There lay three steamers, shaped, for
all the world, like our last night's rolls. One would think Ichabod
Crane might sit astride one of them and dip his feet in the water.
They ought to be swift. _L'Hirondelle_ (the Swallow) flew at
five; another at six. We leave at nine.
Eleven o'clock. Here we go, down the Saone. Cabin thirty feet by ten,
papered and varnished in invitation of maple. Ladies knitting,
netting, nodding, napping; gentlemen yawning, snoring; children
frolicking; dogs whining. Overhead a constant tramping, stamping, and
screeching of the steam valve. H. suggests an excursion forward. We
heave up from Hades, and cautiously thread the crowded _Al Sirat_
of a deck. The day is fine; the air is filled with golden beams.
More and more beautiful grows the scene as we approach the Rhone--the
river broader, hills more commanding, and architecture tinged with the
Italian. Bradshaw says it equals the Rhine.
At Lyons there was a scene of indescribable confusion. Out of the hold
a man with a rope and hook was hauling baggage up a smooth board.
Three hundred people were sorting their goods without checks.
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