It is simply a beautiful, cultivated, endless, wonderful wilderness.

It is an enchanting place.

It is in Paris now, one may say, but a crumbling old cross in one portion of it reminds one that it was not always so.

The cross marks the spot where a celebrated troubadour was waylaid and murdered in the fourteenth century.

It was in this park that that fellow with an unpronounceable name made the attempt upon the Russian Czar's life last spring with a pistol.