colonnades and on the fine boulevards there is always so
light-hearted and gay a throng, and so much to interest one, that it is
impossible to feel dull. Things here, however, quickly change from gay
to grave. A general officer's funeral passed through the boulevards
where we were standing, followed by a procession in which nearly every
branch of the army was represented. The open hearse, with coffin, was
covered with beautiful wreaths of flowers, among which lay the deceased
officer's sword, honours, etc. The touching expression of regret in the
faces of his comrades, and the respectful reverence evinced by the
people, making it altogether a very impressive sight.

The weather being still so wet, we decided not to remain after the
second day, and on the following morning left Paris by the 9.40 train
for Marseilles. The long journey, occupying some fourteen or fifteen
hours, is exceedingly tedious, and should be broken at Lyons, especially
in the summer-time.

Lyons is one of the largest and most important cities in France, very
interesting in its manufactures, and well worth a day or two's visit.
Unfortunately, like its sister Marseilles, with its huge working
population, it is extremely democratic, and only quite lately has been
the scene of a kind of communistic outbreak. The neighbouring scenery is
very striking and beautiful, in some places grand. We were reminded
somewhat of the Thames at Charing Cross when passing over the noble
bridge, with the great city stretching far and wide, and the numerous
bridges spanning the river. At night the illumination is a pretty and
brilliant sight.

In the summer the journey from Lyons to Marseilles in one of the many
flat-bottomed steamers would be very enjoyable, and a pleasant break to
the pent-up, wearisome railroad.

The scenery much resembles the Rhine, with its high cliffs, richly
wooded promontories, historic and baronial castles, and picturesque
chateaux. The turbulent river in some places dashing wildly by, and
separating two beautiful shores.

"Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights which appear, as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted.
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters,--war within themselves to wage."

How grand and sublime that part of the Rhone must appear, wi