rank next to that of Paris. Hence admission into its inner circles is eagerly sought by all visitors, and hence comes that general medley, that Mischianza di Nizza, which was selected as the title to this chapter.

CHAPTER XVIII.

NICE TO PARIS.

THE distance from Nice to Paris is about 675 miles. Thanks to the excellent management of the French railways, one can do the whole of this long and somewhat tedious journey in twenty-seven hours without interruption. The country through which the route passes after leaving Marseilles, is not by any means interesting, and at the time of my trip was less so than ever, from the fact that a large part was under water, owing to the heavy rains, and the people of many of the villages were living like Egyptian Fellahs during the rise of the Nile. Their existence was frog-ish, hippopotamuslike, and generally amphibious, yet they stood fast by the ancient ways, and did not abandon their houses till the onward march of the gallant Rhone compelled them to retreat to the highlands. This stream is a most obstreperous power, from its source in the Valais to the mouth through which it discharges its dirty and pestilent waters into the Mediterranean. It incessantly maintains an irrepressible conflict with everything and everybody on its shores, and seems animated with a demon of destruction.

Its river-god must be Pluto, and it has done more towards peopling his kingdom than any other river of its size in the world. It has not even the recommendation of picturesque features to offset its ruinous spirit, and does not possess the least attractiveness throughout its whole course. Its banks are low, its waters muddy, and, though they move with rapidity, yet the only image they suggest is that of a drunken canal. They go reeling along on a general smash, like the captain of the Polly Ann. The interior of this country ordinarily is not very agreeable to travellers; and after having spent several years in looking for "the sunny vales of France " without success, I have come to the conclusion that they were invented by Lord Macaulay, as a sort of lively image to adorn his captivating poem of Henry IV., spirited and enticing as the snow-white plume of its hero, that flashed over the embattled ranks at Ivry. The only sunny vales I have met with are in the Bois de Boulogne, and these possess a suspicious air of having been made to order, to supply a sudden demand for that article in the Parisian market.

Those who have a knack at figures can easily calculate without much exertion, that the time made by the through trains from Nice is excellent, the average being 25 miles an hour, including stoppages. This would be regarded as very fair speed in any country, especially when one takes into account the remoteness of the two cities, and the

possibility of delays over so great a space. It would not, perhaps, satisfy the American idea, which is gratified with being hurled on, as if one were drawn by a comet, so that the telegraph poles look like a comb a thousand miles long; but still, it contents the people of this benighted land, who have never heard of anything better. The train consists of only first-class cars, and the price of a ticket is 125 francs, or about $25 in gold. This amounts to nearly four cents per mile, and is somewhat more than would be paid for a similar trip in the United States. The number of cars was twelve, and it was certainly not a little interesting to notice how they were classified and arranged, in order to provide for the needs and claims of modern travellers. Ten years ago such demands as are now made and granted without a murmur, would have been scouted as extravagant and unreasonable; to-day they are no longer refused, but tacitly acknowledged to be indispensable. Here again American and English gold has exacted from railway officials luxuries which its possessors cannot obtain on any terms in their own countries, and these are even demanded as sine qua non's by those who can afford to pay for them. Most of my readers know that the French so constructed that the passengers sit opposite each other, half riding with their faces, half with their backs, to the engine. Each has three compartments, and in each of these are seats for eight persons. All the decorations and appoint

cars are

ments are comfortable and elegant, and every traveller has a handsome arm-chair, so thickly stuffed and springed, that a roll down an embankment would hardly disconcert him. The forward end of most of the carriages has only one row of seats and is called the coupé. The whole front is of plate glass, and offers an unobstructed view in every direction. This apartment is often fitted up with beds for two persons and is then styled a coupé lit. It offers as pleasurable a mode of journeying as the most exacting Sybarite could desire, and yet it has many a time been enjoyed by the descendants of the travellers who landed on Plymouth Rock in the dead of winter. I fear, alas! that Nice may prove the Capua of Cape Cod. And yet I don't know why even a pilgrim going in the wrong direction may not empty every possible pea, boiled or not, out of his shoes, and take such comfort as he can snatch on the wing. The arrangement that I have spoken of supra is infinitely more healthy and agreeable than our sleeping-cars, those vans of misery, perambulating sardine-boxes, sarcophagi full of nightmare ridden mummies, where after one passenger has done with his breath he passes it over to his next neighbor to be used again, till everybody is breathing great "gouts" of carbonic acid gas, like "a commodity of warm slaves" in a Black Hole. It is of little use, however, to call up the agonies of a night on one of those infernal machines, the more so that the coupé lit can hardly be expected to be