for numbers of them are owners or perpetual holders of the land on which they work; and it looks curious to eyes accustomed to the large fields of England to see the little patches which compose the majority of French farms. We saw no particularly choice landscape scenery on the line of rail by which we travelled—_via_ Troyes and Chalindrey—but there was no lack of picturesque villages and immense barns, giving cheerful token of a rude plenty, and there was no end of tall pollard trees, and numerous vineyards; besides, here and there, upon a bit of stubble, we were agreeably surprised by the whitter of an occasional covey of partridges. Bent on a piscatorial tour, I noted with care—to the occasional wonderment of my friends—the spots of water that pretty often fringed the line of rails, and wondered if they were populated by any of the finny tribe; if so, by what kind of fish, and whether they had been replenished by the aid of pisciculture? There was evidently fishing in the districts we passed through, because at many of the stations we encountered the vision of an occasional angler, and a frequent “flop” in many of the pools which we passed convinced me that fair sport might be had; and the entry of an occasional Waltonian into some of the stations with twenty pounds weight of trout quite excited everybody, and made some of us long to whip the waters of the district of Champagne, through which we were passing. And a close inspection of the national _etablissement de pisciculture_ at Huningue has convinced me that if any river in France be still fishless, it is not through the fault of a paternal government. Travelling is pleasant in France, for although the trains are slow, they are safe and punctual. The distance from Paris to Mulhausen is fifteen hours by the ordinary train, but we did not feel the journey at all tedious. In my compartment were a priest, who spoke a very “leetle” English, but who could evidently read a great deal of Latin; a shrewd Edinburgh news-agent—who, like most Scotchmen, took nothing for granted, but saw and judged for himself; and his daughter, a young lady on her way to “do” the Rhine, but who took no interest in pisciculture. Then there was a lively English gentleman, who seemed to have an intimate acquaintance with every fish in the Thames; he had netted whitebait (and eaten them) off Blackwall, he had taken perch out of the East India Dock, killed a monster pike near Teddington, and had caught no end of gudgeon at various picturesque spots on the great river.