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By the by, as we drove to the railway, we passed through the public
square, where the Bastille formerly stood; and in the centre of it now
stands a column, surmounted by a golden figure of Mercury (I think),
which seems to be just on the point of casting itself from a gilt ball
into the air. This statue is so buoyant, that the spectator feels quite
willing to trust it to the viewless element, being as sure that it would
be borne up as that a bird would fly.
Our first day's journey was wholly without interest, through a country
entirely flat, and looking wretchedly brown and barren. There were rows
of trees, very slender, very prim and formal; there was ice wherever
there happened to be any water to form it; there were occasional
villages, compact little streets, or masses of stone or plastered
cottages, very dirty and with gable ends and earthen roofs; and a
succession of this same landscape was all that we saw, whenever we rubbed
away the congelation of our breath from the carriage windows.


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