AFTER taking a view of the wonders and surroundings of London we spent a month in Paris. Fifty years ago there was a greater difference in the general appearance of things between France and England than now. That countries only a few hours' journey apart should differ so widely was to us a great surprise. How changed the sights and sounds！ Here was the old diligence， lumbering along with its various compartments and its indefinite number of horses， harnessed with rope and leather， sometimes two， sometimes three abreast， and sometimes one in advance， with an outrider belaboring the poor beasts without cessation， and the driver yelling and cracking his whip. The uproar， confusion， and squabbles at every stopping place are overwhelming； the upper classes， men and women alike， rushing into each other's arms， embrace and kiss， while drivers and hostlers on the slightest provocation hurl at each other all the denunciatory adjectives in the language， and with such vehemence that you expect every moment to see a deadly conflict. But to-day， as fifty years ago， they never arrive at that point. Theirs was and is purely an encounter of words， which they keep up， as they drive off in opposite directions， just as far as they can hear and see each other， with threats of vengeance to come. Such an encounter between two Englishmen would mean the death of one or the other.
All this was in marked contrast with John Bull and his Island. There the people were as silent as if they had been born deaf and dumb. The English stagecoach was compact， clean， and polished from top to bottom， the horses and harness glossy and in order， the well-dressed， dignified coachman， who seldom spoke a loud word or used his whip， kept his seat at the various stages， while hostlers watered or changed the steeds； the postman blew his bugle blast to have the mail in readiness， and the reserved passengers made no remarks on what was passing； for， in those days， Englishmen were afraid to speak to each other for fear of recognizing one not of their class， while to strangers and foreigners they would not speak except in case of dire necessity. The Frenchman was ready enough to talk， but， unfortunately， we were separated by different languages. Thus the Englishman would not talk， the Frenchman could not， and the intelligent， loquacious American driver， who discourses on politics， religion， national institutions， and social gossip was unknown on that side of the Atlantic. What the curious American traveler could find out himself from observation and pertinacious seeking he was welcome to， but the Briton would waste no breath to enlighten Yankees as to the points of interest or customs of his country.
Our party consisted of Miss Pugh， Abby Kimber， Mr. Stanton， and myself.
I had many amusing experiences in making my wants known when alone， having forgotten most of my French. For instance， traveling night and day in the diligence to Paris， as the stops were short， one was sometimes in need of something to eat. One night as my companions were all asleep， I went out to get a piece of cake or a cracker， or whatever of that sort I could obtain， but， owing to my clumsy use of the language， I was misunderstood.
Just as the diligence was about to start， and the shout for us to get aboard was heard， the waiter came running with a piping hot plate of sweetbreads nicely broiled. I had waited and wondered why it took so long to get a simple piece of cake or biscuit， and lo！ a piece of hot meat was offered me. I could not take the frizzling thing in my hand nor eat it without bread， knife， or fork， so I hurried off to the coach， the man pursuing me to the very door. I was vexed and disappointed， while the rest of the party were convulsed with laughter at the parting salute and my attempt to make my way alone. It was some time before I heard the last of the "sweetbreads."
When we reached Paris we secured a courier who could speak English， to show us the sights of that wonderful city. Every morning early he was at the door， rain or shine， to carry out our plans， which， with the aid of our guidebook， we had made the evening before. In this way， going steadily， day after day， we visited all points of interest for miles round and sailed up and down the Seine. The Palace of the Tuileries， with its many associations with a long line of more or less unhappy kings and queens， was then in its glory， and its extensive and beautiful grounds were always gay with crowds of happy people. These gardens were a great resort for nurses and children and were furnished with all manner of novel appliances for their amusement， including beautiful little carriages drawn by four goats with girls or boys driving， boats sailing in the air， seemingly propelled by oars， and hobby horses flying round on whirligigs with boys vainly trying to catch each other. No people have ever taken the trouble to invent so many amusements for children as have the French. The people enjoyed being always in the open air， night and day. The parks are crowded with amusement seekers， some reading and playing games， some sewing， knitting， playing on musical instruments， dancing， sitting around tables in bevies eating， drinking， and gayly chatting. And yet， when they drive in carriages or go to their homes at night， they will shut themselves in as tight as oysters in their shells. They have a theory that night air is very injurious，杋n the house，朼lthough they will sit outside until midnight. I found this same superstition prevalent in France fifty years later.
