Chapter XXVI

From Modane to Paris--Lovely scenery--St. Michel--St. Jean de Maurienne --Epierre--Paris--Notre Dame--French immorality--La Manche--"Dear old foggy London"--Reflections and conclusion.

After a thorough examination of our luggage by the French authorities, we leave Modane for Paris, a very powerful engine taking us in tow. At Modane the scenery is very grand: fine waterfalls, rocky mountains with great pine forests, and their slopes sometimes enlivened by the pink blossom of the almond tree--a capital place for Alpine climbers.

In consequence of the immense masses of loose overhanging rock, we had to advance slowly and cautiously, and we frequently looked up with some dread lest they should fall upon and utterly crush us. It was interesting to see the congealed waterfalls among the fir-crowned heights above, and some of the great romantic ravines filled with masses of frost-bound snow; while here and there we came upon small wooden crosses, marking the grave of some too adventurous climber or poor peasant guide. By-and-by we pass through a series of short tunnels, great care being necessary, as works are constantly going on to support the weight of the great mountain boulders and to prevent the tunnels falling in; for the water drainage saturates and loosens the masonry. One now obtains some idea of the enormous expenses of the line, and the difficulties contended with it. Descending, we lose for a time the snow-clad hills, which have been our companions for so long; the rivulets join and increase to a rushing, tumbling stream, following madly after us, until we stop at St. Michel, the first station after leaving Modane. Here a great mountain close to us completely covered with snow rendered the air around intensely cold. Continuing our route down into the valley, still accompanied by the lively, chattering stream, now widening into a roaring river, we have a great mountain range on either side, and pass through a lofty narrow gorge. Looking back, I could scarcely discern the cleft in the rocky barrier through which we had come.

And now we see a pretty homely scene among these snow-clad hills. At St. Jean de Maurienne, close to the railway, was a road leading to the valley down which troops of school-children tripped merrily along, led by Sisters of Mercy in their quaint, white winged caps, the healthy, joyous faces of the little ones evidencing to the kindness and care of these good women. What indeed would the inhabitants of these wintry mountain regions, so far from the civilization of great cities, do without their clergy, and the noble sisterhood who devote themselves to a life of usefulness and charity?

Later on we passed through another rocky defile, where we saw a little octagonal chapel perched upon a hilly promontory, overlooking a bridge across the river. Here the great mountain peaks were quite lost in the clouds, and the ruggedness of the scenery was grand in the extreme. Some of the immense pinnacles and jutting rocks were most fantastically shaped, like the residence of some fabled giant, in contrast to the little ruined castles we frequently saw, adding a touch of old-world romance to the landscape:

"The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been
In mockery of man's art."

The valley between the mountains now widens, showing in the distance fertile plains, and now and then a picturesque little village, and other signs of human life and energy. Then again the scenery varies, magnificent snow-clad mountain peaks rising some 7000 or 8000 feet above us. Mont Blanc lies behind this range to the right, but is lost in the clouds--we making our way down to the valley of the Rhone, alone with the rushing stream, nothing else disturbing the silence of the sublime grandeur around.

Almost suddenly we descend to Epierre, where there is a pretty little iron bridge spanning the foaming river. Here the hillsides slope down gradually more and more, and every inch of ground is thriftily cultivated, the industry of the French far exceeding that of the Italians, who are for the most part a careless, easy-going race of beings. At Acquebelle we stopped. The marshes in the neighbourhood render it very unhealthy. At Mont Melian the route lies through fertile plains, the snowy Alps being now almost left behind. The landscape towards Chambery and Viviers is something like the Italian lake district. Passing Aix-les-Bains, we run along the borders of the long narrow lake Bourget, a fine coach road lying between us, affording a very beautiful drive. Aix, the popular watering-place, is celebrated for its sulphurous springs and vestiges of ancient Roman baths there. This was a refreshing change of scenery, but the lake seemed somewhat monotonous after the beauties of Como. At the end of the lake is a small promontory with a castellated building, commanding a fine view of the distant Alps.

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?"