'Approach the dungeon door of the Girondins. Their last night is a banquet; the only hymn, the Marseillaise. A "Follow Camille Desmoulins to his execution. cool and indecent pleasantry at the trial, and a long imprecation on the road to the guillotine, were the two last thoughts of this dying man, on his way to the last tribunal. "Hear Danton, on the platform of the scaffold, at the distance of a line from God and eternity I have had a good time of it; let me go to sleep.' Then to the executioner-You will show my head to the people; it is worth the trouble.' His faith, annihilation; his last sigh, vanity. Behold the Frenchman of this latter age ! "What must one think of the religious sentiment of a free people whose great figures seem thus to march in procession to annihilation, and to whom that terrible minister-death-itself recalls neither the threatenings nor promises of God! "The republic of these men without a God has quickly been stranded. The liberty won by so much heroism and so much genius has not found in France a conscience to shelter it, a God to avenge it, a people to defend it against that atheism which has been called glory. All ended in a soldier and some apostate republicans travestied into courtiers. An atheistic republicanism cannot be heroic. When you terrify it, it bends; when you would buy it, it sells itself. It would be very foolish to immolate itself. Who would take any heed? the people ungrateful, and God nonexistent! So finish atheist revolutions!" XX. SOUTHERN FRANCE. We turned our backs on Paris, one bright and beautiful day, glad to escape from the endless round of vain and frivolous amusement to the quiet scenes and cool breezes of the country. The ride from Paris to Chalons takes a long day, and lies through a country finely diversified now passing long rows of women toiling like slaves in the field, now through tunnels miles in length, and anon driving across beautiful vine-covered plains. On Sunday, the day before, a part of the road had been opened for the first time. Louis Napoleon then the republican president, now the military despot - had made a speech, and signs of the festival, such as flags, wreaths of flowers, evergreens, and mottoes, were seen all along the way. We had all kinds of company -women, with bags containing bread, meat, and wine; jabbering Frenchmen, who kept up a conversation de lightfully unintelligible; children, who felt it duty to cry half the way; and a few men who used an honest tongue. We arrived at Chalons, a town of about fourteen thousand inhabitants, at eleven o'clock at night, and forthwith crowded into an omnibus, which, after an unusual amount of scolding, fretting, snapping of the whip, rolled to a dirty hotel, where we stopped for the night, and at length grumbled ourselves to sleep. Early the next morning, we took a little dirty steamer, which would not be tolerated on the Hudson, for Lyons. The boat started early, and breakfast was to be taken on board, and, very soon after starting, we went down below, where congregated as filthy a company as could be found in Naples. We asked if we could have some breakfast, and were answered in the affirmative. "Well, we will have some beefsteak." "It finished," was the consoling reply. "Well, we will have some bacon." "It finished." "A cup of coffee, then.” "Coffee all finished." Thus we went on asking for one article after another, to each of which the provoking reply was given, "It finished," with the utmost coolness. At length, we learnt that every thing was finished but some hard rolls, a little butter which tasted of garlic so strongly that we could not eat it, and a cup of what was called "tea," and which tasted like herbs say burdocks, steeped in salt water, and sugared with snuff. The sail down the River Saone is very beautiful, and the scenery all along the banks is most delightful, though, perhaps, not equaling the castle-guarded Rhine, which every traveler wishes to see. High hills, covered with vines, cultivated to the very summit, and sloping beautifully to the river; fine villages, sleeping on the shores; little boats gliding up and down; steamers now and then sweeping by, and rippling the waves to the flower-fringed bank on either side, — all render the voyage one of uninterrupted pleasure. At the confluence of the Saone and the Rhone lies the old town of LYONS, where we stopped over night. I was agreeably disappointed in the appearance of this place. It is a well located, cleanly, and pleasant town, and my remembrances of it are most agreeable. We wandered into the old cathedral, a monument of an expiring faith, saw some fine churches, bridges, and public buildings, and here obtained our first view of the majestic Alps, and old, hoary Mont Blanc, with its summit covered with eternal winter. Lyons has two hundred thousand inhabitants, many of whom are engaged in the manufacture of silk, an establishment for which we had the pleasure of visiting. I could but mark the common courtesy of the people of this town, as we moved about from one object of interest to another. We called at a large store, and inquired where we could find a silk manufactory, and how we could obtain admittance. The gentlemanly merchant, though his shop was full of customers, not only gave us all the information we requested, but sent a clerk to show us the way through the long, narrow streets, and introduce us to some persons who would admit us to what we wished to find. The town is well garrisoned, and from the hights on the west formidable fortifications look down with frowns upon the people. The two rivers are spanned by beautiful bridges - suspension, cast-iron, and stone. Leaving Lyons, we take the steamer again, and sail down the Rhone, passing beneath the very bluffs from which the pious Waldenses, the humble followers of Peter Waldo of Lyons, were cast in the fury of persecution. In imagination, I could see these devoted people assembled in the glens, and catch, as we glided by, the smoke of their fires and their shady forms. Swelling from devout lips came rolling down their sublime song, which now rose in wild and thrilling cadence, and anon seemed to die away amid the lofty hills. And there is seen an armed band winding up to the secret place, with stealthy steps and slow, to do there, amid the followers of God, a work of death. All along, the banks of this river are old Roman remains, some of them in a tolerable state of preservation. As we approach Avignon, the seat of the popes when they were banished from Rome, and where their old palace, used for a prison, still stands, we pass under the Bridge of the "Holy Spirit," — the somewhat inappropriate and singular title of the longest stone bridge in the world,-built six hundred years ago, the first bridge ever thrown across the Rhone. It has twenty-six arches, and is the noblest structure of its kind in France. We stopped an hour in AVIGNON, one of the most barbarous places I was ever in. The curse of the popes seemed to rest upon it. There were more officious porters and hackmen at the landing, more officious landlords waiting to take advantage of our ignorance, more crying children in the streets, and more filthy, wretched habitations than I ever saw in any one place in so short a time; and of all the towns and cities which I visited, of but one other have I brought away an impression so unpleasant as of this. Other travelers speak very well of Avignon; but my impression was, that if half of the people could be shut up in the old Popish palace, and the other half could be set to work cleaning the streets, it would be a passable town. At dusk, we left Avignon in the cars for MARSEILLES, where we arrived at ten o'clock. As we neared the town, we secured our first view of the Mediterranean |