perambulating in all directions. The priests, in long black gowns and
large black hats, have a solemn aspect; but the soldiers, walking lazily
along, or guarding buildings that seem in no danger from any living
thing, are useless and ridiculous. The heavy carts and harness move the
unaccustomed observer to constant pity for the horses. Besides
everything that is necessary for locomotion, they have an endless number
of ornaments, rising two or three feet above the horses' heads--horns,
bells, feathers, and tassels. One of their carts would weigh as much as
three of ours, and all their carriages are equally heavy.

It was a bright, cool day on which we took the train for Toulouse, and
we enjoyed the delightful run through the very heart of old Gascony and
Languedoc. It was evident that we were in the South, where the sun is
strong, for, although summer had scarcely begun, the country already
wore a brown hue. But the narrow strips of growing grain, the acres of
grape vines, looking like young currant bushes, and the fig trees
scattered here and there, looked odd to the eye of a native of New York.

We passed many historical spots during that afternoon journey up the
valley of the Garonne. At Portets are the ruins of the Château of
Langoiran, built before America was discovered, and, a few miles farther
on, we came to the region of the famous wines of Sauterne and
Château-Yquem. Saint Macaire is a very ancient Gallo-Roman town, where
they show one churches, walls, and houses built fifteen centuries ago.
One of the largest towns has a history typical of this part of France,
where wars of religion and conquest were once the order of the day. It
was taken and retaken by the Goths, Huns, Burgundians, and Saracens,
nobody knows how many times, and belonged, successively, to the kings of
France, to the dukes of Aquitaine, to the kings of England, and to the
counts of Toulouse. I sometimes wonder whether the inhabitants of our