sagreeable feelings of diligence traveling, in
the pleasure which that sight afforded.

We arose in the dark at Lyons, and after bidding adieu to morose
Monsieur Ferrand, traversed the silent city and found our way in the
mist and gloom to the steamboat landing on the Saone. The waters were
swollen much above their usual level, which was favorable for the boat,
as long as there was room enough left to pass under the bridges. After a
great deal of bustle we got under way, and were dashing out of Lyons,
against the swift current, before day-break. We passed _L'Isle Barbe_,
once a favorite residence of Charlemagne, and now the haunt of the
Lyonnaise on summer holidays, and going under the suspension bridges
with levelled chimneys, entered the picturesque hills above, which are
covered with vineyards nearly to the top; the villages scattered over
them have those square, pointed towers, which give such a quaintness to
French country scenery.

The stream being very high, the meadows on both sides were deeply
overflowed. To avoid the strong current in the centre, our boat ran
along the banks, pushing aside the alder thickets and poplar shoots; in
passing the bridges, the pipes were always brought down flat on the
deck. A little after noon, we passed the large town of Macon, the
birth-place of the poet Lamartine. The valley of the Saone, no longer
enclosed among the hills, spread out to several miles in width. Along
the west lay in sunshine the vine-mountains of Cote d'Or, and among the
dark clouds in the eastern sky, we could barely distinguish the outline
of the Jura. The waters were so much swollen as to cover the plain for
two or three miles. We seemed to be sailing down a lake, with rows of
trees springing up out of the water, and houses and villages lying like
islands on its surface. A sunset that promised better weather tinged the
broad brown flood, as Chalons came in sight, looking like a city built
along the shore of a lake. We squeezed through the crowd of porters and
diligence men, declining their kind offers, and hunted quarters to suit
ourselves.

We left Chalons on the morning of the 1st, in high spirits at the
thought that there were but little more than two hundred miles between
us and Paris. In walking over the cold, muddy plain, we passed a family
of strolling musicians, who were sitting on a heap of stones by the
roadside. An ill-dressed, ill-natured man and woman, each carrying a
violin, and a thin, squal