Sunday in Paris is not a day of rest, or even recreation. The butchers and bakers, grocers and drapers open their shops and push their trade. They are all particular in the way they do their business; the barber and the butcher are provided with a neat office, desk, stove, and a large account book.
We took the banks of the river as far as the Hotel de Ville, now re-built in a grand style after being burnt down by the Communists. The interior of Notre Dame is lost for want of light; we went in and were disappointed. This is also the fault with many of the fine Cathedrals in Italy. They say a church should have that weird and gloomy solemn appearance to sober the minds of the worshippers; if this be so, why store up their costly paintings and sculpture in places where they cannot be seen? Pilgrims visit these grand old churches, and fall into ecstasy over a Raphael or a Guido that they can scarcely discern.
I admired the column of the Bastille when in Paris five years ago; I admired it again, not only for the historical reminiscences, but as the finest column in Paris, which graces the spot where stood for ages the infamous prison of the Bastille.
Wherever you go it is “Liberty, equality, and fraternity”–the Republican motto. The Parisians have repaired or rebuilt the ravages of the Communists (excepting the Tuileries Palace), but now there appears to be nothing new going on, no extension of the improvements commenced by Napoleon III. They live a life of pleasure, and at the present seem to have no further ambition.
An early breakfast on Monday morning, and we left Paris by Lyons and Marseilles railway, traversing the valley of the Seine through the forest of Fontainebleau. Although it was very picturesque we failed to see the giant oak or elm, as in old England. Proceeding south we were soon in the great wine growing district of France. Miles, even hundreds of miles, of broad valleys of vines, with the wine growers’ pretty chateaus and dome shape wine presses and stores. Every station bears the name of some well-known brand. We broke our journey at Macon, a scant town on the Rhone, the birthplace of Lamartine, the dramatist and author.
Always in travelling through France (more particularly in Italy) take care to be in time to register your luggage, a quarter of an hour being required previous to departure of train. Though we arrived five minutes before departure of train at Macon we had to wait four hours, as our luggage had not been registered.
The next day we were on our way to the borders of Switzerland, and had the first view of the snowy mountains of Jura through picturesque valleys of Derbyshire style–but bolder and much more extensive–pretty villages, and thriving-looking factories and water mills. We had some difficulties at the railway junctions, as we found our pure English language was not much appreciated; however, we reached Geneva in the evening, a city built at the foot of the lake of Geneva (Lac Leman), its gardens, villas, and grand hotels nestling on the shores of the placid waters; its dainty shops of jewellery and watches of exquisite design and taste; its wide streets of varied styles of architectural beauty, with lines of shady trees and fountains; its institutions of learning; its conservatoires of music and art, with a very fine modern theatre; and the Hotel de Ville, famous for its conventions and treaties. The principal city in Switzerland–a city that any Englishman would be happy and contented to live in. They have a good government–the best appointed republic in the world,–light taxation. The people are clean, sober, industrious, and well-educated. The shops look thriving, and the inhabitants prosperous.
We took a trip up the lake by steamer to Nyon, one of those very interesting little towns of Swiss type. A fierce little stream rushes down through the town, on its way turning wheels for flour mills, mechanic’s shops, little factories for making that ingenious Swiss wood work we so often see at home in our shops. We had in Nyon examples of old Swiss architecture, little bridges, nooks and corners, turrets and gables, curious windows and balconies, and those little fanciful additions which would appear to have been the sudden impulsive thought of the builder stuck on at an hour’s notice. All the world knows that Geneva is famed for its watches. They make them so small, and yet so perfect, that they are worn in a finger ring. By touching a spring the outer portion of the ring flies open, and displays this perfect pigmy watch. They have also cluster diamond brooches which have internal works which continually keep the diamonds in agitation to give them additional brilliancy.
The grand hotel, Beau Kivage, I can recommend. They look well after your comfort. It stands near the Pont de Mont Blanc, and has the best view of that grand mountain peak, Mount Blanc. It was in this hotel that the Duke of Brunswick lived and died. A very fine monument has been erected in his memory in the gardens opposite. An amusing incident occurred at this hotel. My friend and I were sitting in the reading-room, adjoining the dining-room, waiting for breakfast, as were also a lady and gentleman whom we took to be Germans–they never spoke except in German or French. The gentlemen had opened the door of the dining-room, and continually grumbled in German at the delay, whereupon my friend said to me, “The old buck is in a hurry for his breakfast.” Not the slightest notice was taken of the remark by either lady or gentleman, but when shortly after they were seated opposite us at breakfast they spoke in the purest English. They charge at Geneva one shilling and ninepence for a pint of Bass, but you can get fifty good cigars for four francs,–three farthings each. They are rather particular about money at Geneva. At one of the cafés, when given a half sovereign in payment it was refused as bad money, so we gave them Swiss instead.
As the object of our journey was to find a warmer and more sunny clime, we left Geneva in the early morning. In railway travelling on the Continent they think nothing of turning out at four or five in the morning. You have to do this, or lose half a day. Through winding valleys we began to ascend slowly for Mont Cenis. By mid-day we were amongst the snow. All through this part of France you see the long lines or avenues of poplar trees, stretching for miles along the great roads constructed by the first Napoleon. There is still the one he made over the Alps to take his troops over to Moscow. The railway follows the same valley up to Modane. Modane, a small town near the mouth of the Mont Cenis tunnel, was nearly buried in snow. It was here that we were suddenly robbed of forty-five minutes of our existence. The one side of the clock is 12 noon and the other 12.45, Paris and Roman time. The tunnel is about nine miles long, and you are forty-five minutes in passing through. It strikes the Alps at an altitude of 4000 feet. The Italian side is very wild and bold as you emerge from the mountain–a very deep gorge; villages perched up on the precipitous mountain side–one had been swept away last winter by an avalanche, and the inhabitants with it.