I entered the car an utter stranger--no one knew me, and I knew no one.
The language was unintelligible, for I found that to _read_ French in
America, is not to _talk_ French in France. I could understand no one,
or at least but a word here and there.

But the journey was a very delightful one. The country we passed through
was beautiful, and the little farms were in an excellent state of
cultivation. Flowers bloomed everywhere. There was not quite that degree
of cultivation which the traveler observes in the best parts of England,
but the scenery was none the less beautiful for that. Then, too, I saw
everything with a romantic enthusiasm. It was the France I had read of,
dreamed of, since I was a school-boy.

A gentleman was in the apartment who could talk English, having resided
long in Boulogne, which the English frequent as a watering place, and he
pointed out the interesting places on our journey. At Amiens we changed
cars and stopped five minutes for refreshments. I was hungry enough to
draw double rations, but I felt a little fear that I should get cheated,
or could not make myself understood; but as the old saw has it,
"Necessity is the mother of invention," and I satisfied my hunger with a
moderate outlay of money. A few miles before we reached Paris, we
stopped at the little village of Enghein, and it seemed to me that I
never in my life had dreamed of so fairy-like a place. Beautiful lakes,
rivers, fountains, flowers, and trees were scattered over the village
with exquisite taste. To this place, on Sundays and holidays, the people
of Paris repair, and dance in its cheap gardens and drink cheap wines.

When we reached Paris my trunks were again searched and underwent a
short examination, to see that no wines or provisions were concealed in
them. A tax is laid upon all such articles when they enter the city, and