University of Virginia Library

23. LETTER XXIII.

I looked out of my window the last thing before
going to bed at Chalons, and the familiar constellation
of ursa major never shone brighter, and never made
me a more agreeable promise than that of fair weather
the following day for my passage down the Saone. I
was called at four, and it rained in torrents. The
steamboat was smaller than the smallest I have seen
in our country, and crowded to suffocation with children,
women, and lap-dogs. I appropriated my own
trunk, and spreading my umbrella, sat down upon it,
to endure my disappointment with what philosophy I
might. A dirty-looking fellow, who must have slept
in his clothes for a month, came up, with a loaf of
coarse bread under his arm, and addressed me, to my
sufficient astonishment, in Latin! He wanted to sit
under my umbrella. I looked at him a second time,
but he had touched my passion. Latin is the only
thing I have been driven to, in this world, that I ever
really loved; and a clear, mellow, unctuous pronunciation
of my dirty companion equally astonished and
pleased me. I made room for him on my trunk, and
though rusted somewhat since I philosophized over
Lucretius, we got on very tolerably. He was a German
student, travelling to Italy, and a fine specimen of
the class. A dirtier man I never saw, and hardly a

finer or more intellectual face. He knew everything,
and served me as a talking guide to the history of all
the places on the river.

Instead of eating all at once, as we do on board the
steamboats in America, the French boats have a restaurant,
from which you order what you please, and at
any hour. The cabin was set round with small tables,
and the passengers made little parties, and breakfasted
and dined at their own time. It is much the better
method. I descended to the cabin very hungry about
twelve o'clock, and was looking about for a place, when
a French gentleman politely rose, and observing that I
was alone, (my German friend living on bread and
water only), requested me to join his party at breakfast.
Two young ladies and a lad of fourteen sat at the
table, and addressing them by their familiar names, my
polite friend requested them to give me a place; and
then told me that they were his daughters and son,
and that he was travelling to Italy for the health of the
younger girl, a pale, slender creature, apparently about
eighteen. I was very well pleased with my position,
and rarely have passed an hour more agreeably.
French girls of the better classes never talk, but the
father was very communicative, and a Parisian, with
the cross of the legion of honor, and we found
abundance of matter for conversation. They have
stopped at Lyons, where I write at present, and I shall
probably join their party to Marseilles.

The clouds broke away after mid-day, and the banks
of the river brightened wonderfully with the change.
The Saone is about the size of the Mohawk, but not
half so beautiful; at least for the greater part of its
course. Indeed, you can hardly compare American
with European rivers, for the charm is of another description
quite, With us it is nature only, here it is
almost all art. Our rivers are lovely, because the outline
of the shore is graceful, and particularly because
the vegetation is luxuriant. The hills are green, the
foliage deep and lavish, the rocks grown over with
vines or moss, the mountains in the distance covered
with pines and other forest-trees; everything is wild,
and nothing looks bare or steril. The rivers of
France are crowned on every height with ruins, and in
the bosom of every valley lies a cluster of picturesque
stone cottages; but the fields are naked, and there are
no trees; the mountains are barren and brown, and
everything looks as if the dwellings had been deserted
by the people, and nature had at the same time gone
to decay. I can conceive nothing more melancholy
than the views upon the Saone, seen, as I saw them,
though vegetation is out everywhere, and the banks
should be beautiful if ever. As we approached Lyons
the river narrowed and grew bolder, and the last ten
miles were enchanting. Naturally the shores at this
part of the Saone are exceedingly like the highlands
of the Hudson above West Point. Abrupt hills rise
from the river's edge, and the windings are sharp and
constant. But imagine the highlands of the Hudson
crowded with antique chateaux, and covered to the
very top with terraces and summer-houses and hanging-gardens,
gravel walks and beds of flowers, instead
of wild pines and precipices, and you may get a very
correct idea of the Saone above Lyons. You emerge
from one of the dark passes of the river by a sudden
turn, and there before you lies this large city, built on
both banks, at the foot and on the sides of mountains.
The bridges are fine, and the broad, crowded
quays, all along the edges of the river, have a beautiful
effect. We landed at the stone stairs, and I selected
a hotel by chance, where I have found seven Americans
of my acquaintance. We have been spending
the evening at the rooms of a townsman of mine, very
pleasantly.

There is a great deal of magnificence at Lyons, in
the way of quays, promenades, and buildings; but its
excessive filthiness spoils everything. One could
scarce admire a Venus in such an atmosphere; and
you can not find room to stand in Lyons where you
have not some nauseating odor. I was glad to escape
from the lower streets, and climb up the long staircases
to the observatory that overhangs the town. From
the base of this elevation the descent of the river is almost
a precipice. The houses hang on the side of the
steep hill, and their doors enter from the long alleys
of stone staircases by which you ascend. On every
step, and at almost every foot of the way, stood a beggar.
They might have touched hands from the quay
to the summit. If they were not such objects of real
wretchedness, it would be laughable to hear the church
calendar of saints repeated so volubly. The lame
hobble after you, the blind stumble in your way, the
sick lie and stretch out their hands from the wall, and
all begin in the name of the Virgin Mary, and end
with “Mon bon Monsieur,” and “un petit sous.” I
confined my charities to a lovely child, that started out
from its mother's lap, and ran down to meet us — a dirty
and ragged little thing, but with the large dark eyes of
the province; and a skin, where one could see it, of
the clearest nut-brown teint. Her mother had five
such, and each of them, to any one who loved children,
would have been a treasure of beauty and interest.

It was holy-week, and the church of Notre Dame de
Fourvières, which stands on the summit of the hill,
was crowded with people. We went in for a moment,
and sat down on a bench to rest. My companion was
a Swiss captain of artillery, who was a passenger in the
boat, a very splendid fellow, with a mustache that he
might have tied behind his ears. He had addressed
me at the hotel, and proposed that we should visit the
curiosities of the town together. He was a model of
a manly figure, athletic, and soldier-like, and standing
near him was to get the focus of all the dark eyes in
the congregation.

The new square tower stands at the side of the
church, and rises to the height of perhaps sixty feet.
The view from it is said to be one of the finest in the
world. I have seen more extensive ones, but never one
that comprehended more beauty and interest. Lyons
lies at the foot, with the Saone winding through its
bosom in abrupt curves; the Rhone comes down from
the north on the other side of the range of mountains,
and meeting the Saone in a broad stream below the
town, they stretch off to the south, through a diversified
landscape: the Alps rise from the east like the
edges of a thunder-cloud, and the mountains of Savoy
fill up the interval to the Rhone. All about the foot
of the monument lie gardens, of exquisite cultivation;
and above and below the city the villas of the rich;
giving you altogether as delicious a nucleus for a broad
circle of scenery as art and nature could create, and
one sufficiently in contrast with the barrenness of the
rocky circumference to enhance the charm, and content
you with your position. Half way down the hill
lies an old monastery, with a lovely garden walled in
from the world: and several of the brotherhood were
there, idling up and down the shaded alleys, with their
black dresses sweeping the ground, possibly in holy
contemplation. The river was covered with boats, the
bells were ringing to church, the glorious old cathedral,
so famous for its splendor, stood piled up, with
its arches and gray towers, in the square below; the
day was soft, sunny, and warm, and existence was a
blessing. I leaned over the balustrade, I know not
how long, looking down upon the scene about me;
and I shall ever remember it as one of those few unalloyed
moments, when the press of care was taken off
my mind, and the chain of circumstances was strong
enough to set aside both the past and the future, and
leave me to the quiet enjoyment of the present. I have
found such hours “few and far between.”