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A little to the right, in the distance, was discernible, the house in which William Penn was born; while on the opposite side stretch away for miles the parks where Windsor Forest, so classic in fictitious and poetic lore, formerly stood.
u France hath twice too well been tanght
From London I proceeded to Paris by the mail route, via Dover and Calais, leaving London at half-past eight, P. M., and reaching Paris at nine next morning. We arrived at Dover, by the railway, about half-past eleven, and thence crossed the channel in a little steamer. The night was a most beautiful one. A full moon shining in a cloudless sky—the white cliffs of Dover springing up from the water's edge, and gradually receding as we glided over the billows, sparkling in the moonbeams, all conspired to render the scene one of unusual loveliness. We were an hour and a half in crossing, the distance being about twenty-two miles. I felt, for the first time since I left home, when I leaped ashore at Calais, that I was in a strange country, the people were so different in appearance, speech, and dress, Some strange scenes took place in getting the passports countersigned—the Englishman trying to make the Frenchman understand, and vice versa. Calais, one of the oldest towns in France, celebrated in history as having been so long held by the English, contains now a population of about twelve thousand, but has little in it of special interest to the traveler. From Calais to Paris the country is very level. The peculiarities of the people were apparent at once. Instead of the substantial stone dykes and bushy hedges of the English, here the fences were composed of little sticks, like rustic work, which, though rather pretty, must be very fragile.
The Hotel Meurice, where I put up, and to which the English and Americans usually resort, is large and commodious. It is built in a square form, with a court in the centre. The entrance is under a large arch, through which the omnibusses and carriages drive into the yard, to take up and put down those staying at the hotel. I immediately procured a guide, and we setoff together to Versailles. There are two railways to this place, one on each bank of the Seine. The distance is about eighteen miles, and is reached in three quarters of an hour. The splendor of royalty, or at least of royal dwelling, as exhibited here, exceeds everything I had previously imagined. The grounds and gardens around the palace form a modern paradise. Water is forced up by machinery from the Seine to a reservoir on the top of a neighboring hill, whence it flows down to supply the numerous fountains around the palace. Many of these fountains are very beautiful, and are ranged through the extensive grounds with much taste: some are in a circle, with a large one in the centre; others in the crescent form; and again they run along each side of the way, forming an avenue of fountains. Near the main palace is the Petit-Trianon, the favorite residence of Marie Antoinette.
The palace itself is still more wonderful than the grounds. The rooms in it are so numerous, that, to pass through them, we had a walk of five miles! and, had all the designs of Louis Philippe been completed, there would have been five or ten miles more. The walls are lined with either paintings or statuary. Some of these paintings, commemorating Napoleon's victories, are of enormous size. In one of the rooms is the celebrated painting, by David, of his marriage with Josephine. All his victories are here painted in detail; in fact, the warlike history of France, from the earliest period, is here delineated in historical order by paintings in the highest style of art. Some of the statuary is very fine. We were shown the private apartments of Marie Antoinette, which are very small, though neat; and the staircase by which she made her escape from the main dining-room to these apartments, when her life was in danger from the brutality of the infuriated populace.
The following day was the Sabbath—that is, it was so in Britain and America, but Paris has no Sabbath. The stores were all open, and most of them seemed to offer greater attractions than usual. Fancy articles, trinkets, candies, gingerbread, flowers, fruit, &c, were everywhere displayed for sale in unusual profusion and prominence. I first sought a Wesleyan church, mentioned in my guide-book, but did not succeed in finding it. I then went to the Episcopal church, in the Faubourg St. Honore. Here I had to pay at the door; in other words, to purchase a ticket,