Le Mans is a grand old town, stately, but mouldy and only half alive. Throughout there is happily an absence of that white garish Parisian element. No whitewash, gilded railings, or sculptured gewgaws offend the genius of the spot. The solemn old houses and walls stand looking down on the quiet streets as sadly as on that day when the last remnant of the gallant Vendean army under Larochejaquelein, wearied with the toils of long campaigns, was cut to pieces beneath them in the year 1793. The face of the old town seems as sorrowful now as when the shrieks of dying women and children, remorselessly slaughtered before it by the conquering Republicans, died away upon the air, on that day when cannonades of grape and volleys of musketry swept through all the streets, among a helpless crowd of the wretched wives and little ones of the scattered Royalists, of whom ten thousand corpses lay red in that awful sunset. In the early morning we nearly frightened to death some good citizens by bathing in the river Sarthe, and several crowded to the bank to witness the last gasps of two insane victims to the love of ablution. It was a fine warm day in September, yet the idea to them seemed madness. However, this little adventure brought to light what Diogenes had so long sought for--an honest man. As we were drying ourselves on the river bank, beneath the shadows of the old cathedral on the height above, a passer-by in course of conversation observed,-- "_Pour moi, messieurs_, I detest water--never touch it--_ni chaude, ni froide_." Now we like this blunt truthfulness, so much better than the big talk of some people respecting their tubs and baths, who yet never go near them. We remember, upon one occasion, in a country house there was a gentleman who was always talking about the luxury of "tubbing," and whose constant refrain was, "What a brute a man must be who doesn't tub," &c. Being the occupant of the adjoining room to us, we happened, quite by accident, one fine morning, upon hearing a tremendous splashing and dashing, to look through the key-hole, and discovered, much to our astonishment, our friend standing up, half dressed, in knickerbockers, shirt, and diamond pin, squeezing a sponge into a tin bath, and shouting in a very loud whisper (which would have made his fortune in an "aside" on the stage), as if overpowered with the freshness of the water, "Oh! how delightful! By Jove, how cold! Ahi! phew! a--h! oh!" The cathedral of St. Julien is a grand, imposing Gothic structure, grey with the hoar of age. Its lofty towers, which are so richly ornamented that they appear as if covered with fretwork, hang at a great elevation above the city, crowning a height. In it we found the monument of Berengaria of Sicily, Queen of Richard I. of England, and the tomb of Charles of Anjou.