HAVING worked diligently through nearly two years on the second volume of "The History of Woman Suffrage，" I looked forward with pleasure to a rest， in the Old World， beyond the reach and sound of my beloved Susan and the woman suffrage movement. On May 27， 1892， I sailed with my daughter Harriot on the Châ；teau Lé；oville for Bordeaux. The many friends who came to see us off brought fruits and flowers， boxes of candied ginger to ward off seasickness， letters of introduction， and light literature for the voyage. We had all the daily and weekly papers， secular and religious， the new monthly magazines， and several novels. We thought we would do an immense amount of reading， but we did very little. Eating， sleeping， walking on deck， and watching the ever-changing ocean are about all that most people care to do. The sail down the harbor that bright， warm evening was beautiful， and， we lingered on deck in the moonlight until a late hour.
I slept but little， that night， as two cats kept running in and out of my stateroom， and my berth was so narrow that I could only lie in one position朼s straight as if already in my coffin. Under such circumstances I spent the night， thinking over everything that was painful in my whole life， and imagining all the different calamities that might befall my family in my absence. It was a night of severe introspection and intense dissatisfaction.
I was glad when the morning dawned and I could go on deck. During the day my couch was widened one foot， and， at night， the cats relegated to other quarters.
We had a smooth， pleasant， uneventful voyage， until the last night， when， on nearing the French coast， the weather became dark and stormy.
The next morning our good steamer pushed slowly and carefully up the broad， muddy Gironde and landed us on the bustling quays of Bordeaux， where my son Theodore stood waiting to receive us. As we turned to say farewell to our sturdy ship杇azing up at its black iron sides besprinkled with salty foam朼 feeling of deep thankfulness took possession of us， for she had been faithful to her trust， and had borne us safely from the New World to the Old， over thousands of miles of treacherous sea.
We spent a day in driving about Bordeaux， enjoying the mere fact of restoration to terra firma after twelve days' imprisonment on the ocean. Maritime cities are much the same all the world over. The forests of masts， the heavily laden drays， the lounging sailors， the rough 'longshoremen， and the dirty quays， are no more characteristic of Bordeaux than New York， London， and Liverpool. But Bordeaux was interesting as the birthplace of Montesquieu and as the capital of ancient Guienne and Gascony.
But I must not forget to mention an accident that happened on landing at Bordeaux. We had innumerable pieces of baggage， a baby carriage， rocking chair， a box of "The History of Woman Suffrage" for foreign libraries， besides the usual number of trunks and satchels， and one hamper， in which were many things we were undecided whether to take or leave. Into this， a loaded pistol had been carelessly thrown.
The hamper being handled with an emphatic jerk by some jovial French sailor， the pistol exploded， shooting the bearer through the shoulder. He fell bleeding on the quay. The dynamite scare being just at its height， the general consternation was indescribable. Every Frenchman， with vehement gestures， was chattering to his utmost capacity， but keeping at a respectful distance from the hamper. No one knew what had caused the trouble； but Theodore was bound to make an investigation. He proceeded to untie the ropes and examine the contents， and there he found the pistol， from which， pointing upward， he fired two other bullets. "Alas！" said Hattie， "I put that pistol there， never dreaming it was loaded." The wounded man was taken to the hospital. His injuries were very slight， but the incident cost us two thousand francs and no end of annoyance. I was thankful that by some chance the pistol had not gone off in the hold of the vessel and set the ship on fire， and possibly sacrificed three hundred lives through one girl's carelessness. Verily we cannot be too careful in the use of firearms.
Bordeaux is a queer old town， with its innumerable soldiers and priests perambulating in all directions. The priests， in long black gowns and large black hats， have a solemn aspect； but the soldiers， walking lazily along， or guarding buildings that seem in no danger from any living thing， are useless and ridiculous. The heavy carts and harness move the unaccustomed observer to constant pity for the horses. Besides everything that is necessary for locomotion， they have an endless number of ornaments， rising two or three feet above the horses' heads杊orns， bells， feathers， and tassels.
One of their carts would weigh as much as three of ours， and all their carriages are equally heavy.
It was a bright， cool day on which we took the train for Toulouse， and we enjoyed the delightful run through the very heart of old Gascony and Languedoc. It was evident that we were in the South， where the sun is strong， for， although summer had scarcely begun， the country already wore a brown hue. But the narrow strips of growing grain， the acres of grape vines， looking like young currant bushes， and the fig trees scattered here and there， looked odd to the eye of a native of New York.
We passed many historical spots during that afternoon journey up the valley of the Garonne. At Portets are the ruins of the Châ；teau of Langoiran， built before America was discovered， and， a few miles farther on， we came to the region of the famous wines of Sauterne and Châ；teau-Yquem.
