hool.--The scene of "Villette."

THERE were one or two more excursions from Paris, and then, when we had
grasped the fat hand of Monsieur, our landlord, and kissed the dark
cheeks of Madame, his wife, and submitted to the same from Mademoiselle,
their daughter, with light hearts, serene consciences, and the ----
family we started for Brussels. It is a six hours' ride by rail.

Almost as soon as the line between France and Belgium is passed, the low
hills drop away, the thatch-roofed cottages give place to those of
whitewashed brick, with bright, red-tiled roofs. All along the way were
the straight poplars overrun with ivy, and the land was cared for,
coaxed, and fairly driven to the highest point of cultivation. Women
were at work in the fields, and more than one Maud Mueller leaned upon
her rake to gaze after us. Soon, when there were only level fields
beneath a level sky, the windmills began to appear in the distance,
slowly swinging the ghostly arms that became long, narrow sails as we
neared them. At two o'clock we reached Brussels, after being nearly
resolved into our original element--dust. Nothing but a sand-hill ever
equalled the appearance we presented when we stepped from the train; nor
did we need anything so much as to be thrown over a line and beaten like
a carpet when we finally gained our hotel.

The old city of Brussels is crooked, and dull, and picturesque; but
joined to it--like an old man with a gay young wife--is the beautiful
Paris-like upper town, with its houses covered with white stucco, and a
little mirror outside of every window, placed at an angle of forty-five
degrees, so that Madame, sitting within, can see all that passes upon
the street, herself unseen. Here in the new town are the palaces, the
finest churches, the hotels, and Marie Therese's park, where young and
old walk, and chat, and make eyes at each other summer evenings. Scores
of strings, with a poodle at one extremity and a woman at the other, may
here be seen, with little rugs laid upon the ground for the pink-eyed
puff-balls to rest upon. Truly Brussels is the paradise and purgatory of
dogs. Anywhere upon the streets you may see great, hungry-eyed animals
dragging little carts pushed by women; and it is difficult to determine
which is the most forlorn--the dog, the cart, or the woman. We never
understood before what it was to "work like a dog." At one extremity of
the park was the white, new Senate-house; opposite, the gray,