From the Thames to the Tiber or, My visit to Paris, Rome, Florence, Venice, Milan, Switzerland, etc. Joseph Wardle

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suffering, or age. Many of these fiends in human form ran shouting “kill the heretic, kill the heretic! Death to the Huguenots—Kill! Kill!!”

      That day the human seemed to be turned into the fiend. It is said there perished in Paris alone, over 15,000 Christian Martyrs, and in the provinces more than as many more. The sun of that beautiful sabbath shone with its pure light upon the desolate and dishonoured homes of the victims of this terrible massacre; and the air, which should have been hushed from sound until the psalm of praise woke it, bore upon its midnight billows the yell of fierce blasphemers flushed and drunk with murder. Says one, “Unhappy, Paris, thou hast suffered many things since that unhappy time.”

      There are many interesting Churches in this gay city, but I must refrain from dwelling upon their beauty and utility.

CHAPTER III.

       Table of Contents

      Paris: Palace de Concorde: Champs Elysees: The Bois de Boulogne: The extensive Boulevards: The River Seine, etc.: Leaving Paris: Arrive at Dijon: Our Hotel: Dijon, its Churches, etc.: Our journey to Chambery, etc.

      The Place de la Concorde. Here we were pointed out was a place where a terrible struggle took place between the Germans and the French in 1871. The work of devastation and ruin was only too apparent. We drove to the Champs Elysees. This is a most lovely place, with a broad avenue a mile long, with trees on each side of all sorts, and grass lawns and flower beds in the greatest profusion. Here wander carelessly the gay crowds, or sit in beautiful little cafes under the spreading branches of the trees. In the groves around the children are swarming, shouting, and playing. We noticed there was the ever-loved of children, “The Punch and Judy,” also with stalls with toys, gingerbread, etc., etc.

      

When the darkness gathers and the numerous and brilliant gas jets are lighted, stretching for the distance of more than a mile, and music and song float on the air, the scene is very fascinating. It is said, that along this broad avenue, in 1871, Paris with suppressed rage—watched the last of the German army disappear. Our jarvey then drove us to the Bois de Boulogne, which is not far from here. This is a grand promenade for chariots and horses, a little like our Rotten Row, in London. There are here to be seen lakes, islands, caverns, artificial mounds, avenues, and, indeed, everything to make a most charming retreat from the busy city life. The Champ de Mars is another of the open spaces. Napoleon, before the famous battle of Waterloo, held his last review of the grand army of France here. Again, in 1852, 60,000 soldiers were brought together on the occasion of the distribution of eagles to the different regiments, also several Arabs, in native costume, as representative of the vanquished Algerian tribes. And here again, sad to say, in 1871, the Germans levelled their dreadful “mitrailleuse” and shot down, in their helplessness, many of the French. We can hardly leave Paris without saying further that the boulevards of Paris are a great boon and joy to the city. Whatever may be thought or said of the career of Napoleon III., in fourteen years he spent £60,000,000 in building seventy miles of streets and two hundred boulevards, eight churches, eighty schools, twelve wonderful bridges, and planted fifty thousand trees. All added ultimately to the wealth as well as the attractions of the city. To describe the streets is a task I shall not attempt. They are called Rue—as Rue Lafitte, Rue de la Chausse, Rue de la Victorie, Rue St. Dennis. The numerous places and things in and around Paris that call for remarks are legion, but I must forbear, only to give one passing reference to the river Seine and its many bridges. Pont Notre Dame or the bridge of Our Lady, dates from the fifteenth century; a bridge of later date, we were told, was made of wood, and fell into the river taking sixty houses with it. This is a fine bridge built of solid masonry. The Pont d’Arcole is a suspension bridge for foot passengers only. The Pont Neuf was built by Henry IV. There is a bronze horse on the bridge which was cast in Tuscany. On its way to Paris, the vessel bringing it was wrecked off the Norman coast, and lay for a year at the bottom of the sea. It was ultimately fished up and brought to its present position. And now I must leave, for a time at least, any further reference to Paris, only to say we settled our account at the Hotel and drove off to Gare-de-Lyon to catch the train at 10.25 for Dijon. Our driver was a very interesting sort of Frenchman, and tried to explain and show us places and things, but we were little the better for his attempts to enlighten us. We reached the station early, and were soon steaming away through France, and as we did so, we came to the conclusion it was as fair a land as e’er we had set eyes on; miles of lovely lawns; hedges cut and trimmed as if by a barber; the poplar trees rising in rows, long and even, all in order and beauty; then the rivers here and there rolling along, between grassy banks, and the lovely fat looking cattle browsing or sleeping in soft sunshine; cosy cottages, almost buried in bowers of roses; quaint old world villages, with red-tiled cottages; and stately churches with ivy covered towers, made one think of the poet who sang:—

      “Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines,

       O, pleasant land of France.”

      We had very comfortable seats in the train, and our travelling companions, I think, saw we were foreigners, therefore did not trouble us with any conversation. The country scenery we passed was charming, as the autumn tints were visible upon the trees; also the rich corn harvest was gathered in, and stacks of wheat were plentiful. Labourers we could see in the fields tilling the soil for next year’s produce. The country we passed through in our journey from Paris to Dijon (our next stop) is comparatively flat, slightly undulating in places, and I should think the soil is of a rich nature. About 6 o’clock we arrived at Dijon, and soon were out of the train and into the hotel ’bus. We had arranged beforehand our hotel from a list supplied from “Cook & Sons.” Here we had chosen the “Grand Hotel de la Cloche,” or we should call it the “Bell Hotel.” After having secured our apartments—which were of a first-class order, most profusely decorated and richly furnished, and clean beyond description—we had a wash, and found table-de-hote was ready, and we were ready too. A well prepared and well served dinner of eight courses; wines free and abundant to those who cared to have it; indeed, a bottle of the French red wine was placed to each individual at the table; fruit in abundance. A very good company, and apparently very jolly. All were foreigners, either French, German or Italian. After dessert we went for a little while to the smoke room, and then to bed. We slept well until very early in the morning, when a terrible storm of thunder and lightning broke over the town—it was very startling, being so severe. We learned, when at breakfast, that a woman had been struck by lightning close by our hotel; she, however, was not killed.

      Dijon lies in a valley, the river Onche runs through it, and a beautiful undulating piece of land, covered with vines, lies to the left of the town, which is nearly 200 miles from Paris. It has now, I believe, a population of about 50,000. We took the best means of seeing it in the short time at our disposal, by hiring a car. One of the most jolly-looking Frenchmen I ever saw, with a face as round and red as an apple, his horse was just as fat as a horse could be, and he cared for it as if it was human, or even more than some human beings are cared for. He drove us to some lovely gardens where there was a fine lake and a fountain which was then playing. Having my Kodak with me I took a snap-shot, though I regret to say, I did not get a good picture. We drove to the lovely Cathedral of St. Boniface, built, we were told, for the third time in the twelfth century. The spire is very fine, rising to a height of 300 feet. We also visited St. Michael’s, which is Grecian in its exterior, but it is Gothic in its interior. We passed a very old Carmelite Church with rich carving about the entrance, and a fine old carved oak door. On the steps sat two old men resting, typical of the labouring class of France. I just managed to get a snap-shot. There is a fine town hall, which shows itself to great advantage. We learnt it was at one time the Palace of the Duke of Burgundy, and had then a very large collection of scientific and art subjects, and a library of 50,000 volumes. Dijon is one of the loveliest towns of France. It has in it some manufacturies as woollen cloth, blankets, glue, baskets, mustard oil, saltpetre, and there is also a

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