness and gaiety force the mind away from serious toil. Steam,
however, cuts short all sentiment, and in much less time than it takes
to bid farewell to a German, we had whizzed past the Place d'Europe,
through the barrier, and were watching the spires start up from the
receding city, on the way to St. Cloud.

At Versailles I spent three hours in a hasty walk through the palace,
which allowed but a bare glance at the gorgeous paintings of Horace
Vernet. His "Taking of Constantine" has the vivid look of reality. The
white houses shine in the sun, and from the bleached earth to the blue
and dazzling sky, there seems to hang a heavy, scorching atmosphere. The
white smoke of the artillery curls almost visibly off the canvass, and
the cracked and half-sprung walls look as if about to topple down on the
besiegers. One series of halls is devoted to the illustration of the
knightly chronicles of France, from the days of Charlemagne to those of
Bayard and Gaston de Foix. Among these pictured legends, I looked with
the deepest interest on that of the noble girl of Orleans. Her
countenance--the same in all these pictures and in a beautiful statue of
her, which stands in one of the corridors--is said to be copied from an
old and well-authenticated portrait. United to the sweetness and purity
of peasant beauty, she has the lofty brow and inspired expression of a
prophetess. There is a soft light in her full blue eye that does not
belong to earth. I wonder not the soldiery deemed her chosen by God to
lead them to successful battle; had I lived in those times I could have
followed her consecrated banner to the ends of the earth. In the statue,
she stands musing, with her head drooping forward, as if the weight of
the breastplate oppressed her woman's heart; the melancholy soul which
shines through the marble seems to forebode the fearful winding-up of
her eventful destiny.

The afternoon was somewhat advanced, by the time I had seen the palace
and gardens. After a hurried dinner at a restaurant, I shouldered my
knapsack and took the road to St. Germain. The day was gloomy and
cheerless, and I should have felt very lonely but for the thought of
soon reaching England. There is no time of the year more melancholy than
a cold, cloudy day in March; whatever may be the beauties o