advertisements are concerned, he might
believe himself still in the same spot. Accordingly,
the wise tourist generally seeks amusement
inside the vehicle, as we did on the
occasion in question— by encouraging the
passengers to sing country songs, and
contributing ourselves something of the kind
towards the general hilarity.

At last—after an hour's jolting and
stumbling, and hallooing, and cracking, on the
part of omnibus, horses, driver, and whip—
something like open country begins to make
its appearance —with occasionally an attempt
at foliage and cultivation. We have just time
to congratulate ourselves upon the change—
with a slight regret at the absence of hedges
and green lanes—when the omnibus stops at
an accumulation of rustic restaurants, schools
for young ladies, billiard-rooms, tobacconists'
shops, and one church, which we are told is
Sceaux. Here we alight, after an exchange
of affectionate flatteries with our fellow
passengers, who are bound to Longjumeau, and
make our way, as a matter of course, to the
park. But previously a bell at the railway
station announces the arrival of a train from
Paris, and we have an opportunity of observing
the perfect working of this pretty little
line—the serpentine course of which is, at
first sight, calculated to strike horror into the
engineering mind;— how the carriages
perform impossible curves in perfect safety, and
finally accomplish something very like a figure
of eight at the terminus, without any relaxation
of speed. The manner in which this is
accomplished is principally by providing the
engines with small oblique wheels, pressing
against the rails, in addition to the usual
vertical ones. The carriages, too, are so
constructed, that both the fore and hind wheels
may turn freely under them; and each
carriage is connected with its neighbour by a
kind of hinge, which effectually prevents a
separation, while it affords every facility for
independent motion. Thus almost any curve
can be accomplished, and it is next to impossible
that the train can come off the rails.
But for this contrivance, the railway,
condemned to a straight line, would probably
never pay, and all the pretty places where it
has stations would lose half their visitors.

The great lion of Sceaux is its park, where
the Château, built by Colbert, and
subsequently associated with persons of no less
importance than the Duc du Maine and
Madame de Montespan, was flourishing before
the first revolution. Art has here been somewhat
ungrateful to nature; the one has
furnished the tallest of trees and the thickest
of bosquets; but the other has clipped them
with more than her usual want of taste, and,
through the latter, has cut avenues ingeniously
imitative of railway tunnels— of which the
pastoral effect may be imagined. On Sundays
and Thursdays, during the summer, crowds
flock from Paris to the balls which are held
in this park—where there is also a tolerable
gathering of rustic simplicity from the country
round. Then it is that all the coloured
lamps, which now by daylight look so dingy,
are brilliantly lighted up; the dirty stucco
statues gleam like alabaster; the seedy
drapery becomes golden and gorgeous; the grimy
decorations are festive and fairy-like; and
the smoky-looking glass column in the centre
glitters like an immense diamond—reflecting
the surrounding scene with a thousand
flattering and fantastic variations.

But what about Robinson Crusoe? All in
good time. Robinson is now something less
than two miles off, if the information of our
decorated friend may be relied upon; and
perhaps the sooner we join him the better.
Accordingly, with Sceaux behind us, and the
prospect of dinner before us, we proceed gaily
on foot through roads as rustic in appearance
as the inevitable brick walls and unavoidable
quack advertisements will allow them to be,
and arrive at last at our journey's end—
without meeting on our way with any
incidents of travel more exciting than the sight
of two countrymen and a windmill.

Here, then, we are, at last, at Robinson.
Robinson, then, is a place, and not a person?
But what relation has this to De Foe's Robinson
Crusoe? Simply this;—that the spot is the
most romantic— the most picturesque— and was
the most desolate within so short a distance of
Paris; and it has been called "Robinson," as
a tribute at once to these united charms, and
to the merits of a work which is as popular in
France as in its native country. The surname
"Crusoe" the French throw aside, as they do
everything which they can either not
pronounce, or not understand—refusing in
particular to swallow anything like a name which
does not become the mouth, on the wise
principle which leads every animal but the
donkey to reject thistles.

The fame of the place, however, has by degrees
rendered its name inapplicable. Its romantic
and picturesque qualities it still retains, but its
desolation is no more. It is Robinson Crusoe's
island with the spell broken— the loneliness of
thirty years profaned. It is Robinson Crusoe's
island monopolised by common-place colonists,
who have set up cafés and restaurants. It is
Juan Fernandez captured by the savages, who
appear there in the shape of the bourgeoisie,
or as pert-looking young Frenchmen, in
varnished boots, escorting transparent bonnets.
It is Robinson Crusoe's island, in fact, with a
dash of Greenwich.

In common with all those who land in any
sort of island, civilised or savage, our first
impulse was to secure dinner. For this
purpose, we betook ourselves to the most
imposing restaurant of the place. Gueusquin
was the name, I think, of the Bois d'Aulnay.
Here, in the midst of a rustic and not too
French style of garden, laid out upon an
eminence, stands a building which has all the
aspect of the most primitive of farms. It is
dedicated to Robinson Crusoe, as may be seen