Monday evening, April 8.... Saturday was a little more diversified. I went at eight o’clock in the morning to Professor Richard’s,[81] who lives near me, examined some plants of Michaux, then took my breakfast, went to the Garden for three or four hours, but returned at two o’clock to see the Chamber of Peers in session, M. Gay having provided me with a ticket of admittance, which procured me a very good seat. The members all wear a kind of court dress, the military peers swords, and those who have them display the insignia of the order of the Legion of Honor, and so forth. Several new peers were admitted, but before they were introduced, a number of peers made some remarks which could not have been very flattering to them, the creation of a new batch just at this time having given much dissatisfaction to the old ones. Among others, I heard a little speech from the famous Marshal Soult. Lord Brougham, who is now in Paris, was present. I recognized him across the room by his homely face, which he is in the habit of twitching and contorting incessantly, as if it pained him. He seemed to listen with much attention.

In the evening I paid a visit to Mr. Spach,[82] looked over plants and so forth until ten o’clock, returned shivering with cold, for the weather here is like March in New York. I am now sitting by a large fire, and yet I am shivering.

Tuesday evening, April 9.—In the morning went to hear Mirbel[83] lecture at the Sorbonne; he speaks so distinctly that I understood him tolerably well in general. The lecture-room is old and incommodious, rather better, to be sure, than the accommodation for the students of the university in the olden time, when they used to sit upon straw spread in the streets, but certainly not very fine. I went afterward to the Ecole de Médecine; heard the professor of anatomy for a few minutes; came away, saw two or three books that I wanted in a stall belonging to a shop, priced them; found the price much higher than I intended to give, so I named the price I would give; was amused with the perseverance of the very genteel madame, who reduced her price down to within seven francs of my offer, and then labored hard to make me take them. I advanced one franc, but utterly refused to give a sou more. “Vous n’êtes pas raisonnable,” says madame. “Je suis très raisonnable,” I replied, “mais votre prix n’est pas raisonnable.” So I left the shop, madame very coolly replacing the books on the shelf, with one eye turned toward me to see if I would relent. I had got some distance down the street when the boy came running after me, to say that I might have the books, “mais ils sont très bon marché.” So much for the way you are obliged to make bargains here. Went to the Garden, returned to dine here, paid a little visit to Mr. Webb, and must write the remainder of the evening.

Thursday evening, April 11.—My approaching departure makes it a very busy time for me. Let me recollect what I did yesterday. I went first to Baron Delessert’s; studied in his magnificent library until about one o’clock; then visited my banker, who is near, drew some money; then to a bookseller to arrange some matters about our “Flora” (which I failed to do); went to the Bibliothèque du Roi, where they have miles of books and acres of manuscripts, but as it was not a public day, I did not see half that I wished. I have made arrangements, however, for a future day. I went next to the post office, and took a place in the malle-post (which is very much quicker than the diligence) for Lyons, to go on Monday; so that the time of my departure is pretty well fixed. I next went to learn the time of the departure of the carriages for Sèvres and Versailles, which places I intend to visit to-morrow. Then I met Chevalier, the optician, by appointment, to consult about microscopes for an hour or two.... Called on M. Gay, with whom I found M. Boissier, a Swiss botanist whom I had often seen at the Garden, and also August St. Hilaire,[84] who returned but a few days since from Montpellier.

On reaching my room at half past ten, I found a note from Mr. Webb, saying that M. Spach had a message for me from Mirbel, and asking me to call if I had time; went immediately, but was too late; Webb had gone to bed. Returned, arranged accounts, etc., and went to bed myself.

To-day I have been, if possible, still more busy; at least I have accomplished more, though I made a bad beginning. The concierge promised to call me at eight, but I awoke myself at nine. Consequently it was past ten before I made my first call, which was upon Mr. Webb, to know when I was to see Mirbel. I called next upon Dr. Montagne to get a letter to the chief curator of the Bibliothèque du Roi, which should afford me the opportunity of seeing this, the largest library in the world, on a private day, namely, Monday, the only public day while I stay being Friday, when I have something else to do. Eh bien. I went next to the Louvre, and saw the other and best half of that most magnificent gallery, my passport giving me a ready admittance.... Suffice it to say I saw very much to admire—some things that I greatly admired—very much I did not allow myself time enough to become interested in, as well as many works of the old fellows that one likes to say he has seen.... Again in a cabriolet to the Ecole de Médecine; looked through the museum, which was to-day open to the public; saw for a moment the examination of a batch of candidates for a vacant professorship by concours; also the examination of students in the same way; then I visited the Musée Dupuytren,—a surgical museum of great extent; then went to the Ile St. Louis (opposite the Garden) to call on M. de St. Hilaire; not at home, so I saved a little time. Next to the Garden; looked on my way at the animals, the hyenas, lions, giraffe, monkeys, etc., besides a few large snakes; then called at Mirbel’s rooms, who took a great deal of trouble to show me most curious things in vegetable anatomy, but of this I will write to your good papa, who will care much more for it than you. After this I saw Decaisne for a few minutes at the botanical gallery; took one of the young lads with me; saw the mineralogical cabinet and that of fossils, which occupy a new and most beautifully arranged gallery. Here I saw many of the famous things I have heard so much of. In the vestibule to this gallery they are preparing a pedestal for a fine and large statue of Cuvier. I went next to Jussieu’s house, talked with him for a few minutes, and bid him good-by. On my way home stopped at Ballière’s, the bookseller, to transact some business; home; dined at half past seven; went to Webb’s, where I like to go of an evening, as I get a good cup of tea (no common thing in Paris), which, after such a day’s work, was very grateful, I assure you; remained until half past nine; returned here, took up my pen, and voici the result; and if I do not write plainly and neatly, it is no great wonder, and I trust you will excuse it, for I have other writing to do also this evening. Besides, I must rise at seven, as I expect another very busy day. On my return this evening, I found a polite note from Delessert[85] accompanying a magnificent present, no less than a copy of three volumes of the “Icones Selectæ.” An invitation for Saturday evening from M. and Mme. Delessert came with it. I am already engaged to dinner, at half past six, for the same day.

JOURNAL.

Saturday morning, half past seven.—[After an account of a visit to Versailles, he goes on:] Now bidding adieu to all this most interesting ground, I took up my march, on foot and alone, for St. Germain, distant about four miles. From the heights of Louveciennes I obtained the first view of the Seine and the lovely and broad valley through which it winds. Here I passed the remains of an elevated and striking aqueduct which conveyed water to a royal château which formerly stood in the neighborhood, and also, I believe, to the village of Marly, through which I passed a little farther on. Then descending rapidly, I reached again the banks of the Seine, the terrace of St. Germain being directly before me. It was now three o’clock. The steep hill was to be ascended by a winding road, and being somewhat leg-weary, I stopped a passing countryman’s cart; the lad who was driving readily gave me a seat by his side, and thus I rode into St. Germain. The lad was quite intelligent, and answered all my questions (when he understood me) very readily. He set me down close by the château. I gave him ten sous for his trouble, and we parted on good terms with each other. The château of St. Germain, which was a chief royal residence before Versailles was built, is more interesting to us as the place where the Stuarts kept their petty court so many years. It is now converted into a military penitentiary, and I was not anxious to examine the interior, as I am informed scarce any of the original apartments or furniture remain. The exterior is striking, quite of the old style, built of the same red bricks as the central portion of Versailles. What is most worth seeing here is the terrace, a beautiful park, extending for almost two miles along the brow of the high ridge, with the most beautiful view from it of the valley beneath and before you, the hills that bound your view, and the numerous villages scattered here and there. A finer situation cannot be imagined. The Seine, after passing Paris, makes a bold, double turn. The view extends quite to Paris (fifteen miles) though the city is nearly concealed from view, yet you see the grand Arc de l’Etoile distinctly. In the summer it must be surpassingly beautiful. At four o’clock I descended the steep declivity to the commencement of the railroad, took a little refreshment; at twenty minutes past four we started in cars propelled by steam, and in an hour I was in Paris and taking my dinner at the Restaurant Colbert. A pretty good day’s work!

Saturday, went to dine at Mr. Webb’s; a little party,—a bachelors’ party, for Webb is single,—consisting of Dr. Montagne, M. Berthelot, M. and Mme. Ramon de la Sagra, M. Spach and his wife, and a young Spaniard whose name I do not recollect. Webb is quite a polyglot; he speaks French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Modern Greek, and I know not what besides his mother tongue. At half past nine I left, took a cabriolet for Delessert’s, where I had been invited to an evening party; found there several botanists and persons I knew. Delessert received me cordially, introduced me to Madame D., who I was rejoiced to find spoke English very well. The suite of rooms thrown open was very splendid, and communicating with the last was a pretty greenhouse, filled with vigorous plants, all in fine bloom; the whole, carpeted and lighted, presented a most inviting appearance. The brothers Delessert are said to be very rich, and I suppose can well afford such an expensive establishment. The party broke up at eleven. Besides tea, which is quite English, though the French are getting more into the custom of using it we had ices, etc., but nothing else. The whole affair was conducted without any parade and in quiet good taste....

Notabilia varia.—Ellimia, Nutt., was described a little before us by two authors under two different names: First by Cambessides in Jacquemont’s Travels, under the name of Oligomeris; second by Webb and Berthollet, “Histoire Naturelle des Iles Canaries,” under the name of Resedella; Webb has Jacquemont’s plant from the Himalaya and his own growing together; they are absolutely the same. I am to examine them soon, but have scarce a doubt they are even the same species as ours. Webb has promised me a specimen. It is also the Reseda glauca of Delile ex Egypto. It is curious that the plant should at the same time be described from almost every part of the world, and not less so that the three names hit upon should have all meant the same thing, namely, a reduced reseda.

I have just spent the evening with Gay. He is publishing Carices in “Annales des Sciences Naturelles:” has hit upon some of Boott’s notions; but not all. He is a laboriously minute observer, and will do pretty well, but like Boott inclines to make too many species. He insists upon describing the small form of C. Hitchcockiana from Dr. Sartwell and Kentucky as a distinct species, in which he may be right. He wished to name it after me, but I declined the honor, and have transferred it to Dr. Sartwell, the discoverer, whose name it is to bear....

Delessert received me very kindly when I called on him. I must call again soon, and consult especially his rich library. He showed me a list he had just ordered from New York; among which of course was our “Flora.” I should have offered him a copy, but now it is scarcely worth while.... I shall not see De Candolle here. Delessert does not expect him until May. I shall leave the books and parcels for him with Delessert, and make De Candolle take back to Geneva with him all my parcels that I do not wish to take with me to the south.

April 2, evening, or rather April 3, as it is past midnight.—I have worked to-day as hard as I could jump from ten to half past five o’clock at the herbarium général of the Museum de Paris, and have finished. Apart from Michaux’s plants, of which they have nearly a set distributed, they are wretchedly poor in North American species; almost none of Lamarck and Poiret. I except the plants given by LeConte, Torrey, etc., which are arranged but not incorporated. The present Gallery of Botany is exceedingly fine and spacious, and well planned. I have gone carefully through all Michaux’s herbarium (from your limited time you have made some bad slips in the Carices of Michaux, which Gay, I am sorry to say, has found out), noting all dubious matters to be settled by examination of Richard’s set. I have gone through De la Pylaie’s herbarium completely and carefully; I have examined the herbarium given by Humboldt,—not complete but said to be as large as Kunth’s own set or more so, and labeled by Kunth; I have looked at everything here which I thought could interest us, but some I found not, such as Cercocarpus; I have examined some other separate sets of the same kind. I am now ready to glance through Jussieu’s herbarium, which is said to contain many Lamarck and Poiret; to spend a little time in Richard’s, a few hours more for Desfontaines at Webb’s, and perhaps Berlandier’s[86] plants, though these are distributed through Webb’s immense collection; this I can do, however, in evenings. Then a morning or two at Delessert’s, which will be more occupied with examination of books than plants, will, I believe, finish. Webb has promised to give me some plants of Labilliardière, whose herbarium he bought, as he did Mercier’s, in which he got many of Nuttall’s plants. He has also a collection of Lady Dalhousie’s from North America, all Drummond’s, etc., etc.; so he is pretty rich in North American plants, but they are not all arranged yet. Webb has most generously presented me with a complete copy of L’Héritier’s Works (in sheets) except the “Cornus,” which I have this day bought of the Jew Meilhac, and for which I was obliged to give six francs. I shall have the whole bound in two large folio volumes: “Cornus” and “Sertum Anglicum” in one, “Stirpes Novæ” and “Geraniologia” in the other. I think thus far that the few copies of the “Flora” I have given away have turned to good account. I meant to go to Jussieu to-morrow, but Webb has made an appointment with me to see Dr. Montagne (muscologist, etc.) and his microscope, which is one of the latest and best of Chevalier, and will enable me to decide if I may venture upon one for Sullivant.

On Saturday Decaisne told me, almost by accident, that he was to do the Asclepiadeæ for De Candolle’s “Prodromus,” at the same time showing me a paper of his on the family that I was unacquainted with, much to his surprise, but he at once gave me a copy. You must know, that although I knew nothing scarcely of this family when I left you, and now know little as to general structure, yet I pride myself a little on my researches in extricating the synonymy of the species in London, in Herbarium Linnæus, Hort. Clift., Herbarium Gronovius, Banks, Walter and Pursh, and here of Michaux. Accordingly on Monday (yesterday) Decaisne and myself had a regular examination of all the species we could find here, and I furnished him with all my notes upon the synonymy, and left with him those I had with me from your herbarium, to be returned to London in September next. Decaisne has been with me also all this evening.

I find that very many of the pamphlets we have sent from time to time have miscarried, particularly the copies of my “Ceratophyllaceæ,” sent by Castilneaux, and, what is mortifying, Guillemin and Jussieu received copies, but Brongniart and Decaisne none. I have just sent my only remaining copy here (for you sent me none) to Brongniart,[87] with an explanation.

There is a second species of Podophyllum from Cashmere or Himalaya, P. Emodi, also collected by Jacquemont, from whose specimens Decaisne has given me a piece. What is most curious, it is sixandrous, and therefore comes into Berberideæ except in wanting the dehiscence of the anthers by valves (which Decaisne tells me is also the case in Nandina), and so Robert Brown’s views are confirmed. I should not wonder if the sly old chap had seen a specimen from Wallich when he appended the note to the “Congo Voyage” on Berberideæ.

Thursday evening, April 4.—Yesterday saw Dr. Montagne, the muscologist, and examined his microscope thoroughly, which is one of the latest and best of Charles Chevalier’s. To-day I spent the morning at Jussieu’s, looking up Lamarckian species, etc., in A. L. de Jussieu’s herbarium; was very successful in Hypericum, but have no time now to give you details. In the afternoon Webb, by appointment, met me at the Garden, and we went to see Mirbel,—a man well worth seeing, I assure you. Webb acted as interpreter, when it was necessary, for Mirbel speaks with such distinctness that knowing what he was about I could understand him pretty well.

I like Mirbel excessively. Considering I was a perfect stranger, of whom he knew nothing, I think he took great pains to show me what I wanted to see. Sullivant’s microscope will be of the same kind as his, only better, so that he will have the means of being a second Mirbel. Examined his microscope, which is a good one, but I think not equal to the best English; got some good hints, etc.; am to call again. He is very communicative, and you missed much in not seeing so extraordinary a man. He showed me a series of drawings and engravings on which he has been long engaged, for a mémoire on the structure of roots,—splendid drawings; and he explained to me what I before could not form a clear idea about, how the curious emboîtement or thickening of the walls of cells takes place by the development of new cells within the old. He showed me what I at once recognized as the so-called gridiron-tissue which I had seen in England, and I noticed that he explained it in the same way as Brown. He promised me copies for self and friends of the late paper of his on Embryologia in the “Comptes Rendus,” just now read before the Institute (which will also be published with a part of the plates in the “Annales des Sciences Naturelles” and finally completely in “Archives du Muséum “), in which he says he has completely upset the new-fangled notions of Schleiden, Unger, etc. (adopted by Endlicher); and, what is remarkable, his investigations on the subject were made before he knew of their views, and the publication is only a little hastened on account of theirs. This evening I have been with Webb, looking up Desfontaines and Poiret plants, also some of Spach. Did I tell you I have seen a good deal of Spach of late? He does not agree well with the other botanists of the Garden; but there are some good points about him, and he is mending every day. I pushed him rather hard upon some of his bad ways, particularly that of his changing specific names, which he bore very well. Webb says he is now falling into an opposite extreme as to species, and will hardly admit anything to be distinct; but Webb himself rather inclines to multiply species, I believe. I am to meet Spach at his place in the Garden to-morrow morning. He is married, lately, to Miss Legendre, a relative of Mirbel’s, who made his drawings in Marchantia, etc.,—indeed the best botanical artiste in Paris. What a fine library Jussieu has! And what a capital advantage it is to have a great botanist for one’s father! I particularly envy Jussieu his collection of botanical pamphlets, which fill a large cabinet, all arranged in families, etc., the largest collection of the kind in the world, Jussieu thinks. He gave me to-day a little print of his father taken in the year his “Genera Plantarum” was published. He told me, what I did not know before, that Bernard de Jussieu superintended the publication of Aublet’s “Plantes de la Guiane.” I could buy that work rather cheap, but think I must refrain. I bought to-day Schreber’s edition of the “Genera Plantarum,” two francs, two vols. in one, bound, for myself (you have it, I believe), and a second copy of “Linnæi Species Plantarum,” ed. 3 (which is the 2d Holm., as you know, reprinted paginatim at Vienna). I gave five francs, and shall put it down for Sullivant, who should have it, unless indeed you desire to keep it yourself. I have bought (ten francs) the first four vols. of “Mémoires de l’Institut,” 4to, bound, for library of Michigan. Ventenat’s mémoire of Tilia is contained in one, also other botanical papers, and some good old chemical ones, etc. Webb is to put up for me a small parcel of Labilliardière’s New Holland plants.

I have bought L’Héritier’s “Cornus,” so now I have the whole complete, and must get it all bound.

P. S.—I have just discovered that the copy of L’Héritier’s is imperfect. I feel confident that Webb knows it not, and I of course cannot tell him. I shall have all bound up in one thick volume.

Monday evening, April 8.—I finished early this morning, at Richard’s, the examination of those species upon which Michaux’s herbarium is not satisfactory. Richard boasts of his set as the authentic one (which is true), but it is not as complete nor as good as the other, which is partly owing to Richard having divided with Kunth when he could. Michaux must have made a capital collection, since it has moreover supplied the general herbarium with a pretty extensive set, and Desfontaines and Jussieu with many; others I meet in the Ventenat herbarium (Delessert). They say De Candolle has some of Michaux’s plants, and who besides I know not....

But I have something better than all this to tell you. I have discovered a new genus in Michaux’s herbarium—at the end, among plantæ ignotæ. It is from that great unknown region, the high mountains of North Carolina. We have the fruit, with the persistent calyx and style, but no flowers, and a guess that I made about its affinities has been amply borne out on examination by Decaisne and myself. It is allied to Galax, but “un très-distinct genus,” having axillary one-flowered scapes (the flower large) and a style like that of a Pyrola, long and declined. Indeed I hope it will settle the riddle about the family of Galax, and prove Richard to be right when he says Ordo Ericarcum. I claim the right of a discoverer to affix the name. So I say, as this is a good North American genus and comes from near Kentucky, it shall be christened Shortia, to which we will stand as godfathers. So Shortia galacifolia, Torr. and Gr., it shall be. I beg you to inform Dr. Short, and to say that we will lay upon him no greater penalty than this necessary thing,—that he make a pilgrimage to the mountains of Carolina this coming summer and procure the flowers. Please lay an injunction upon Nuttall, that he publish no other Shortia, and I will do the same to Hooker in a letter that I am now writing. Indeed I think I will tell him some of its chief peculiarities, and then give him leave to publish the extract in the “Annals of Natural History” if he thinks it worth while.[88]

I attended a meeting of the Institute this afternoon. An election of a correspondent took place, which ran very close between Charles Buonaparte and Agassiz, but the latter carried it!

I must not forget to tell you about the Loganiaceous plant from Florida, for so Decaisne, to whom I gave leave to sacrifice a flower for drawing, has determined it to be; so Brown’s hint is confirmed. There is something rather queer about the style, which, as Brown’s “Prodromus” is not before me, I cannot say is also the case in any of the subgenera or genera he has indicated.

Euploca, Decaisne says, is certainly apocyneous. Nuttall, I believe, places it in Boragineæ.

April 9.—I heard Mirbel lecture to-day, commencing his course at the Sorbonne. He is a very good and clear lecturer, of the colloquial sort, and illustrates very well by rapid sketches on the blackboard. I believe you did not see him. In the contour of his features and in expression he is a good deal like Dr. Peters, except that his countenance is more attenuated, his features small and very little prominent, and his complexion light. At the Ecole de Médecine I was not fortunate enough to hit the chemical professor. I heard a portion of a lecture in the anatomical theatre, but soon came away.

I have had another fine lesson from Mirbel. He showed me all the drawings of the paper, of which I send three copies. I quit to-day.

Lyons, Wednesday evening, April 17, 1839.

At six o’clock precisely the malle-postes for every part of France began to leave, one after the other: that for Lyons came up; our baggage all in, our seats selected and arranged for us, in ten seconds we were in our places, and before the word adieu was fairly beyond my lips we were off at full speed. We took the route by Burgundy, passed Sens in the night, breakfasted at six next morning at Auxerre, and during the day should have passed through Autun, but I believe we did not; passed Châlons-sur-Saône at dusk, and arrived at Lyons at six precisely the next morning,—a rather fatiguing ride, but I saved much time over the diligence, which would have been even more fatiguing. The mail-coach takes four passengers only, three inside and one with the conducteur; it is drawn by seven horses guided by a postillion, in boots almost as high as himself, and the horses are changed every five miles or thereabouts. The time it took to change the horses I believe never exceeded a minute. I timed them once or twice by the watch, and we were moving again before the expiration of the minute. The country through which we passed was more fertile and in better cultivation than what I saw of Normandy; it was beautiful but monotonous, except the latter part, which grew quite picturesque as we approached the Rhone and the rivers that fall into it....

Lyons is finely situated just above the confluence of the Saône and the Rhone, occupying the space between the two rivers and also the other bank of the former. It has two beautiful and very steep hills, between which the Saône winds, which add much to its appearance....

April 25.—I broke off here some time ago, and left a space which I intended to fill up the first spare moment, by telling you what I saw at Lyons; what kind of a town it is; how I might possibly have seen Mont Blanc from it had it not been a rainy day; how I called on Seringe,[89] saw the little botanical garden, took notice of many little contrivances, particularly the way he keeps the aquatic plants wet; how he went with me to the Académie of Lyons, the branch of the University of Paris.... I could also describe the manufacture of velvet, which I also saw, but for all these things time does not permit; a good opportunity of sending to New York occurring to-morrow morning. So I must leave the hiatus....

I was called this morning at a quarter before four; went down to the steamboat, which was to start promptly at five, but which did not until half an hour later,—a narrow comfortless vessel, with no awning or protection for the decks, in which point, and in the lack of all comfortable arrangements, it is just like every other steamboat I have seen since I left New York, those between Liverpool and Glasgow alone excepted. The Rhone, even at Lyons and far below, merits pretty well the epithets applied to it, where it “leaves the bosom of its nursing lake,”—“the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,” for it is rapid the whole course. At Lyons it has a blue tint like that of the ocean, though not so deep. Well, we were off at length, and aided by the current we made very satisfactory progress. The distance by post between Lyons and Avignon is one hundred and sixty-seven miles, but including all the turnings of the river it must be much more; however, at six o’clock and a quarter the spires and battlements of Avignon, lighted by the setting sun, were in sight, and a beautiful sight they were as we drew near. The wall of the city, built by Pope Innocent VI. in the twelfth century, is still perfect, and very pretty, the architecture being what I should have thought. Moorish (judging from pictures merely); the numerous spires of this very ecclesiastical town rising above it; the huge rocky elevation next the river,—the site of the ancient fortress, and of old temples, churches, etc.,—and not least the ruined bridge of very ancient date, that still throws its beautiful arches half across the river, the lovely Italian landscape around, so fresh and green, the distant mountains encircling the whole, made it altogether as delightful a scene as one could wish to behold. But you must know that I am now in the region of the olive and myrtle, and have in the short space of three days concentrated, as it were, the pleasure we experience in watching the gradual approach of summer. The season is said to be later than usual at Paris; it is like April in New York,—a few warm days, but the evenings all chilly and most of the days raw and unpleasant, The horse-chestnut trees of the Tuileries were just bursting their buds; but every hour since, and particularly to-day, I have noticed little by little the advance. Here nearly all the trees have assumed their foliage,—that pure and delicate vernal foliage which we always so much admire, but which you enjoy very much to come upon in the way I have done, instead of waiting week after week, with every now and then a snowstorm, just to keep winter in remembrance. But I must not forget that I have seen snow also to-day. The summit of Mont Ventoux, which we have had in full sight since twelve o’clock, is covered with snow, its brilliant whiteness contrasting finely with the craggy brown mountains of lesser elevation, as with the green fields and tender foliage of the valleys. There is nothing very grand in the scenery of the Rhone from Lyons to this place. The upper portion is very much like the Hudson between New York and the Highlands, but I think scarcely as fine, if you make due allowance for the effect of the old villages, etc. (not half so comfortable as ours surely, but much better adapted to improve the beauty of the landscape), with now and then a gray ruin, which is a vast improvement. But from Tournon quite to Avignon, the scenery quite surpasses the Hudson, and exhibits such variety, moreover, that you are charmed continually: now bold and magnificent even; again, picturesque, particularly where the basaltic rocks, for it is wholly a volcanic country, form parapets like the Palisades, but much more curious and diversified, the more friable material being worn away in places, leaving columns and salient portions in all fantastic shapes. And again, especially in the lower portion, we see the hills widely separated, leaving most beautiful broad valleys between, with high mountains for a distant background. At St. Esprit we passed under the curious old bridge built in the eleventh century, which is still in as perfect a state apparently as if finished but yesterday. It is three thousand feet long, and is said to be the longest bridge in Europe; it consists of twenty-six arches, and each abutment has also a little arch above it. We passed other very pretty or striking views of which I should like vastly to have good prints, but I do not know whether any person has of late been illustrating the Rhone. But I must come to a close, not to fatigue you longer. I arrived at the most excellent Hôtel du Palais Royal (recommended by Bentham) just in time for the table d’hôte at seven o’clock, and after dinner sallied out, with a guide to conduct me to see Requien,[90] to whom Bentham had given me a letter. I found him a prompt man, and in almost ten words we settled my plan for to-morrow, which is to start in a cabriolet for Vaucluse at five o’clock in the morning, arrive at eight, spend two hours, breakfast, and return here by one o’clock; spend the afternoon and evening in seeing the most interesting objects in town, looking at his collections, his pictures, etc., etc. What would you give to see Vaucluse? I have many doubts whether it will equal my expectations, which are raised by the description; according to the account it must be very curious and strange, apart from the associations of the place, which here pass for little with me, as I feel no interest at all in Petrarch or Laura, whoever she may have been.

Avignon, Friday evening, April 19, half past eight o’clock.

I think you will scarcely call me an idle lad. It was about midnight when I went to bed last night; I was called this morning at half past four; a few minutes past five I was on my way in a cabriolet for Vaucluse, with a very lazy horse, so that it was nine o’clock when I arrived. I visited the famous fountain, admired the rocks, etc.; collected a few plants as a souvenir; took my breakfast, a very substantial one, consisting in part of delicate trout from the stream which issues from the fountain; left at eleven, arrived at Avignon again at half past two; saw the Requien museum of antiquities, which is rich, the paintings, the little botanic garden; saw also Requien’s library and collection of plants, etc; made arrangements for correspondence; climbed the rocky hill which overlooks the town and river; enjoyed the view; visited the cathedral (a small affair) which stands upon it; saw the old papal palace, now converted into a prison; returned to the Hôtel Palais Royal, and a most excellent hotel it is, which I hope you will patronize the first time you come to Avignon; dined at seven, having first secured a place in the diligence for Nîmes at ten o’clock this evening, where I hope to arrive by daylight and be ready to go on the same day to Montpellier, where I prefer to pass the Sabbath. Now I think this is doing pretty well....

Montpellier, Saturday evening, April 20, 1839.

At twelve o’clock I left Nîmes; rode through a highly fertile and level country, mostly occupied with vineyards, getting now and then a distant view of the mountains of Cevennes on the right, and soon of the Pic San Loup, by which I knew we were not very far from Montpellier. At this last place we arrived at five o’clock precisely, and here I am quartered at the most comfortable hotel imaginable, the Hôtel du Midi. All my stopping-places being indicated to me by Bentham, I have no difficulty in choosing where to stop. Here you are not put into a little seven by nine chamber up five pairs of stairs, as is the inevitable lot of a single man traveling in the United States, but I have a room like a large parlor, airy, the two windows looking into a pretty shady garden, a sofa, cushioned chairs, and every convenience you can think of. The town itself has nothing pleasant except its situation, but there are in it two delightful spots, which I sought at once, after having taken my dinner,—the Esplanade, very near me, an elevated plateau planted with trees, from which you have an extensive view of the country around. From this I had my first view of the Mediterranean, distant, I suppose, about eight miles! At the opposite side of the town is the Place du Peyrou, one of the finest squares in the world, on a fine elevation, descending by bold terraces into the country around, the green fields coming up on one side close to the parapet. The view is beautiful and very extensive, the Mediterranean on one side, the Pic San Loup and the mountains of Cevennes on the other, while toward the south, it is said, the Pyrenees may be seen in very clear weather. From this point I discovered the Botanic Garden, the oldest in Europe and in many respects still the finest. So I descended, sought out Delile the director, who it seems expected me, and expressed his delight in a most exaggerated and truly French manner. I stayed with him until nine o’clock; returned here, commenced this, but being fatigued soon gave it up and went to bed.

Monday morning, April 22.—Nearly all of the foregoing has been written this morning; but I cannot stay longer, as I should be stirring. There are many Protestants in Montpellier, it is said, but I fancy that they are chiefly not very pious, and as I should not understand the language well enough to be benefited, I thought it better to spend the Sabbath by myself. This was my first Sabbath on land in which I have not attended divine worship conducted in the English language.

Tuesday morning, April 23.—As early as possible in the morning yesterday I called on Lady Bentham, the mother of my good friend who has taken so much pains to aid me and her daughter, Madame Duchesnil; they live quite retired, and are occupied in directing the education of the son of Madame Duchesnil, a fine lad of about thirteen.... The ladies received me with great cordiality. I prolonged my call to an hour, and accepted an invitation to take tea with them this evening.... I went to the Garden, called upon M. Dunal,[91] the best botanist here, who, having lived single to the age of I should say fifty years, has found out that it is not good to be alone, and has just taken a wife. I did not stay very long, as I found when I called that he was not in his study, but I suppose in his drawing-room, and I could not be so cruel as to keep him from the company of his beloved.

I called next upon Delile,[92] but as he was not in, I spent a long time in looking over the Garden, noticing all the little details and arrangements that it would be useful for me to know. On his return we spent the remainder of the afternoon in looking over his plants collected in America. I dined with him at six o’clock, and spent nearly all the evening.... They have not water enough, however, to supply the Botanic Garden sufficiently, which has a very barren soil, and in this dry climate, where it seldom rains from this time till October, it suffers greatly. The first view of this garden is very striking, but upon a more careful observation I see less to admire. Still I learn some thing from every garden I visit.

Previously to calling on Lady Bentham I had accepted an invitation to dine this evening with Captain Gordon, a retired officer of the British army residing here, a friend of the Bentham family, who, hearing from Lady Bentham and Delile that I was soon expected here, called par hasard at the Hôtel du Midi, to request that they would send him word when I arrived. On finding me he insisted on my dining with him this evening. I have this moment, while I was writing, received a note from Lady Bentham, asking me to call on her this morning, saying she has a collection of plants made by herself for her son George at some interesting locality among the mountains, a set of which she is to have ready for me, knowing, as she says, that George would surely offer them to me. Although I had arranged my time a little differently, of course I shall call immediately after breakfast. Lady B., who is now very aged, is evidently a very superior woman; she is a very good botanist also, therefore, as I do not know the plants of the south of Europe very well, I am a little afraid of her.

Marseilles, April 25, Thursday evening.—I broke off my narrative on Tuesday morning, two days ago. I must continue my brief account, and then close my letters to send from this port. After breakfast, Captain Gordon called on me, and we went together to Lady Bentham. We found his dinner hour so late that we were obliged to give up the expectation of returning to take tea with the ladies here. Delile joined us, and soon after I went with him to see the museum of painting and sculpture, which, by a curious circumstance, is the richest in France, except that of Paris. There are not a few of originals of great masters; two or three Raphaels; as many of Salvator Rosa, Rubens, Poussin, Carlo Dolci, etc., many of which I know from engravings. We went next to the Medical School, which occupies the former palace of the archbishop, who was ousted at the time of the revolution. This is one of the oldest medical schools, and for a long time very celebrated. It is declining now; they have no professor of very great talent at present, except Lallemand. I was shown the gallery of portraits of the professors from the commencement almost, a prodigious number, and some of the old fellows very queer to look at. I saw also the library, the collection of manuscripts, classical, theological, a few Persian, Arabic, etc., which fell into their hands some years ago.

Thence we went to the Garden, looked at plants, but did not get on very much, Delile being fonder of telling long stories, complaining all the while how much he is pressed by his avocations, than of working hard. I then arranged my baggage, took a place in the diligence for Marseilles, called again on Lady Bentham, to take leave; dined with Captain Gordon, returned, and went to bed.

Rose on Wednesday (yesterday) morning at half past four; took diligence at five, arrived at Nîmes at half past ten; had time to take another survey of the Amphitheatre, the Maison Carrée, and so forth; took breakfast at half past eleven; off again at twelve, passed in sight of Beaucaire and Tarascon; crossed the Rhone, here a large river, near its mouth at Arles, a curious old town which has nothing modern about it, and thus was again in Provence. The court of Constantine the Great was for several years at Arles, which was celebrated for its refinement, and the women and children are said to be still handsome and graceful. Certainly nearly all I saw, young or old, were comely, and many handsome. They are all brunettes, and not a little sunburnt; but their black hair, large dark eyes, and long eyelashes appear to advantage. We were soon on the road again, traveled over an immense plain, bordered on the north by a long ridge of mountains, composed of naked jagged rocks,—a picturesque range, in fine contrast to the fertile plain from which it abruptly rises. They are, I believe, the mountains of the Durance. At length the plain became as barren as the mountains; night came on, and rather late in the evening we reached Aix, took our supper.... I slept pretty well, and when I awoke we were in sight of the town and bay of Marseilles, the latter superb as seen from the elevated place of our view; but the town did not present such an imposing view as I had been taught to expect....

Genoa, April 27, 1839. Saturday evening.—I have just finished my afternoon and evening stroll through this, to me, the first Italian city: the birthplace of Columbus, the city of the Dorias, the rival and even the conqueror of that other proud republic of the Middle Ages, Venice, in remembrance of which, huge pieces of the chains which were employed to bar the harbors of the latter city are suspended from the gates of Genoa. We arrived in the bay before twelve o’clock to-day, and during our gradual approach to the town enjoyed the view to the full; both the distant view and the near are very fine,—equal, I may say, to what I expected, which is saying a great deal. As seen from the bay it certainly deserves the name its citizens long ago gave it,—Genoa the Superb. You have the whole completely before you in one view, the buildings rising one behind the other, the fortifications that overtop the whole, with the vast mountain amphitheatre for a background.... You are not much disturbed with the rattling of carriage wheels here. With the exception of one street, and this a new one (Strada Nuova) at least as to its present dimensions, they are barely wide enough for a wheelbarrow, and mostly too steep for a carriage, even if they were wider. The houses are very high; six, seven, or eight stories being very common, indeed usual, so that the streets are mere chinks or crevices. I found the same advantage from this in Avignon and the other towns of the south of France, that is, the perfect protection afforded these warm days from the heat of the sun. You are sure of shade; and the air is so dry that none of the inconvenience and unhealthiness results which would surely be the case in other countries. I am at the Hôtel des Etrangers, not far from the quay, and my room, five or six stories high, looks down upon the harbor and bay. It is nine o’clock in the evening. The light is burning quietly in the light-house, a tall and very slender column at the entrance of the harbor, forming a beacon which is visible far and wide. I don’t know as I may say that