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 accommodation 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 neighbor 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.