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[314] born of Paris. I have a sense of oppression as I walk these various streets, see the thronging thousands, catch the hum of business, and feel the plethora of life about me. The charm of antiquity, so subtle and commanding,—at least I confess to its power,—the charm of taste, and then the excitement produced by a constant consciousness that one is in a foreign land: these belong to Paris. Here I seem again at home; I start as I catch English sounds in the streets; and for the moment believe that I am in New York or more loved Boston when I see the signs over shop-doors staring me in the face. The style of building is American; or rather ours is English. Everywhere I see brick. I do not remember a house in Paris of that material. If I enter a house, I find the furniture like ours; and then, over and above all, is the common language, which, like the broad and ‘casing air,’ seems to be perpetually about me.

I left Paris, May 29, in the diligence, early in the morning; rode all day and night and all the next day, when, at six o'clock in the evening, I entered the old fortifications of Calais. Here I gave my French a considerable ‘airing,’—the last it will receive for some time,—in scolding at the twenty servants and agents of different inns, who, as I alighted, besieged me and my luggage in a style of importunity which I think you cannot conceive. Sharp-set, indeed, are these European tide-waiters; those of New York might take some lessons in this school. From Calais I sailed at three o'clock the next morning, bound direct for London. My friends, English and American, advised me to take this route, and enter London by the gate of the sea; and I feel that the advice was good. I waked up in the morning on board the small steamer, and found her scudding along the shores of Kent. There were England's chalky cliffs full in sight,—steep, beetling, inaccessible, and white. Point after point was turned, and Godwin's Sands —where was buried the fat demesne of old Duke Godwin, the father of Harold—were left on the right. We entered the Thames; passed smiling villages, attractive seats, and a neat country on the banks, and thousands of vessels floating on the river. For eighty miles there was a continuous stream of vessels; and as we gradually approached the city, then did the magnitude, the mightiness, of this place become evident. For five miles on either side, the banks were literally lined with ships, their black hulls in gloomy array, and their masts in lengthening forests. We were landed at London Bridge, and my eve<*>

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