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numerous skulls, attesting the lapse of lives that have marked the lapse of time. From such a scene it is almost startling to pass to the handsome quays, fringed by ships and lined by large houses, which characterise Morlaix. Although most of the old houses, with their wondrous fronts, have given place to recent constructions in this modernised town, there are some streets, and notoriously the Rue des Nobles, which contain many charming and picturesque old forms. One old house was so full of elaborate carving that its contents alone would have stored the shop of a Wardour-street dealer. Beyond Morlaix is St. Pol de Léon, situated near the head of one of the innumerable creeks which indent the coast of Brittany, and which is indebted to its reputed sanctity for its very exist

It possesses a cathedral of rare magnificence, with skull coffins of its bishops in small chapels around, also a church of beautiful florid Gothic; and, indeed, almost all the buildings of any pretensions of the “Holy City,” as Bretons still love to call the town, were, or are, churches, convents, or monasteries. The sanctity of St. Pol seems to have even spread its influence over the surrounding country. Close by is Roscoff, with a magnificent church, a curious ossuary, and several large convents ; and Druidical remains abound in the same legendary neighbourhood.

Throughout Brittany the same character pervades of richness of ecclesiastical decoration, contrasting with a wild scenery, a poor soil, and—as in the days of Young-a neglected husbandry. Amidst all the poverty, splendid churches are met with in every hamlet, and rich crosses adorn the wayside. From the legendary church of Notre Dame de Fol-Goet to the cathedral at Quimper, or from the route between St. Pol and Lesneven, a distance of twenty-two miles, and in which thirty-eight crosses, many covered with figures and elaborate sculptures, are to be seen, it is the same thing repeated over and over again, only with that amount of variety which never fails to charm.

Brest, although in Brittany, is, as Mr. Weld justly observes, “not Brittany.” Brest is a great seaport, and a first-class naval fortress, with its drinking-houses and its surrounding modern ugly villas and guinguettes. There are, however, monumental reminiscences of olden time, both within and without the great town. The castle is replete with interesting historical souvenirs. Without is the great Menhir of Kerloaz. Close by also is Quimper, celebrated for the beauty of its situation and the grandeur of its cathedral, which is the largest ecclesiastical edifice in Brittany. Here we begin to meet with the quaint and picturesque costumes of Basse Bretagne, where every district has a peculiar cut of garment. Thus, for example, the trunk-hose, which in the neighbourhood of Quimper bags boldly out from the loins, is worn at Quimperle, a distance of only twentyseven miles, much more confined at that part of the body, but swelled into huge pouches immediately above the knees. Close by this latter town is the forest of Carnoet, one of the largest in Finistère, within which are some remarkable Celtic remains, and which is the scene of one of the most popular and curious Pardons in Brittany. As at Brest, on entering the town of Lorient, the tourist passes out of Brittany into a modern creation; but close by is Hennebon, a very curious old town, set in a lovely country, with the abominable statue of the so-called “ Venus of Quimpili.” Auray is the station from whence to visit the Plain of Carnac, one of the objects of greatest interest to the tourist in all Brit


tany. Some remarkable monuments of the same era are met with in the adjacent Morbihan Islands, more especially Loc-Maria Ker. Indeed, a whole week may be pleasantly occupied with excursions from Auray.

Vannes is another charming old town, thoroughly Breton, abounding in quaint houses, and girdled by crumbling walls, pierced here and there by picturesque gates. Close by is the forest of Broceliand, in which Armoricans believed, and Bretons, who hold by ancient traditions, still believe, that the enchanter Merlin is entombed. And here we must, with our amusing guide, conclude our vacation trip to Brittany. The diligence "en correspondance” with the Nantes Railway conveys the tourist from Vannes by St. Laurent and La Roche Bernard to beyond the confines of the land of the Bretons, but we think we have said more than enough to show what can be done in a vacation trip when devoted to a special locality. Mr. Weld is not only a virtuosi, but also an angler, and he seldom failed to obtain a basket of trout from every stream that he came in contact with.

How many of the compact little German states would afford materials for instructive local trips ? Let us take Saxony for an example, to which, with the addition of Bohemia and Silesia, we have a pleasant peripatetic guide in the person of Mr. Walter White. Mr. White is a truly wellstored, loquacious cicerone. He has all sorts of stories and reminiscences to tell of every rock or bridge, every castle or church met with on the way. Go with him to Altenburg, and you have the history of the Wends from the time when, under King Henry I. the Fowler, they established themselves on the bluff rocky hill

, Alte Burg, to that of the Hussite plunderers and Luther's visits. Go with him to the Waldchen, or “little forest,” and you have the Prinzeneichen—the Prince's Oaks—with a legend long enough for a communication to one of the annuals of olden times. Zwickau and its neighbourhood are clearly shown to yield a few days of enjoyable exploration. Not less replete with charms is a walk across the Ore mountains—Erzgebirgewhere the tourist meets with two races, the round, flat, hairy-faced German, and the oval-faced Czech, or Stock Bohemian—the dull and heavy Teuton, and the more animated and intellectual Sclavonian, and where he may drink iu his peripatetic progress of four kinds of beer by the wayside-Enifach, or small beer; Weisses, foamy white beer ; Lager, store beer; and Bayerisches, renowned Bavarian. Walking in July, it is to be observed, is a thirst-begetting operation. Of Carlsbad we learn, on the authority of a sprightly young lady, that "it's a Matlocky sort of a place !" Between that city of volcanic physic and Prague are Engelhaus and its castle; Buchau and its homely Gasthaus, where our author was mistaken for a baron ; Hartenstein and its ruins ; Willenz, a picturesque site, with a touch of Czechish carelessness; and last, not least, innumerable lifeless villages, with wide streets, low, white-washed, windowless houses, grass-grown, log-strewed squares—a repetition in Bohemia of what villages also are in Wales and Ireland. A pedestrian often perceives in a city, as he does by the wayside, things that are not noticed by the more luxurious traveller. Every one visits the churches and shrines, the castles and bridges of Prague, but it is not every one who can tell, as Mr.White does, of its cavernous beer-houses, its book-shops, and its rookery. Sept.-VOL. CXI. NO. CCCCXLI.


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Few, also, except those who are versed in the language and manners of the people, would trust themselves to the rough company of the Tetschen steam-boat, yet such is the way to become really cognizant of national peculiarities. And what a reception may the peripatetic philosopher, who is willing to make himself at home with all mankind, meet with from even a Bohemian glass-engraver. Witness a day at Ulrichsthal as depicted by Mr. White !

The great manufacturing region of Bohemia, with its capital Reichenberg, lead the way to the wilder scenes of the Riesengebirge. And in such a wild country, and going about, a stranger and an Englishman on foot, no wonder that a tourist has many vexations to undergo from that most vexatious of all travellers' annoyances—the passport system. Not even Stephanshöh, with its fine mountain view, nor even the bright Iser, with its plenteous trout, could repay the surly interference of suspicious jacks in office. If relief was to be found at all, it was on the crest of the Riesengebirge itself, where fine air, glorious scenery, and the luxuries of the inn

on the top of Schneekoppe, certainly do appear to have compensated for some little fatigue and chafing of spirits.

Beech-woods succeed to the dark slopes of firs on the Silesian side of the Riesengebirge; and the traveller passes Schatzlar, Bernsdorf, and Altendorf, to reach the curious rock city of Adersbach. Tall men, of sallow complexion and angular faces, wearing long, dark-blue coats, boots up to their knees, and stiff blue caps, with a broad crown, tell the tourist on approaching Schömberg that he is in Silesia. The Prussian or Silesian Simplon, as it is called, from being the highest macadamised road in Prussia, leads from the iron-works of Schmiedeberg, the rendezvous of tourists on a visit to the mountains, to Landeshut. At Fischbach stands an old castle of the Knights Templars, now in possession of Prince Wilhelm of Prussia, and probably a future summer residence of our Princess Royal. The Hirschbergerthal is a delightful corner of the earth, and in its heart is the little town of Warmbrunn, chief among the Silesian spas. And how many such delightful corners are there in the world ? Luckily we have got to nearly the end of Mr. White's long walk, or our breath would fail us. At Görlitz the train supersedes the boot, and we get on more quickly over the ground to Loebau, where there is a rest to visit the Moravian colony of Herrnhut, and the trip terminates—with the exception of an extra excursion to Berlin, where, according to the titlepage, it ought to have begun—at Dresden, or Pianopolis, as some residents call that singularly, heavy-looking, gloomy old capital.

To come still nearer home; there is Ireland, by far too much neglected by special tourists. We are reminded upon this occasion of its claims by a new edition of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh's renowned “ Irish Sketch-Book;" and a truly indispensable accompaniment does it form to all more serious, sober, and plodding Handbooks. The reader is introduced in this characteristic volume, not only to Ireland, but to the Irish. He will find sketches of an Irish family and farm in juxtaposition with urban details. Father Mathew, the Ursuline Convent, and the agricultural show illustrate Cork. An account of the city of Skibbereen enlivens the route to Bantry; the tribulations of three travelling impostors actually roar off rainy days at Glengariff, and the incidents inevitable to an Irish stag hunt and races make the dull echoes. of Killarney laugh. What,"

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naively inquires Titmarsh, “sends picturesque tourists to the Rhine and Saxon Switzerland ? Within five miles round the pretty inn of Glengariff there is a country of the magnificence of which no pen can give an idea.” And that same never failing eeho replies, “ I don't know"for it is an Irish echo. There are pen-and-pencil sketches of Limerick, Galway, Westport, Dundalk, and Derry. A 'sketcher of men, and not of things, Titmarsh was more at home at a pattern on Croagh Patrick than at the Giant's Causeway. This,” he says, in conclusion of what befel him at that guide-becursed place, “is not a description of the Giant's Causeway (as some clever critic will remark), but of a Londoner there, who is by no means so interesting an object as the natural curiosity in question.” But never mind, glorious Mike! you are always welcome, whether annihilating the little creature in regimentals, that declined to say in what direction the coffee-room lay, or sketching Peggy, bringing in the coals on a china plate !

The system of superseding discursive travel by special tours would, for one thing, abate the Britannic nuisance of merely hurrying over a place simply with the view to having, as it is said in tourists' vernacular, “done" it. "We could relate some strange examples of how places are sometimes “ done.” Even in Ireland, which Titmarsh did so well, still did he leave undone the great realities of the Donegal mountains and sands, the lake and island wonders of Derg and Erne; the wilds of Connemara, and the life and scenery of those “ fashionable” wateringplaces, Kilkee and Ballybunnion. How few go out of the beaten track in Ireland! yet there are things to be seen on the shores of Kerry, in the recesses of Killery, or on the heights of Slewe Snaght, that almost rival the wonders of Killarney or the Causeway.

Few English visit Rome in the summer; they are, consequently, unacquainted with what is then going on. Now we have, in the last book before us, written by a lady—Mrs. J. E. Westropp—that which will supply the deficiency. It appears from Mrs. Westropp's epistolary correspondence that the said “summer novelties” consist mainly in church festivals. There is in the season in question, perhaps, less“ of what the Romanists call hidden meaning,' and we Protestants call mummery ;' but the music is finer (except the Misereres in Holy Week), and there is more nationality; you see fewer foreigners and more Italians.” There is the festival of Corpus Domini, with processions at St. Peter's and that of St. John Lateran ; there is the Festa of St. Luigi, Gonzaga, and St. John the Baptist's-day. Above all, there is St. Peter's-eve, and the illumination of the apostle's church, the keys of which, as well as of heaven, are held by his vicar apostolic— the Pope.

Perugia and Siena are, according to the account of the same authority, well worthy of patient visits. They combine beauty of scenery and treasures of art and painting, with—what will the reader think? temperature and economy! Imagine a tourist seeking coolness beneath the shade of the Arco di Augusto at Perugia, or economising at the Hôtel Aquila Nera at Siena ! Mrs. Westropp has, however, a nice pencil for etchings, a very fair hand at description, and a goodly sense of the picturesque in art and nature, as well of the properties of social and domestic life. She deserves, therefore, what she has obtained-a place in our first batch of “ special tourists."

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I. No doubt, in delivering an oration, the speaker should have regard to the mental capacity, the ways of thought, and the temper of his audience. The rough-and-ready kind of eloquence, which is very effective on the hustings, would be greatly out of place in the House of Lords; and the refined, philosophical dissertation, which is highly appreciated by a Westend learned society, would be very surlily received in a public-house parlour or labourer's club-room. Mine host at the Star and Garter at Richmond may safely place before the Hon. Augustus Tiplady, who vouchsafes to visit him, a bill of fare, comprising Julienne soup, salmonsuche, cotelettes d'agneau aux haricots verts, and other delicacies, but if by the barest chance farmer Bill Sykes should find his way into the dining-room, let the waiter beware how he even mentions such insubstantial articles, lest he should be interrupted by the farmer, in a great rage, upsetting the table, and lustily demanding either a steak-pudding or a boiled round of beef.

We shall proceed to apply the profound truth here enunciated in our consideration of the question“ How shall we preach ?” a question which seems to be growing in importance in the present day for reasons which we are about to set forth.

It has always appeared to us a marvellous thing that, notwithstanding the vast amount of preaching which is perpetually

going on, we should be so very wicked still. Indeed, we are not quite sure, if we are to receive as correct statements which issue commonly from the pulpit, that we have not been slipping backwards for many years past. How often have some such words as these sounded dismally in our ears: “And if ever there was a time when vice and iniquity flooded the world, that time is the present. At no period has there been such an overwhelming necessity, such an appallingly urgent requirement for all good men to be up and doing. The Anti-half-pint-of-porter Society,' whose claims I this day advocate," &c. One comes to the dreary conclusion that though there is incessant knocking at our hearts, the doors thereof are inexorably closed. I go to church every Sunday in my best coat, and those near to me in their newest dresses, and we smile at and nod to our acquaintances, and behave ourselves properly in every respect. Our clergyman tells us that we are miserable sinners, and we have no doubt upon the point, and are very sorry. We come away from church, and we act during the week precisely as we have acted during so many weeks previously. Then next Sunday we go to church again, and again we hear we are miserable sinners, and again we are very sorry, and our sorrow falls asleep at the church'door to wake up afresh the Sunday following.

Now, dear reader, do not mistake us. Very far are we from wishing to ridicule the clergy, and we recoil from the notion of lightly treating the lofty object they have in view. But we want to inquire a little closely how it is that the ammunition directed from the pulpit against

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