We knew then what the poet meant when he sang of:  “—­thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France!”

And it is a pleasant land.  No word describes it so felicitously as that one.  They say there is no word for “home” in the French language.  Well, considering that they have the article itself in such an attractive aspect, they ought to manage to get along without the word.  Let us not waste too much pity on “homeless” France.  I have observed that Frenchmen abroad seldom wholly give up the idea of going back to France some time or other.  I am not surprised at it now.

We are not infatuated with these French railway cars, though.  We took first-class passage, not because we wished to attract attention by doing a thing which is uncommon in Europe but because we could make our journey quicker by so doing.  It is hard to make railroading pleasant in any country.  It is too tedious.  Stagecoaching is infinitely more delightful.  Once I crossed the plains and deserts and mountains of the West in a stagecoach, from the Missouri line to California, and since then all my pleasure trips must be measured to that rare holiday frolic.  Two thousand miles of ceaseless rush and rattle and clatter, by night and by day, and never a weary moment, never a lapse of interest!  The first seven hundred miles a level continent, its grassy carpet greener and softer and smoother than any sea and figured with designs fitted to its magnitude—­the shadows of the clouds.  Here were no scenes but summer scenes, and no disposition inspired by them but to lie at full length on the mail sacks in the grateful breeze and dreamily smoke the pipe of peace—­what other, where all was repose and contentment?  In cool mornings, before the sun was fairly up, it was worth a lifetime of city toiling and moiling to perch in the foretop with the driver and see the six mustangs scamper under the sharp snapping of the whip that never touched them; to scan the blue distances of a world that knew no lords but us; to cleave the wind with uncovered head and feel the sluggish pulses rousing to the spirit of a speed that pretended to the resistless rush of a typhoon!  Then thirteen hundred miles of desert solitudes; of limitless panoramas of bewildering perspective; of mimic cities, of pinnacled cathedrals, of massive fortresses, counterfeited in the eternal rocks and splendid with the crimson and gold of the setting sun; of dizzy altitudes among fog-wreathed peaks and never-melting snows, where thunders and lightnings and tempests warred magnificently at our feet and the storm clouds above swung their shredded banners in our very faces!  But I forgot.  I am in elegant France now, and not scurrying through the great South Pass and the Wind River Mountains, among antelopes and buffaloes and painted Indians on the warpath.  It is not meet that I should make too disparaging comparisons between humdrum travel on a railway and that royal summer flight across a continent in a stagecoach.  I meant in the beginning to say that railway journeying is tedious and tiresome, and so it is—­though at the time I was thinking particularly of a dismal fifty-hour pilgrimage between New York and St. Louis.  Of course our trip through France was not really tedious because all its scenes and experiences were new and strange; but as Dan says, it had its “discrepancies.”