treets, the same dark, narrow alleys without sidewalks, the same dingy stone houses, each peeping into its neighbor's windows, the same eternal stone walls, shutting in from the eye of the stranger all the beauty of the place and opposing an inhospitable barrier to the lover of natural scenery.
But when he finds himself among rural scenes, he has the delight felt by many an American boy since his days, as in the picture following:—
From Orleans I started on foot for Tours on the fifth of October. October is my favorite month of the twelve.
When I reflected that if I remained in Paris I should lose the only opportunity I might ever enjoy of seeing the centre of France in all the glory of the vintage and the autumn, I shut the book-lid and took wing, with a little knapsack on my back, and a blue cap,—not exactly like Quentin Durward, but perhaps a little more.
More anon of him. I had gone as far as Orleans in the diligence because the route is through an uninteresting country.