We had a smooth, pleasant, uneventful voyage, until the last night, when, on nearing the French coast, the weather became dark and stormy.  The next morning our good steamer pushed slowly and carefully up the broad, muddy Gironde and landed us on the bustling quays of Bordeaux, where my son Theodore stood waiting to receive us.  As we turned to say farewell to our sturdy ship—­gazing up at its black iron sides besprinkled with salty foam—­a feeling of deep thankfulness took possession of us, for she had been faithful to her trust, and had borne us safely from the New World to the Old, over thousands of miles of treacherous sea.

We spent a day in driving about Bordeaux, enjoying the mere fact of restoration to terra firma after twelve days’ imprisonment on the ocean.  Maritime cities are much the same all the world over.  The forests of masts, the heavily laden drays, the lounging sailors, the rough ’longshoremen, and the dirty quays, are no more characteristic of Bordeaux than New York, London, and Liverpool.  But Bordeaux was interesting as the birthplace of Montesquieu and as the capital of ancient Guienne and Gascony.

But I must not forget to mention an accident that happened on landing at Bordeaux.  We had innumerable pieces of baggage, a baby carriage, rocking chair, a box of “The History of Woman Suffrage” for foreign libraries, besides the usual number of trunks and satchels, and one hamper, in which were many things we were undecided whether to take or leave.  Into this, a loaded pistol had been carelessly thrown.  The hamper being handled with an emphatic jerk by some jovial French sailor, the pistol exploded, shooting the bearer through the shoulder.  He fell bleeding on the quay.  The dynamite scare being just at its height, the general consternation was indescribable.  Every Frenchman, with vehement gestures, was chattering to his utmost capacity, but keeping at a respectful distance from the hamper.  No one knew what had caused the trouble; but Theodore was bound to make an investigation.  He proceeded to untie the ropes and examine the contents, and there he found the pistol, from which, pointing upward, he fired two other bullets.  “Alas!” said Hattie, “I put that pistol there, never dreaming it was loaded.”  The wounded man was taken to the hospital.  His injuries were very slight, but the incident cost us two thousand francs and no end of annoyance.  I was thankful that by some chance the pistol had not gone off in the hold of the vessel and set the ship on fire, and possibly sacrificed three hundred lives through one girl’s carelessness.  Verily we cannot be too careful in the use of firearms.

Bordeaux is a queer old town, with its innumerable soldiers and priests 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.