The route after Culoz is considerably elevated. We pass several beautiful waterfalls, and at length cross the Rhone, through whose lovely valley we wind with just sufficient daylight to see its beauties.
"All the hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse:
And now they change: a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the Dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till—'tis gone, and all is grey."
Travelling through the night, we reach Paris at early morn (April 13th), and are sharply reminded, by the severe cold, of the difference in temperature we have lately been accustomed to in sunny Italy; the vegetation and all else is covered with silver frost.
Paris—the gay, beautiful, busy Paris—is as brilliant as ever; every one seemingly bent on pleasure, light and volatile as the air they breathe. In this city life hovers April-like between a tear and a smile! Visiting the great Cathedral of Notre Dame, we witnessed an impressive funeral service. The coffin in the centre of the nave, near the transept, was covered with flowers, and lighted candles were placed around it. The friends and relations having assembled, several priests, deacons, and acolytes appeared, and the service commenced. So far as the priests were concerned it was very mechanical, even to the elevation of the Host, and the sprinkling of the coffin and friends of the deceased with holy water; but the dirge-like chanting in and between the service was very beautiful and solemn. Many coffins were brought in and conveyed to the different chapels within the Cathedral during this service. It would appear that the length of the ceremonies depend upon the amount of money paid for them: but, as in the confessional, the priests profit more, I fear, than either the dead or the living.
On another occasion, we were present at a preparation for the Holy Communion in one of the chapels. Some twenty or thirty young girls, robed in white, with long veils, were sitting together, their friends and relatives seated at some little distance on the other side. The priest having read and lectured, some fine chants were sung by the young maidens, and they were dismissed with a blessing.
While in Paris this time, I was struck with the number of indecent photographs by no means to be confounded with works of art, in the windows of shops in the Rue de Rivoli, and indeed almost everywhere; such photographs, as we should never allow to be exhibited in London, yet here nothing was thought of it. Even ladies stopped to examine them without a blush. Indeed, it appeared to me that such is the impudent immorality and impurity now in Paris, that such an expression as an innocent blush would be difficult to detect, more especially as the conscience—that delicate sympathy of the mind which would cause it to shrink from all that was not perfectly pure and beautiful—is made to retire and give place to reason and materialism. The pleasure and satisfaction of the senses seems to be all that they consider worth living for. Pleasure is God, and both the soul and body bow before it. Poor France, after so much suffering and national disgrace, still fondly hugs the filthy rags of Irreligious Reason, which she sadly calls liberté, equalité, and fraternité.
Next morning (April 14th), we crossed the Channel in delightfully smooth water, and arrived in London safely once more. Dear old London, with all thy fogs I love thee still! Every true Englishman, even after travelling in climates more genial than his own, ever feels a tenderness in returning to his own island home once more. Taken as a whole, there is no city like London; no country or even climate like that of England. Although we have no majestic snow-capped Alps around us, nor the eternal blue skies and sunny climate of Italy, nor the classical and ancient mementoes of Rome and Greece,—yet we have wild mountain scenery, beautiful lakes, lovely undulating and richly timbered landscapes, dimpled by happy homesteads where the silver stream flows sweetly by; and there are our magnificent coast headlands and beautiful seaside resorts, great populous cities, with their splendid public buildings and fine parks. And as a rule, I believe, there is no country so healthy, no life so pure as ours, whatever may be said to the contrary.
In the travels of the last few months, we have seen much of the sublime majesty and loveliness of Nature; the wealth of art treasures in painting, sculpture, and architecture that adorns fair Italy; the inspired works of the gifted men of past ages, so eloquently telling their noble thoughts, expressive of reverence and love for the beautiful—proofs indeed of their great and magnificent genius, and that fair things cannot die. We have also seen something of the wondrous yet sad mementoes of the mighty Pagan nations entombed in their once great cities—vast sepulchres of a splendid past; those Titanic minds which governed in their time the whole of the known world; a few beautiful but crumbling columns, all that is now visible of their glory and conquering power. On such ground we tread lightly, reverencing the great and mighty dead. From these we turn to the young and vigorous Christian nations planted in their stead, and in thus contemplating the past and the present, and the wondrous power and goodness of God, one cannot but be struck with the truth and beauty of the ninetieth psalm, and also exclaim, as did the psalmist, "Lord, what is man, that Thou art mindful of him?"