Paris.

Dear Charley:—

We started from Geneva in the diligence for Dijon, a long drag of one hundred and twenty miles. The weather was oppressively hot, and certainly the roads could not well be more dusty. We had two very gentlemanly companions, Swiss, who were going to London to visit the exhibition. We entered France about four miles on our way, and came to Ferney, where Voltaire so long resided. We passed Gex, and ascended the Jura; then to La Vattay. The view from the mountain of the lake and Mont Blanc, together with the Alpine range, is never to be forgotten by one who has the good fortune to see it. I feel that I am acquiring new emotions and gathering up new sources of thought in this journey, and that I cannot be a trifler and waster away of life in such a world as that I live in. I find in every place so much to read about, and study over, and think upon, that I now feel as if life itself would not be long enough to do all I should like to effect. One thing is certain, Charley; I cannot be indolent without feeling that, with the motives and stimulus of this tour pressing upon me, I shall be very guilty.

The scenery of this journey has set me thinking; and so I have written rather sentimentally, but truly.

At St. Laurent we came to the French custom-house, and a pretty thorough overhauling they made. I believe the fellows hooked some of our engravings, which they carried out of the room.

Still up, till we reached Morez, the Jura's greatest elevation. The last half was travelled in the night; so I cannot give you the line of march. We got to Dijon about eight in the morning, and only had time to get a hasty breakfast at the railroad station; but we had quite a look at the city before entering the cars for Paris.

Dijon is the capital town of the old Burgundy, and is a fine old place, with nearly thirty thousand inhabitants. Here is a great show of churches, and they seem built for all ages. The Cathedral is a noble-looking edifice. We had no time to see the old ducal palace, which has so many historical events connected with it. We saw some beautiful promenades, but only glanced at them. Bossuet was born here, and St. Bernard only a mile outside the walls, in a castle yet standing.

The new railroad had just been opened to Paris, and is one hundred and ninety-six miles and a half of most capital track. We went through Verrey, Montbard, Nuits, Tonnerre, La Roche, Joigny, Sens, Montereau, Fontainebleau, Melun, to Paris. Montbard gave birth to Buffon, the naturalist. Nuits is famous for the vintage of its own name, RomanÉe, and other choice wines of Burgundy. Near Tonnerre is the chÂteau of Coligny d'Audelot, brother to the admiral massacred on St. Bartholomew's night. Sens is famous for its Cathedral, which is apparently very splendid; and here are the vestments of Thomas À Becket, and the very altar at which he knelt, all of which I wanted to see. Fontainebleau is beautifully placed in the midst of a forest. Here is a palace, and at this place Napoleon bade farewell to the Old Guard, in 1814. This place is celebrated for its grapes, raised in the vicinity. Melun was known in CÆsar's time, and in 1520 was taken by Henry V., of England, and held ten years. We reached Paris on the evening of Saturday, and again occupied our old quarters at the Hotel Windsor. I went off to my favorite bathing-house at the Seine, and felt wondrously refreshed after the heat and dust of more than three hundred miles and two days' journeying.

Yours affectionately,

james.