the morning's sun the snowy viaducts and
silver bridges shone out. Then came the
journey down south, through the wine districts,
where the porter's announcement of the very
names of stations seemed to be redolent of
vinous bouquet; where the women were seen
in the fields on each side busy training the
vines, and the air was so charged with the
fragrance of association, that it seemed easy to
fancy the abbé sitting opposite to be Laurence
Sterne—though M. l'Abbé would not have
relished the comparison—and that we were
making a new sentimental journey together.
What names—Nuits, Orange, Beaune, Nismes
—where I knew were the old Roman ruins and
amphitheatres, so charmingly described by
Alexandre Dumas in his rattling travels in the
south, which, next to the sentimental journal,
have as much air and colour as any modern
travels. Then, as the evening drew on, and the
darkness fell, came Avignon, with an indistinct
view of a row of towers, faint and shadowy,
seen through the station door, and supposed to
be the palace of the popes. There was no
time to explore; but the name itself had music.
There was music, too, but of another sort, in
the hasty dinner (Avignon is famous for its
buffet), and then we go on again. It grows
dark, and we stop at this station and that, when
the peasants get in and get out, and the traveller,
many hundred miles from his own home, looks
out at them, wondering, and not able to
persuade himself that this is the same old story as
it goes on at home, and this is but Lubin and
Hodge, and a French Mr. and Mrs. Grundy
going home from market.

At last, towards midnight, the lights began
to grow more frequent, the train to bound
forward, as if  "the avenue" were at hand, and a
special openness and clearness in the sea–air.
Here, at last, was the great French station, all
white and wide awake with the omnibus and
cabs, and then we go rolling, and reeling, and
trundling down great hills into the town. Then
there is the night of good and weary sleep at
L'Empereur, with an early awakening from the
sun and morning's light pouring into the room.
I run over, throw the window wide open, and
look out into the gayest of gay scenes; for this
is Marseilles, and this is the morning of another
red–letter day.

A sight not to be forgotten. To think that only
a few days ago was gloom and winter; here was
bright summer and colours, a wide broad street,
crowded, glittering, gorgeous cafés, streams of
Italian and Levantine sailors, gay shops, and
every shop with striped blue and red awnings
floating and fluttering loose over it. A hum
and chatter of voices—Greek, Italian, English,
French—a splendid theatre opposite, a no less
splendid exchange rising just beside, and
apparently cut out of blocks of cream cheese. En
attendant, the stockjobbers making their
bargains in the open air under the trees.
Everywhere colour, light, air and exhilaration.
Exhilaration from the sea; for stepping out on the
balcony I see "the port," a hundred yards
down to the left, closing up that end of the
street with a shield of cobalt blue, and white
fluttering sails, and rigging crowded together,
with merchandise landing on the snowy pier,
and little ships with pink and blue awnings
spread—floating about. Whatever sights are
to be seen on this earth, I shall never forget
the perfect gaiety and prettiness of that
morning's view.

Later comes the bright holiday packet down
at the docks, not grim and grimed and rusted
like British docks, but gay and fair. The
packet herself, yacht–like; and her French
steward—even her captain, who is the "Marine
Impériale"—seem as if lent, or at least their
clothes, from the theatre left behind. It was,
indeed, a yacht voyage, out through the
shipping, by the headlands, and past the island
Monte Christo (Alexandre again!), and on by
the coast, leaving the town, and docks, and
shipping glistening behind.

The company, too, under the awning on the
deck, was as gay and full of spirits as a genuine
yacht party. The stout French officers, the
Italian family and their courier, the English.
Our banquets in the saloon were genuine
table d'hôte dinners. The horrible accompaniments
of the sea were far, far away. After
dinner came the lounge on deck, the delicious
coasting by the French shore, the little towns,
the freshening evening, the stars coming out,
the pleasant pacing the deck, as if it were the
balcony of a café, the pleasant visit to the
saloon below, where there was chatter and
laughter, and the final "turning in," to the
clean, bright, gilded berth next the bull's–eye,
past which the blue Mediterranean was rushing
with a pleasant "hish," reflecting stars
and moon in flashes of white and blue. There
was a pleasant "see–saw" motion, but nothing
packet–like in movement or savour.

The morning, a true red–letter morning.
Awakened by a globe of sunlight, and with a
glance at the ocean of molten cobalt that was
glistening under the morning, I went up on deck.
That was a sight indeed. It was six o'clock,
and yet there was universal sun, sultry as at
noon, and universal cobalt rippling and glittering
under it, as if mixed with quivering silver.
I never shall forget that picture. While on the
left was gliding past the Italian coast, with
every now and again a little village or town that
seemed encrusted with precious stones, with
diamonds and pearls, so gorgeous and
glistening did they look; while here in front was
approaching something like a yellow lighthouse
that glistened too, and a faint chocolate–coloured
mole. And here, as it drew nearer, was a network
of rigging, ships, in short a little harbour
—my first Italian harbour, with that delightful
foreign "cut" and air which breaks out even in
a harbour.

As we glided in between the yellow lighthouse
and chocolate mole, it seemed all to crowd
and light up like a scene in an Italian opera.
Through feluccas and other quaint craft, past
large vessels and foreign–looking steamers, but