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SUNDAY AT TOURS--LA COLONIE DE METTRAY--BEAUTIFUL DORDOGNE--A FRENCH PARSONAGE--THROUGH THE LANDES--THE SOPORIFIC EFFECTS OF ARCACHON 1

THE MISCONCEPTIONS OF LUGGAGE--THE COMFORTS OF SPANISH RAILWAY TRAVELLING--OUR LIBRARY--FROM THE TROPICS TO THE STEPPES--GREGORIA AND ISIDORA--JOURNEY TO MADRID 24

THE GAIETY OF MADRID--THE IMPERATIVENESS OF TEETOTALISM THERE--THE QUEEN AND THE ROYAL BIRTHDAY--ROADS AND RIVER-BANKS--APROPOS OF BULLS 41

VELASQUEZ, THE PAINTER OF MEN--MURILLO, THE PAINTER OF ANGELS--RIBERA, THE PAINTER OF INQUISITORS--ZURBARAN, THE PAINTER OF MONKS--GOJA, THE HOFFMANN OF SPANISH ART--THE QUIETUDE OF THE GALLERIES 63

A LEAR OF CITIES--GOTHIC, ROMAN, AND MOORISH REMAINS--COMMENTARIES ON STREET'S GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE AND ON TOLEDAN LANDLORDS--TILES, AND A DISCOURSE THEREON 81

"THE SWEETEST MORSEL OF THE PENINSULA"--COB-WALLS OR THE HOUSE THAT CAIN BUILT--PALMS--THE GOOD WORKS OF THE SISTERS--THE PRIESTS AND THE PEOPLE--IS SPAIN UTOPIA? 134

"A BOAT, A BOAT, MY KINGDOM FOR A BOAT!"--THE VICTIMS OF A TUNNY-FISH--SENOR BENSAKEN SPEAKS HIS MIND, AND WE ARE REPROVED--RUNNING WATERS--HOWLINGS OF TARSHISH--PEPA'S FAMILY 158

DAYS IN THE ALHAMBRA--THE GRANDEUR WITHOUT AND THE BEAUTY WITHIN--"CIELED WITH CEDAR, AND PAINTED WITH VERMILION"--AZULEJOS AND ARTESONADOS--MR. OWEN JONES' HANDBOOK 175

PIGS, VULGAR AND ARISTOCRATIC--THE GIPSY CAPTAIN BEWITCHES US--WE GO DOWN TO THE POTTER'S HOUSE--A FAMILY DANCE--AN AWFUL DISCOVERY--A BOOKSELLER OF TARSHISH 187

THE ARCHBISHOP BLESSES THE ENGINE, AND WE HELP HIM--DELIGHTFUL LOJA--A FUNNY DINNER--STARLIGHT, TWILIGHT, MORNING 209

WE GET TO ALGECIRAS, AND ARE MADE WRETCHED--THE FAT SPANIARD AND THE LEAN ENGLISHMAN--A RED-LETTER DAY AT GIBRALTAR--THE LIGHTS--ADIEU TO EUROPE 222

A BRIDAL PARTY--HORRIBLE STORIES--A LONG DAY--THE CAID AND THE DRIVER--A NEW ATMOSPHERE--TCLEMCEN 239

TCLEMCEN, THE GRANADA OF THE WEST--ARAB POETS--THE CHILDREN--THE MOKBARA--SIDI BOU MEDIN--MANSOURA--PHILO-ARABES--TEMPTATIONS IN TCLEMCEN 253

HOSPITABLE ORAN--CHRISTMAS DAY AT LE SIG--THE LAST OF THE PHALANSTERIANS--BARRAGES--THE MALARIA--ABD-EL-KADER'S MOSQUE--SAIDA 270

OPINIONS, CIVIL AND MILITARY--A LOOK TOWARDS THE SAHARA--WILD GEESE--OUR SPAHIS, AND THE CARE THEY TAKE OF US--A NORMANDY APPLE-ORCHARD IN AFRICA--NEW YEAR'S DAY 287

RAIN--HOW TO CARRY ONE'S WARDROBE--AN ENGLISH LADY'S OPINIONS ON THE ARABS--WILD BIRDS--THE EARTHQUAKE 304

SUNDAY AT TOURS.--LA COLONIE DE METTRAY.--BEAUTIFUL DORDOGNE.--A FRENCH PARSONAGE.--THROUGH THE LANDES.--THE SOPORIFIC EFFECTS OF ARCACHON.

On a golden autumn afternoon we found ourselves in the old city of Tours, bound for Spain and the enchanted lands lying north of the Great Sahara. Pleasant it was to look backward and forward; backward to the busy life in England, forward to the bright holiday of travel, repeating to ourselves again and again the sentiment, if not the words, of Catullus:--

"Jam mens praetrepidans avet vagari, Jam laeti studio pedes vigescunt, Oh! dulces comitum, valete, coetus, Longe quos simul a domo profectus Diversae variae viae reportant."

We were to be made so much richer and so much wiser by the experiences of the next few weeks; a new country was about to be mapped out on our chart: we were to speak another language, breathe another atmosphere, feel the influences of another religion. For the present we were at home, among French faces and French voices; and, however impatient we might be to reach the wonderful country lying beyond the Pyrenees, we could but willingly linger in these lovely border-lands.

It was Sunday, and our hearts were yet full of the tender beauty of the region through which we had come, when we reached Tours, and joined the stream of church-goers. The Cathedral on that glowing autumn afternoon was a sight to remember, standing as it did against a bright blue sky, with a rosy flush of sunset upon its spires. Nothing can be richer than the fa?ade, and yet so simple is the construction as a whole, that one comes away with a clear idea of it in every part. We lingered in the light for a little, and then went in. A mediaeval-looking priest, with shaven head, was preaching to a crowd of reverent peasants--and we listened, no less reverent, to a sermon that might have been preached hundreds of years ago. The preacher had a melancholy, monastic face, and a fervid eloquence that would, perhaps, have stirred up any other congregation, though none could have been more devout than these simple-hearted vintagers and farmers. We stayed till the sermon drew to a close, and then went on by train to Mettray.

It was at Tours that the Saracens were driven back, and it seemed to us a good starting-point for a journey which had for one of its objects the study of Moorish monuments in Spain. We amused ourselves with speculating upon the condition of Europe had the Saracens succeeded at Tours. But for that defeat, we might have had now--who knows?--a Caliphate at Marseilles, and, perhaps, a Cordova at Oxford. But, no; climate, if not Anglo-Saxon spirit, would have driven the sunshine-loving Moors from our island, so that, even in dreams we cannot spread Islamism farther than the Rhine,--which is a consolation to good churchmen and patriots!

I purpose narrating our journey from the very beginning, because on our way from Paris to Bayonne we made two excursions which I should strongly recommend to every one; firstly, to the great agricultural Reformatory of Mettray, and secondly, to the Protestant Orphanages of La Force in the province of La Dordogne. We reached Mettray in about twenty minutes. Such a sweet, peaceful, little spot lying in the heart of the wine-country! The village postman conducted us, through a dusky winding road that was all a-twitter with the twilight songs of birds, to a large Swiss cottage that proved to be an inn, where we slept as if we had lived there all our lives.

Then we passed on to the workshops, which were like so many hives, only a little quiet, considering the age of the bees. Some of these workmen, in blue blouses and wooden shoes, were mere mannikins of six or seven years old; but if to a stranger the discipline appears a little hard, it must be remembered that each and all have been snatched from the discipline of prison. All these eight hundred boys, whom we saw working under such kind and pitiful supervision, were, in fact, criminals, and well for them and for society that the benevolent founders of Mettray had come to the rescue in time.

The type of physiognomy was strikingly low, narrow forehead, flat skull, vicious mouth, and deep-set, cunning eyes, which would seem as if the physiognomy, as well as the propensity, of vice, is hereditary; for most of these children were the offspring of crime and vagabondage. The lowest type of face, intellectually as well as morally speaking, was not that of the Parisian, but that of the peasant; and it interested us to find that, as a rule, the best-behaved Mettray boys were also the most intelligent. Each boy is at liberty to follow the trade he likes best, and, oddly enough, the favourite one seems to be that of tailoring. We found in the little world of Mettray, as in the great world beyond, that every one had fallen naturally into his place. The stupid boys loved to follow the plough, the inventive to handle the carpenters' tools, the lovers of nature to tend the cattle, the effeminate to cook the dinners, the enterprising to manage the farm. All are at liberty, also, to attend evening classes, and, as a reward of merit, to learn music.

"If it were not for that," said the good-natured superintendent to us, "we should fancy Mettray a prison. The boys are summoned to work by music every day, and sing at chapel on Sunday. Oh! if you only knew how they enjoy it!"

We could easily understand this, for when the little band of musicians was summoned to give us a concert, nothing could equal the alacrity with which the summons was obeyed. There was a good deal of shyness and excitement at first, but a real, hearty relish of the music as soon as it began, perfectly delightful to witness. The superior intelligence, I might almost go so far as to use the word refinement, of these boys from their fellows, was quite remarkable. Not one of them had a brutish or brutal look. When the concert was over, we went into the chapel and the class-room. The latter was decorated with pictures, maps, and "honourable mentions," of former Mettray boys, who had fought in the Crimea, in Algeria, in Mexico. Portraits of the Emperor were not wanting, nor, indeed, anything to encourage these poor little outcasts to love their country, to go out into the world and to make men of themselves. I was pleased to find the wards and dormitories also decorated with pictures and medallions, the highly-prized rewards of good conduct; while the outside of every building was trellised with grapes, a more material reward, not of special good conduct, but of indiscriminate industry.

The superintendent smiled.

"Well, and how did it answer in that solitary case?"

"Very ill, I assure you. He burst open the lock, refused to work, defied his tutor,--in fine, all but created a mutiny, and heartily glad were we to get rid of him."

But a breakfast--even a French breakfast of twenty dishes--soon comes to an end, and we found ourselves compelled to quit our hospitable entertainer, just as we were fairly seizing the spirit of his great undertaking. Reluctantly we bade adieu to the peaceful asylum of Mettray, and sauntered through the vineyards to the railway station. It looked a lovely land to live in, especially now, when it lay bathed in the rosy splendour of autumn. Here and there, a stately old chateau peeped from amidst the chestnut-trees, or we came upon a grave peasant, who might have been one of George Sand's heroes, driving his team across a sweet-smelling beetfield. As we passed the village church, a wedding party issued from the gate. The bride, who was a brunette, looked very handsome in her bright purple dress and orange-wreath, and the bridegroom and whole happy party saluted us. We ought to have stopped to wish them joy, but we didn't think of it in time; and when we turned back, ashamed of our English shyness, the white ribbons of the last bridesmaid were disappearing round the corner. "Mon Dieu, those English are cold-hearted people!" I can hear these honest peasants say over their wedding-feast. "They meet our Jeanne and her Jeannot coming from church and never stop to utter a blessing!"

Pretty Jeanne! I hope that our negligence may prove no ill omen to her after-life. It was downright shyness, and not ill nature, on our part, after all.

From Mettray we proceeded by rail to Tours, and on to Libourne, a pleasant and picturesque bit of rail, spoiled in this instance, however, by the late inundations of the Loire. One reads of these inundations, and laments over them at home, but is far from realising the actual state of things without personal experience. Horace's ode on the overflowing of the Tiber gives a more approximate idea of the prevailing ruin and dismay than anything; and my fellow-traveller broke out with:--

"Piscium et summa genus haesit ulmo, Nota quae secies fuerat columbis; Et superjecto pavidae nat?runt AEquore damae."

We travelled all the way from Tours to Libourne with an English gentlemen, who gave us horrifying accounts of the Spanish inns.

"Sleep at Cordova!" he uttered, with a positive shriek of dismay; "sleep at Cordova! I warn you not to attempt it; I forbid you to attempt it. It's awful! it's disgusting! it's impossible! I was travelling in Spain with my wife a year ago, and we stayed a night at Cordova. The beds and floors were alive with vermin, and, as a last resource of sleeplessness and disgust, we betook ourselves to arm-chairs and railway rugs. Whatever you do, don't sleep at Cordova."

And so kindly anxious was he for our comfort that, when he alighted at some half-way station between Tours and Libourne, he ran back to the carriage just as the train was moving off and called out, "Don't sleep at Cordova."

"Why," he said, "it's the child of Madame George, my parishioner, and I baptized it myself."

Yet he had never heard of La Force nor of Mettray!

St. Foy is an old-fashioned town, charmingly situated on the banks of the Dordogne. The road to La Force wound along the river side, and had in some places been rendered impassable by the late inundations. As we proceeded on our way, sometimes on foot, sometimes in the crazy old vehicle we had hired, we caught glimpses of scenes so sunny, so full of tender beauty, so poetic, and so peaceful, that we felt as if we would fain escape to La Dordogne whenever the troubles of the world might lie heavy upon us. River, vineyard, hill and wood, all softened and illumined by the autumn sunshine, made up a little rural world very fresh and sweet to live in; one wonders, can any one be very unhappy here?

Naturally the conversation fell upon the present aspect of Protestantism, or rather Methodism, in France.

He went on to tell us much that was interesting and unexpected. It seems that the Protestant population decreases in France, on account of the disinclination or disability of the young men to marry, and, in some places, the little communities threaten to die away altogether.

"We have many kind friends and supporters both in England, France, and Switzerland," he said; "and yet we have hard work to pull through. Many people seem to think they do us good service in sending a poor orphan or idiot; we take all in, but at a cost far beyond our present means."

We were glad, and yet sorry, to leave La Force and its generous supporters--glad to escape the sight of so much physical and mental deformity, and sorry that we could not effectually aid the noble efforts made in its behalf.

From La Dordogne to Bayonne extends the dreary desert of the Landes,--a desert only broken by pine-forests and shepherds' huts, and offering no enticement to the impatient travellers bound to Spain. We did, however, spend a day at Arcachon near Bordeaux, for the place had been praised in our hearing as a second and more attractive Biarritz, and we wanted to know how far we might recommend it to friends at home.

I don't think I can recommend any one to go to Arcachon, quiet and pretty as it is. In the first place, the air is so oppressively soft that we both felt stupefied by it, much as if we had taken morphine; and in the second, the houses are all built in such gimcrack style that one feels to be living in a sixpenny peep-show. But, on the other hand, there are sweet-smelling forests of young pine very refreshing to the sight and sense , and salt-baths, and the pleasant feeling that here, if nowhere else in the world, it would be quite possible to become oblivious of every care and responsibility under the sun!

THE MISCONCEPTIONS OF LUGGAGE.--THE COMFORTS OF SPANISH RAILWAY TRAVELLING.--OUR LIBRARY.--FROM THE TROPICS TO THE STEPPES.--GREGORIA AND ISIDORA.--JOURNEY TO MADRID.

"Dos billetes de primera clase para Burgos?" with astonishment repeated the young woman acting as collector at the railway station of Biarritz. "To Burgos! to Burgos!"

"To Burgos," we replied, quietly.

"If you are really going as far as Burgos," she said, with the same look of unmitigated surprise, "I must apply to the station-master for the tickets. Have the goodness to sit down and I will see about it."

We supposed by this young lady's behaviour, and we afterwards found our supposition to be true, that it is a most unusual thing for ladies to travel in Spain. With one or two exceptions, we had the ladies' coup? to ourselves from one end of Spain to the other, and very comfortable travelling we found it.

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