Monaldeschi, maimed, bleeding, and mangled as he was, crawled towards him. But there was no reprieve. The almoner only confessed and absolved him over again; and the chief of the assassins, plunging his sword into his neck, silenced his lips for ever, although he did not cease to breathe for a quarter of an hour.

Perhaps it may be said that this anecdote is too well known to demand even the above slight abridgment from the minute detail given by Father Lebel himself.

CHAMPAGNE.

WE set out for the nearest point on the Seine, by a little country voiture, one of the most primitive-looking carriages we have yet seen, but the only public conveyance to the place where passengers sailing down the river, and whose destination is Fontainebleau, land from the steam-boat.

On resuming our voyage up the river, we found that a considerable improvement had taken place in the character of the scenery. Indeed, there is perhaps no portion of the Seine in the course of which a greater multitude of sites of greater beauty are to be found. The banks are bold and picturesque; the hills on either side are covered with wood, and numerous seats and villages appear as we pass, with gardens arranged in terraces on the steep slopes above them. By degrees, however, as we proceed, the land begins to sink, and continues to grow tamer and tamer. The banks by and by are so flat, and their line so indefinite, obstructed perpetually by stones and sand-banks, that we can hardly believe we are really travelling on a great water-road. At length we reach Montereau, at the confluence of the Seine and the Yonne, where the former river retains little else than the name to remind us of our associations of grace and beauty.

This is a compact little town, with so much bustle in its principal street, that the traveller guesses its population at much more than the reality-somewhere about three thousand. It possesses nothing, however, worth remark, except, perhaps, a Gothic church, in which is preserved the sword

of Jean sans Peur, Duke of Burgundy, who was assassinated here in the year 1419, in the presence of the Dauphin of France, afterwards Charles VII. The scene of this murder was one of the bridges of the town, long since destroyed and replaced.

During a portion of the year, a small steam-boat performs the voyage between Montereau and Nogent; but the water was at this time so low, on account of the extreme heat of the weather, that her operations were entirely suspended. We therefore set out in a voiture for the little town of Bray, which is about half way, trusting to Providence for the remainder of the journey, as no public carriage runs upon the road, and private ones, we heard, were sometimes difficult to be had.

The scenery improved a little as we proceeded, but only enough to avoid remark one way or other. Our fellowpassengers (who were neither lords nor peasants) had not a word to say for themselves; the conducteur was a solemn lump of humanity, and as empty as solemn people usually are; the horses were a pair of grave, grey, elderly brutes, who would not even wag their tails in the way of companionship. The banks, somehow, seemed to slide from beneath the vehicle; the trees looked dim and shadowy, now here and now there; sometimes we were hissing along in the middle of the river, and sometimes under it; but more frequently we were riding backwards to Montereau. All on a sudden we were thrown into the arms of a neighbour by the stoppage of the voiture, and a discordant voice croaked at the same moment in our ear-"Nous sommes arrivés!"

Although Bray and the next place on the route, Nogent, are both thriving towns-the former with a population of two thousand, and a considerable trade in grain, there is

no public vehicle whatever on the five leagues of road between them. The steam-boat for two or three months in the year, is all the inhabitants have to trust to, except their own waggons, for the interchange of goods, if any takes place. As for postchaises and cabriolets, it is possible that such things existed in the town-and even horses to draw them; but on this day such an article as a postilion, either sober or otherwise, was not to be had. It was necessary, therefore, either to remain at Bray till the people had slept off the excitation of the conscription, or walk five leagues. on one of the most broiling days of a broiling season.

In vain we ransacked the church, crossed the bridge, and prowled about the neighbourhood. There was nothing to be seen, nothing to be done.

This is the country of poplars. Groves and alleys of these graceful trees lined the road the whole distance. Sometimes the Seine was seen stealing among them, and sometimes the prospect opened, and displayed ranges of low hills in the distance. The little place we have just left was a frontier-town of the Brie Champenois, a portion of the ancient province of Champagne; but the vast plains from which it took its name are not visible here. The department of the Aube, however, which we are about to enter, and its neighbour, the Marne, has much of this monotonous character; and the country between Lezanne and Vitry, from its chalky, gravelly soil, has obtained the namewhich the reader need not translate aloud-of Champagne Pouilleuse.

A considerable number of vines are seen on the low hills of the Brie; but the department of the Marne, however uninteresting to the lover of the picturesque, is the richest in this produce. There grow the white wines of Aï, Pierry, Epernay, Mareuil, Sillery, Dizy, and Antvillers;

and there the red wines of Aï, Epernay, Versenay, Bonzy, Taisy, Cumières, Verzy, Mailly, Saint Bâsle, and Saint Thierry.

There are many jokes against the Champenois, which we have the less scruple in alluding to, as, at the present day, they are mere jokes. They are accused of possessing a simplicity of character which degenerates into absolute folly. "They are as silly," say these mauvais plaisanteurs, "as their own sheep;" and a story is then quoted from Cæsar, which the reader will look for in vain in the Commentaries, to support the assertion. From this it appears, that when the Roman general conquered Gaul, he imposed a tax upon all the tricasses1 who possessed a flock of a hundred sheep. This was doubtless a great hardship, and the cunning Champenois, for the purpose of eluding it, immediately resorted to the expedient of dividing their charges into droves of ninety-nine. This, however, would not do. The fiscal officer counted the shepherd with his flock, reckoning that ninety-nine sheep and one Tricassis made out a hundred beasts!

To this day the Dijonnais call their neighbours, the Langrois, fools of Langres; and we should not omit to mention, that in the days when such things were in fashion at the French court, Troyes enjoyed the exclusive honour and privilege of furnishing the king with fools. In our time the Champenois retains nothing of his original character, except a certain goodness and amiability of disposition which are supposed, in this wicked world, to be component parts of folly. He sings and dances-no one dances more; and his heart is as light and merry as his own sparkling, flashing wine. As for the Troyen, although we have not yet reached his ancient city, we think it our duty, by way of a per contra, The inhabitants of the country of Troyes in Champagne.

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