of cafe au lait and a huge hunch of bread, get a miserable wash,
compared with which the spittoons of the Diners de Paris were
luxurious, and return in time to proceed to St. Rambert, whence the
railroad branches off to Grenoble. It is very beautiful between
Lyons and St. Rambert. The mulberry trees show the silkworm to be a
denizen of the country, while the fields are dazzlingly brilliant
with poppies and salvias; on the other side of the Rhone rise high
cloud-capped hills, but towards the Alps we strain our eyes in vain.

At St. Rambert the railroad to Grenoble branches off at right angles
to the main line, it was then only complete as far as Rives, now it
is continued the whole way to Grenoble; by which the reader will
save some two or three hours, but miss a beautiful ride from Rives
to Grenoble by the road. The valley bears the name of Gresivaudan.
It is very rich and luxuriant, the vineyards are more Italian, the
fig trees larger than we have yet seen them, patches of snow whiten
the higher hills, and we feel that we are at last indeed among the
outskirts of the Alps themselves. I am told that we should have
stayed at Voreppe, seen the Grande Chartreuse (for which see
Murray), and then gone on to Grenoble, but we were pressed for time
and could not do everything. At Grenoble we arrived about two
o'clock, washed comfortably at last and then dined; during dinner a
caleche was preparing to drive us on to Bourg d'Oisans, a place some
six or seven and thirty miles farther on, and by thirty minutes past
three we find ourselves reclining easily within it, and digesting
dinner with the assistance of a little packet, for which we paid
one-and-fourpence at the well-known shop of Mr. Bacon, Market-
square, Cambridge. It is very charming. The air is sweet, warm,
and sunny, there has been bad weather for some days here, but it is
clearing up; the clouds are lifting themselves hour by hour, we are