IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) I: 1.0 I.I 1.25 M 2.2 1.8 U i 1.6 \ V] <^ /} / ^ # < W^\ 9) V ^^^ I I ! K .assengers for the next ten days are the occupants of one house, separated from all the rest of the world. No telegrajihic or postal communication with anyone ; no morning paper to read ; no Evening Telegram, with spicy paragraph ; no busmfss to worry them in any way. 'ihis ought to bo the heiglit of human felicity, but it isn't. Indeed, some in the ship, with strange perversity, call it the very depth of human woe, and when we reach the other side there are but few to wish the voyage might be extended for another day. Ten days of a " Life on the ocean wave ** is about as much as anyone cares to have at one time. The first day ia one of excitement. You are all anxiety to know what your new home is like. Your first visit is, of course, to your own particular room. This you will find to be just six feet long by five feet wide. (Jn one side are two berths awfully narrow, as you will find when you try to turn in them. On the other side you have a sofa. There is just room enough between this and the berths to allow you to stand while performing your toilet, but not enough for you and your room-mate ; so you require to make a preliminary arrangement as to the right of way, and one berth dozes on contentedly while the other is mak- ing his toilet. Havmg inspected your room, your next visit is to the dining saloon to find out your place at table. Formerly you could choose your own seat, and the first object of each pas- senger was to get into the dining saloon and secure a seat by placing his card upon the table at the place selected. This gave rise to many an ugly rush and many a bitter word, which produced anything but good feeling for the journey. Now a better system prevails. The steward has the passenger list, and on a slip of paper he writes out each passenger's name. The flining table is set before the passengers come on board, and each passenger will find his name on some plate on the table. This is his or her seat for the voyage. As the seats are long benches, holding five or six, that passenger is fortunate who gets an outside or end seat. .Strange changes come over individual characters at sea. It is not unusual to see your neighbour full of life at table, entering into conversation with zest, and charming a whole circle by his ready wit and drollery. Suddenly the drollery ceases, perhaps in the middle of an anecdote ; an air of profound thoughtfulness comes over the si^eaker, and you know instinctively that his meditations, whatever they ai'e, can only be continued in the silence of his own room, or while he gazes abstractedly into the waters as he leans over the side of the ship. In such case an end seat is always desirable, so that the individual may retire to his meditations without attracting too much attention. Having found your room and j^our place at table, you will probably spend the rest of the day weighing the merits and demerits of your fellow passengers, and wondering if the one who is to be your room-mate is likely to be an agree- able companion, or the reverse. This'is a matter of some importance, for your rest at night may be sadlj^ disturbed if your companion be giver to certain social customs w^hich make his climbing to the berth over you a hazardous experiment for you as well as for himself. Of course your companion may be a model of propriety, and yet be a serious annoyance at night ; for he may be a snorer, and in a room six feet by five snor- ing ought to be strictly prohibited. I think if I had my choice I would prefer t 1 ■ I- M i • I tho man wlm praotisod wild pyninastios for half an hour potting Into bed, rather than tho musical gonius who would keej) u]) a nasal song tho wholo night through. Hut in any case you will not sleep very soundly the Hrst night. You will he cramped for room, the pulsations of the engine will throb right tmder your head, and your experience, aa you are btdng rocked in tlie cradle of the tleep, will be giuch that you will heartily wish the deeji would let your cradle alone. By degrees, however, you get accustomed to your new life, so that you can sleep soun.lly in spite of the throbbing engin(^ or the Jerky rocking of the deep. Life on board a steamer soon becomes monotonous. Yoiu* circle of acquaint- ances may embrace the whole passenger list ; but then, as these for the most part are strangers that you meet for the first time, you find it rather difficult to hit upon interesting subjects for conversp.tion. You can't discuss the faults and foibles of mutual friends where you have none, and everyone knows what an agreeable topic of conversation that is. Only walking cyclop(Bn, let iih say, b'^liind t\ui HiMcrin in Hoiirv th« Sovontli's Cliapol. In y*^'>'l''i' aislo, to liin ri^'ht, IVoni iimlci' a ooi.tly inoniiiiueth, wife of Dean Stanley, who preaches from yonder corner yet. Does tho mortal care for music? Iliere is the monument of George Frederick Handel, with his arm resting on the instruments, and before it his Messiah, open at the air, " I Know that My Redeemer Liveth "- one of the most appropriate monuments in the whole gallery. Shakesfiearo's monument alone approaches it in this respect. He is represented holding a scroll, on which is written, " The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe \tself, yea, all which it inherits, shall dissolve, and, like the base- less fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck behind." Wesley himself, whose tablet is in the other nave, nods approval as he reads these words. Bulwer Lytton and Thackeray are there, and indeed it would be hard to think of a character that lives in song or story whose shade does not stand Iseside some monument in this historic pile. But meanwhile a shadowy procession is slowly making its way from St. Paul's, to take part in the deliberations of the ghostly assembly. It is headed by the Duke ot Wellington, whose body lies under the centre of the dome of St. Paul's j and amongst those who follow you may recognise Nelson, Picton, Abercromby, CoUingwood, Howe, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Sir John Moore, Bishop Heber and Lord Melbourne. They come down Ludgate Hill, up Fleet Street, through Tem- ple Bar and down the Strand, stopping for a moment at Trafalgar Square to admire the column raised to commemorate the deeds of Nelson, then on through Whitehall and Parliament Streets until they reach the door of the Abbey, which, being open to receive them, gives exit to our mortal who may not be present at the counsels of the mighty dead. Before leaving Westminster Abbey it would be well to spend a few minutes 9 img* in Edward the Confessor's Chapol. whore you may see a rickety old chair tluit no la 11 ■f same Communists in their wanton rage to be satisfied that they were wild beasta and not men. The Pahioe ot the Tuilleries thus wantonly destroyed extended from the Hue de Rivoli down to the embankments of the Seine, or in other words the building would reach from Adelaide Street to Front Street. A costly jjile of marble to be delivered over to the mob, who fiUea it with petroleum and thf II fired it in several places. No one can pass the ruins without a feeling of regret, and ti;ere are few that pass without moralizing over the vanity of human great- ness. During the present century Napoleon I., Louis XVIII., Charles X., I^ouig Phillipe, and Napoleon III. all lived there in regal state, the undisputed sovereigns of France ; and yet, with the single exception of Louis XVIIL, they all died in exile. Vanity of vanities. As you stand at the Palace of the Tuilleries the scene presented before you is in daytime one o!" unequalled beauty, and at night one of unequalled gaiety. You have first the garden of the Tuilleries half a mile in length, and nearly a quarter of a mile in width, brilliant with flower and shrub and foliage of every colour, and richly adorned with marble statues of exquisite workmanship. This garden opens out into the Place de Concorde, and where the square runs into the Champs Elysees the Seine takes a bend which gives additional width to the fields. These " fields of paradise " extend about half way to the triumphal arch erected to commemorate tlie victories of the first Napnlenn ; but from the arch itself d'lwn to the palace, a distance of two miles, you have a noble avenue, which from four o'clock until s'.^ven is crowded with carriages, containing the rank, fashion and beauty of Pai-is. Oft the avenue on each side are promenade's for pedestrians, about the width of an ordinary street, and back of these again, away among the trees and flowers, are cafes and theatres and concert rooms, that at night fairly blaze with the innumerable gas jets that covc^r them in fanciful designs. These are the pleasure grounds of Paris, and if you want to get a fair idea of the way in which all classes enjoy themselves, I know no place better worth visiting than the Champs Elysees. A stranger landing in Paris at niglit and going straight to the Champs- Elysees would be apt to think that the whole city had united to hold a monster picnic in these beautiful grounds, for he would find thousands of people there, enjoying their evening meal out of doors, comfortably seated at tables so con- veniently arranged that they can watch the carriages rolling along the avenue until their lights dance like fireflies in the distance, while their senses are being lulled into harmony with the fairy scene by the soft strains of music that float seemingly from every part of the enchanted ground. It is a wonderful place, and they are a wonderful people these Parisians. Light hearted, gay, bent on present enjoyment, and caring little for what the morrow may bring forth, or rushing madly from the evils of to morrow into that dark eternity which they mistake for the land of forgetfulness. It is a sorrow- ful sight ; but a visit to the low, white building behind the Church of Notre Dame too frequently shows that figuratively, as well as in reality, there is but a step from the Champs Elysees to the Seine, the Morgue, and all the realities of another life. As this has taken me to the neighbourhood of Notre Dame, perhaps it would be as well to say that in this church, for a very moderate fee, they show you the costly vestments and ornaments of gold that have been presented by the reign- ing sovereigns of Europe during the present century. They don't look as if they were ever worn ; but I suppose it mist be nice to have such rich clothing even if they are too good to wear. They are kept in huge drawers that swing out their full length on rollers, so that the garments lie before you without crease or wrinkle to mar the beautiful embroidery of gold. Here, too, thej"^ keep the ve-tments, all stained with blood, of the good archbishop who was murdered by the mob when he appeared before them as a peacemaker, clad in his Archepis- copal robes. His mission was a holy one, but infuriated fiends have little re- spect for the sacred offices of religion, and another martyr's blood was poured upon the soil of France. But the very atmosphere at this point of the city reeks with blood. You have only to cross the bridge towards the Louvre — fo»' the 12 Church of Notre Dame stands on an island in the centre of the Seine — and there, directly opposite the palace of the Ixiuvre, stands a plain church that is regarded with a strange interest by all Protestant visitors. There is nothing attractive about it, whether viewed from without or within. It has that strange fascina- tion that the horiible exercises has over the mind when you stand on a spot made infamous by a monster crime. This is the Church of St. Germain L'Auxerrois, whose tolling bell at midnight gave the signal for the massacre of St. Bartholomew. The blood of thirty thousand Huguenots seems to rise before the vision yet, whenever that bell tolls the passing hour of day. Passing from this church, round the corner of the Louvre, and following the right bank of the Seine, ten minutes' ride by 'bus or by boat will take the visitor to the Paris Exhibition. Now, it is so easy to describe a World's Exhibition that one feels almost irresistibly inclined to do it whenever he gets the chance. True, it requires a knowledge more or less perfect of manufactures and of xiiechanics. It requires skill in art and graphic powers of description, but this never hinders the speaker who may be sadly wanting in any or all of these accomplishments. He has only to get a ticket of admission, then deliberately resolve to walk through every passage or corridor in the building, if he perish in the attempt ; and having religiously carried out this resolution' , and left, with a confused idea of colour and Torm, not exactly certain whether the goods in the last corridor were woollen or iron, or whether tho pictures in the last gallery were ancient or modern, water colour or oil, he is prepared to do full justice to every object of interest on exhibition. He will do them justice, because he searches the morning papers to find out what there is worthy of admiration, and he admires accordingly. In his rounds he may not have noticed that which he finds is specially deserving of praise, but that will be an advantage rather than otherwise, since, with a better conscience, he may be able to adopt the opinions of the press, merely altering the phraseology so that there may be some originality in his criticisms. I forget just now what the papers said about the Canadian display, but I know that the Canadian trophy erected at our end of the buiklir'7 was neat in design, and one of the most noticeable structures in the place. With this very moderate criticism I shall leave the Exhibition to the skilled writers in the press, while I ask you to accompany me from Paris to Geneva. There is not much in the journey calling for remark until we pass ^'lacon, a town south-east of Paris ; but from that point to Geneva it is a constant succession of surprises. You have no sooner started than you find yourself skirting the Jura — part of the Alpine range — and as your train makes its way through gorge and valley your eyes are drinking in all that is beautiful in scenery. First a lofty peak frowns threaten- ingly over your head, then you turn a sharp curve and you have a mountain green with pasture. Soon you shoot into a narrow defile, and as it widens before you the mountains seem to recede and leave long slopes with acres upon acres of grape vines growing down their sides. These vines don't grow any higher than field peas, and look very like them as you pass along. Then the scene changes again. On either side peak rises after peak, until your eyes ache trying to look for the summit, and you rest them by watching the play of sun and shade as one peak after another throws the rays here and there to intermingle with the varying foliage of the trees. As the range rises you can see the white clouds play about the lofty peaks like purfs of smoke coming from the artillery of some mighty fortress. And then, before you know it, you are on a piece of table land rich with orchard and with vine. This is p great wine-growing country, and you pass miles upon miles of grape fields stretching up the slopes of lofty mountains. The table land in these ranges varies very much. Sometimes you have a narrow belt running per- haps a mile, then again a wide basin extending for several miles all round. And as you are feasting your eyes on the grassy slopes you suddenly find yourself in total darkness — your trein with a shriek has entered a tunnel, and on emerging from the other side you are again threatened with frowning rocks, so high up that you have to get your head down near the floor of the cars to see them. After you have reached Culoz, the Rhone runs parallel with your train, and 13 \: another feature of interest is added to the scene. Here it runs calmly and smoothly, there it dashes wildly along ; now it narrows, and then it widens as the features of the country give it a hed or it makes one for itsel*'. By-and-bye you begin to mount, and it begins to sink, until at last it looks like a grey-blue ribbon stretched from rock to tree far in the gorge below. Without knowing why, you find yourself, as you pass through this scenery, taking long breaths and almost gasping because of the magnitude of your sur- roundings. But all this has a wonderful power in belittling the works of man. When gazing at St. Paul's, in London, you have a feeling of reverence for the man who could rear such a stately pile, and with such perfect symmetry. But here the architecture of the Creator dwarfs into nothinjiness the most lofty con- ceptions of created man. In some long-forgotten era, perhaps before such a thing as man existed, at a nod from the Creator, nature, by some sudden up- heaval, piled these gigantic monuments in perfect order, mountain upon moun- tain, until they touched the skies. And the eye is never weary gazing at the harmony of the whole. Men make a grand mistake when they spend all their holiday time in cities, admiring the masterpieces of theil* fellow-man, when they might better be employed on the Alps gazing in wonder at what nature herself can do under the hand of the great Master Builder. Geneva shows well. It slopes up from both sides of the laktj, the houses rising terrace after terrace from the water, until they seem to lean against the surrounding mountains. In the newer parts of the city, the streets are wide, well-built and clean, but, in the older parts, they are narrow, overhung with tenement houses and pei'fumed with stale cabbage. If you have arrived at Geneva with a vague notion that the influence of Calvin's teaching is yet felt, and that the people are grave, awfully straight-laced, and especially noted for their observance of the Sabbath, you will soon have all these notions rudely dis- pelled. The people are gay as Parisians, fully as easy in deportment; and the Sabbath, if kept at all, is kept simply as a day of recreation. The people are French in their language, French in their manners and French in their customs. How John Calvin's bones can lie quietly in his grave, in the city he once ruled with a rod of iron, while cafes, and workshops, and concert saloons are doing their largest trade on Sunday, is something surprising. Yet, if we may judge from street names, some dim idea of religion, as he preached it, clings to the neighbourhood where the'old Reformer lived, for there you have such streets as Purgatory Street and Rue D'Enfer. I have to give you that name in French, because the English of it is never mentioned in polite society. The very best that can be said in favour of spending a Sabbath in Geneva i.« that you may there have the privilege of listening to the Macauley of Methodism, Dr. Abel Stephens, who officiates at the Hall of the Reformation, and the privilege will more than compensate for the disappointment you ex- Eerienced when you waked up to the fact that Geneva was no longer the strong- old of that Reformation. The journey from Geneva to Chamouny is by stage. It is only fifty miles, but it takes ten hours ; and ten hours' staging under ordinary circumstances is a pretty severe penance. But staging, or any other mode of conveyance, through the Alps is a constant source of pleasure. To the right, towering so high that it strains the neck to look up, are the eternal hills, covered with vegetation, and this in such steep places that you would think only a mountain goat could scale them. To the left, and sometimes much too near the edge to be pleasant, ♦'ar down below, the River Arno dashes itself into seething foam against the rocks in its channel. Every now and then you see a mountain torrent, leaping madly from crag to crag, sometimes with a fall of a hundred feet. ITien for a while you run upon a smooth table land, where the peasantry are busy gathering their harvest. But if you have been accustomed to go into rhapsodies as you read about Swiss chalets and the Swiss peasantry, quietly prepare to consit^n all such notions to the regions of romance, for the chalets are miserable, di -tylooking cabins, and the peasantry are a miserable, dirty-looking race. If you want to get a 14 tolerable idea of a real Swiss chalet, take a good sized stable, lift the roof off^ whitewash the body that is left ; your stable windows and doors are just right. Now, wliere the eave of the roof came, build a gallery all around the house ; then add a storey, and lot your new roof jjroject five or six feet over the gallery. That's a Swiss chalet. In many cases the hoi-se, the cow and the pig occu])y the ground floor. The Swiss family have the next storey, while the upper is devoted to the comfort of turkeys, geese and other fowl. The women are — well, I was going to say homely, but that would be a very weak word — they are positively ugly. They wear very short, blue dresses, with a striped cotton jacket, or a striped dress with a blue jacket. They wear the stockings that nature gave them, and leave the impression that nature wants a washerwoman. The men are better-looking tlian the women, but they have nothing to bop t of, so there 'n no use trying to go into ec acies over this specimen of the genus homo. At Soulanges, where we first come fairly in sight of Mont Blanc, there i» considerable disappointment. You see the snow on its jieaks, but there are other peaks all round that seem to be very much higher, and you wonder that they are not snow-clad. Your surf)rise however, will be somewhat lessened when you are told that you are yet twelve miles away from Mont Blanc. It is such an enormous mass of rock and snow, and the air is so greatly rarified, that it seems to be towering right over you. when as yet it is miles and miles away. It is only by degrees that you can grasp the idea of size in this monarch of mountains. First, you let your eye travel up slopes that are under cultivation, and by the time yotj got the space thus covered fixed in your mind, by calculating how long it would take you to wall' over it, you are ready to lift your eyes a little higher and take in the acres of tall pines that rise, terrace after terrace, until you think they will never cease. Then gaze higher, and see ridge after ridge covered with moss or mountain fern. Then, after this again, you have the bold rock standing out towards the heavens, and then you have the snow rising, rising, rising, until you can scarcely tell which is snow and which is cloud. That's Mont Blanc, the monarch of mountains. " They crowned him long ago, On a throne of rocks, I" n robe of clouds, .With a diadem of snow." Then you are to remember that Mont Blanc is but one of a range of mountains stretching for hundreds of miles around, and far as the eye can reach the horizon is broken by peak and cone and crag, that you can liken to nothing but the shapes taken by the banks of white cloud you see on a fine summer's evening towards the going down of the sun. I find it would be utterly impossible in the course of one e^'^ening to do any justice to the many places of interest that lie in the route I travelled after leaving Chamouny. Berne, the capital of Switzerland, where you seem to be per- petually wandering through back lanes looking for front streets, and never finding them, because you are on the front streets all the time. Geneva, with its beauti- ful lake and the romantic scenes that are associated with the name of William Tell. The Rigi with its marvellous railway running up a steep moimtain to the height of five thousand feet, where you can see the whole rang3 of the Alps stretching for hundreds of miles away. From Lucerne we pass on through Zurich to Romanshorn, where we take steamer and cross the old Swabian Sea, now called l^he Constance, to Linden, thence by Munich to Vienna, where a rest of a few days is somewhat broken by a hopeless attempt to understand the German tongue. In Switzerland or in Italy a knowledge of French will carry the traveller fairly through, but in Germany it is somewhat embarrassing to change cars at a junction if you have only five minutes to ask a man, who does not understand you, to give you information you can't understand. This reminds me of my last drive in Vienna. The porter at the hotel who could speak Eng- lish sent for a cab and gave the driver instructions to take me round the principal streets and point out any object of interest that might be worthy of attention. 15 r"^ I I can vouch for the fidelity of that cabman in following out his instructions. He was quite eloquent over some gloomy looking mansions, but what he was saying must forever remain a mystery. I didn't understand a word of it. I iancy that he gave me the names of different palaces eniling with " ach " or " bach." I didn't want him to think that all his eloquence was thrown away, so looking as intelligently as possible I would reply smilingly with "Yah, yah." This some- times. brought a look of doubt into the orator's eyes, and he would repeat what he had been saying, when I would try to improve my answer by saying •' ^'ien, iiieii." I thought 1 would be sure to hit the mark by one of these replies. For a time tha* was evidentlj' satisfactory, but in a few minutes I would see that coachman scratching his head thoughtfully. An answer which consisted of yes and no. when he began to think of it. seemed to be a little puzzling, and there would be silence for a time. But tiiat man was a born orator, lor in a few minutes he would be expatiating as freely as ever, and not to discourage him I would reply by a bow, which was neuter in meaning, and seemed to answer my puritose well. But it is a serious drawback to the pleasure of a tourist in Ger- many not to understand a little of the German tongue. I hoy are an exceedingly i)olite people, an.l will do almost a ything to make you feel at your ease, but their ability in this respect is not always equal to their desire, lor like us some of them have but an imperfect acquaintance with other languages. As an instance of that native politeness which springs from a kind- liness of disposition and considerateness for others, I may give what occurred to myself as I travelled from Munich to Vienna. The journey is a long one. occu- pying the whole day. There were in the compartment with myself two ladies and two gentlemen, Germans, who could speak but imperfectly in the P>ench tongue. Finding that I did not understand German, and that 1 could under- stand French, they adopted the French language for the day, nnd invariably checked themselves when they found, as they frequently did, that they had naturally fallen into their usual method of conversation. There was a true politeness about this that made a very deep impression upon at least one Canadian. Passing by rail from Vienna to Trieste we have to cross the Semmering range of mountains, where we reach an altitude of four thousand feet, not by direct ascent, as on the Rigi, but by running round and roimd the mountains, mounting one terrace after another, until the range is crossed. Trieste is reached late at night, and a boisterous passage across the gulf lands the traveller in Venice at seven o'clock in the morning. How often do we read of the Grand Canal at Venice, and what vague ideas these simple words convey of that wonderful city. I suppose to most people the words bring up before the imagination confused ideas of gay gondolas carrying musical swains to serenade their ladies fair at the steps of some dark passage where the waters beat a kind of rythmic rliyme to the wooing and the cooing of the pair. Well, I daresay there is a good deal of that, for Venetian ladies are fair, and men are always soft. But it is not at all necessary to suppose that trystingplaces must be on the water, for you can travel all over Venice by land as well as by water. It is true the streets are very narrow and very crooked. You have frequently to cross bridges, for there are two hundred canals inter- secting the city. But you can go from end to end of the city, and to any part of it, without once taking a gondola. I don't say that you will do it when once you have tasted the luxury of ease you can find in these river cabs. A street as wide as one of our sidewalks is a street of more than ordinary width, and most of the streets are mere passages that you can span with extended arms ; but you never suffer any inconvenience from this, for, in the first place, you never see a horse in Venice, and, in the next place all the heavy traffic is done by water, so that the streets are used simply for the convenience of those who choose to walk rather than take a boat. I am sure the ladies will be delighted to learn that there is one city in the world where moving from one residence to another is a positive luxury. I had an opportunity of witnessing three or four flittings, ana I could scarcely help envying those who were permitted to take part in them. A small schooner is brought up to the door, and every article of furni- 16 ture is at once put on board, the (ioor is locked, the family quietly take their places on deck, sit down to lunch, while the schooner safely glides to the new home. My time will not permit me to attempt any further description of this won- derful city ; and it is well worth}' of a moit extended description, for we hear so little about Venice now that we forget the Venice of history : the Republic that carried its arms to the farthest corners of the earth : that twice took Con- stantinople, and that at one time was to the world what England is to-day ! Florence, the Bella Firenze of the Italians, is another city with many pretty spots about it ; but to speak of it as the ■' Flower of Cities" and the "City of Flowers" is just a piece of wild exaggeration. The streets are narrow and not over clean, while the shops are fairly good and nothing more. The beautiful Arno, that poets have dreamt over until they have made it a golden stream, is a sluggish, muddy river that creeps lazily through the centre of the city for the special benefit of Florentine boys, who can wade through its waters, from side to side, with the greatest of ease. Rut I think that Florence can boast of the finest collection of pictures in the world. The Uffizi and the Pitti palaces are on opposite sides of the Arno, but they are connected by a long, covered bridge, which here crosses the river; and the passage from one to the other is lined with rich pictures in tapestry. I don't pretend to be a judge of painting*, and it may be that other collections are more thought of, but no gallery of pictures pleased me as well as the collection found in the Pitti Palace. The pictures? are well arranged, and the rooms are well adapted to bring out the richness of each picture. The ceilings are vaulted and richly frescoed ; then in each room there are tables and cabinets richly inlaid with precious stones, and these in some way seem to set the pictures off. Titian's portraits are master pieces of art. I know nothing of the men he painted ; but when you stand before one of them you know it is the picture of a living man. There is nothing stiff, nothing forced about the picture. Its naturalness is what at once attracts attention. Raphael's portraits are also good, but someway I can't take to his Madonnas. I had read somewhere that these do not at first strike the beholder as anything very extraordinary, — that you had to stand gazing at them by the hour, studying eveiy line and each shade of colour ; and that as you thus gazed, you found yourself rising into a new world of thought until you felt the charm of their marvellous power. Well, I thought I would give that a fair trial, so I got me before a Madonna and child, that is considered one of Raphael's best. It didn't at first strike me as anything extraordinary. Indeed I thought Murillo's Madonna a very much finer work, but I was anxious to get into that higher sphere of thought, and be charmed into an ecstacy over the picture, so I took a chair and sat down, gazing and gazing, waiting for the inspiration to come. I am sure I gazed as con- scientiously as ever man did, but the picture wouldn't grow a bit. On the con- trary I discovered that the child's cheek was swollen as if he had the mumps, and its arms were altogether too fat for its hands. There was no use, I could not make an artist of myself by sitting before an artist's work. So I came to the very wise conclusion that the picture grows only upon those who are resolved it shall grow. In other words, it is the fashion to praise Raphael's Madonnas, therefore they are wonderful masterpieces. Now nobody knows what the Virgin looked like, and the only descripti m of the child we have does not warrant us in painting a beautiful child. But if beauty is desired, then Murilla's Madonna and child are what artists should go into ecstacies over, and not Raphael's. The journey from Florence to Rome is through uninteresting scenery, except where here and there towns and villages are perched on towering rocks that overhang the valley through which we pass. These rocks are pierced with openings which overlook the highway, and when tier upon tier of lights are shining from them at night they have the appearance of fortified dwellings, reminding one of the middle ages, when such fortifications were a necessity of existence. About seven or eight miles from Rome the traveller sees before him what seems to be a beautifully shaped mountain rising from a level plain. It has a 17 the ) strange effect, standing out alone against the clear blue sky, visible only at intervals as the train winds in and out through the many curves of the road. But, as it breaks upon the view, rising mad'estically against the horizon, we need no guide to tell us we are gazing upon the beautiful dome of St. Peter's, the gi-andest church upon the face of the earth. The dome in a short time sinks below the hilLs again, or is shut out from sight as the train rushes in through the valley, but strange thoughts crowd upon the mind as we near the Eternal City. To be in the home of tlie Ceesars, under the shadow of walls that were built when the world was comparatively young : To know that somewhere in this neigh- bourhood St. Paul and Luke and Timothy walked and talked and wrote : To be in a city that was founded nearly a thousand years before Christ ; that was a mighty power in the earth while as yet the inhabitants of Great Britain were tatooed savages Well, this is getting as near to the cradle of humanity as most men care to go. How to make a selection of the many objects that present themselves for description in such a pla(!e is my difficulty. Perhaps, as I have already men- tioned St. Peter's, I may be allowed to attempt what so many have tried and what must forever baffle any trial that may be made — a description of the greatest piece of work ever done by man. I thought a great deal of St. Paul's, and it has objects of interest for a Cana- dian far surpassing anything to be fbund in St. Peter's — objects historically connected with the men that made our nation. And I thought a great deal of St. Mark's in Venice ; but the perfect symmetry of St. Peter's and its enormous size put it out of comparison with any other church. Nothing but the grand mountains of Switzerland made such an impression on me. And yet the church from the outside does not show so well as St. Paul's. It is hidden by its portico, and overshadowed by the Vatican. But once inside, and that man must be strangely constituted who does not feel an involuntary inclination to worship. If paintings don't grow beautiful as you sit before them, churches certainly grow larger. No one takes in the size of St. Peter's on his first entrance ; the perfect harmony and symmetry of the building take away from its size. Only when you begin to measure and make comparisons do you begin to grasp the idea of size. For instance, as you enter the church you see that the dome is supported by four massive columns. They seem to be in perfect keeping with the place, and your mind takes in no other idea than that of ordinary columns in a church. But when you confine your attention exclusively to these columns, and find that thoy stand twice as high, and that they are twice as wide as any ordinary house, then you begin to take in the idea of size all round. I remember once read- ing about an officer sending his regiment to St. Peter's, and following after- wards himself, was surprised that none of his soldiers were visible, though all were present, and I thought at the time that the story was an exaggeration. I know now that ten thousand men could be placed in St. Peter's, and a man coming in at the front door would not see one of them. It is not easy to give an idea of size where you have no object of comparison, but most of this audience know the Metropolitan Church and the square upon which it stands. Well, if the altar of St. Peter's were over against the Roman Catholic Church on the north side of Shuter Street, you would have to walk from that down to the south side of Queen Street before you could get out at the front door. That may give you Some idea of its length. Now imagine the whole of McGill Square covered with one building, then imagine another square half as large again laid out before it to represent the square of St. Peter's, and you begin to get an idea of the place I am trying to describe. But to get an idea of the richness and yet chasteness of its ornamentation, you must stand on its marble floors and look on its rich marble walls, relieved by pictures in mosaic that you can scarcely be persuaded are not oil paintings of the richest description. These are further set off by some of Canova's masterpieces in statuary. So exquisite are these in workmanship that a Pope might be willing to die for the chance of living again for ages in such noble marble form. Half way up the church to the right is the bronze statue of St. Peter, that for more than a thousand years has been seated t8 on a marble throne with foot extended to be kissed by devotees as they pass in or out of the church, 'i'his is what is called kissing the Pope's toe, and some of the guide books tell us that the foot is nearly worn away by this kissing. Weil, I examined the foot with some care, and I have no hesitation in saying that if in the future it is only subject to the same wear and tear as in the past, it is good for at least a hundred tliousand years. The toes are smoother on the extended foot, and it is just a question with me whether the position of the foot did not require a greater smoothness at the tirst. 1 am sorry that I hatl no opportunity of witnessing here such a grand service as the Uoman Catholic Church can give us ; but at present the Pope by some fiction of the imagination holds himself a prisoner in the Vatican, and until he chooses to call himself free there will be no great cr grand service in St. Peter's. This was a grievous disai>pointment to me, for I had looked forward to a grand service on Sunday, and the pettiest little village church in Canada could have given me a service more impressive. There was a marked want of reverence on the part of the singers as they responded in the solemn service of the mass, and the few hundreds of people present seemed to be lost in the immensity of the place. I went to the church intending to see nothing but devotion in the most ancient form of religion, and I came away convinced that the form only was observed, and then only as a matter of routine that had to be got through for the benefit of the few spectators present. ■ The Vatican adjoins St. Peter's, and as you go down the great square a door to the left gives you entrance by a noble marble stairway to that home of the popes. I shall not attempt to describe what is really a little town in itself. If, as it is asserted, there are eleven thousand rooms and corridors in the Vatican, you will be thankful that I don't even attempt to name them. I shall simply detain you a moment to say that the Sistine Chapel is under this roof, and that in this chapel the cardinals are walled up when engaged in the election of a new pope. Here, also, covering the whole end of the chapel, is Michael Angelo's picture of the Last Judgment. Writers who have not been to Rome get a little mixed with reference to this picture. I heard a speaker at a missiouary meet- ing not long ago give a glowing description of it, but he had it in the dome of St. Peter's ; and he gave the painter's name as Raphael, which was scarcely compli- mentary to Raphael, while it was doing an injustice to Michael Angelo. I must carry you without ceremony right across the city to the Church of St. John's Lateran, if it be only to see the stair never ascended but on bended knee, — the stair up which Luther was toiling in prayer when that strange voice whispered in his ear " The just shall li''e by Faith ; " and which whisper or in- spiration became the keystone of the Protestant religion. The stair is a flight of twenty-eight marble steps, taken from Pilate's Palace at Jerusalem, and was brought to Rome, says tradition, by the Empress Helena. The steps are com- pletely covered by oaken boards, worn smooth by the knees of the faithful. There are openings at intervals to allow the marble to be kissed. Devotees ascending these stairs on bended knee, can descend on foot an adjoining stair on either hand. In front of this church there stands an obelisk of red granite, weighing some six hundred tons. It was brought from Egypt sixteen hundred years ago, and is supposed to have been some thousands of years old then. So the traveller in passing can touch a c n under whose shadow it may be Abraham rested when journeying into Egypt. lYiming south from this church and leaving the city by thes San Sebastian gate, we enter the famous Appian Way, made by Appius Claudius three hundred years before Christ ; and after a short time we tread upon the very stones that were trodden by St. Paul as he made his way from the Three Taverns towards the city to lay his appeal before Ceesar. On the left of this way, just before we reach the Catacombs of St. Calixtus, is a small church, called "Domine quo vadis," in the centre of which there is a marble block, having the imprint ot the Saviour's feet upon it, at least so say the monks. The legend they give you says that St. Peter, escaping from the city on account of persecution, meeting there the Saviour, said '' Domine quo vadis," which, being interpreted, means " Lord, whither goeth Thou ?" The Saviour, i w ^Qfm 10 i answering that ho was going to Rome to be again crucified, brought T>eter to a sense of his duty. He returned to r{omo and to his hibour until he was called to suffer martyrdom. The marble block in the church is the stone upon which the Saviour stood when Tie thus rebuked Mis faltering disciple ; and it is no un- usual thing to see devotees from all parts of the world kneeling before that stone and kissing the imprints with a religious fervour that does credit to their faith. I would be sorry to rebuke anyone I saw doing this, or to throw a doubt into their minds as to the reality of the story, for to them the thing is real, and the privilege of kissing that stone will be treasured up in the memory to give com- fo;t, it may be, in a dying hour. But I am not bound to accept the story myself, nor are you bound to be- lieve the whole of it, thougli I tell you I saw the imprint with my own eyes. Half a mile beyond this is the entrance to the catacombs, a description of which is a hazardous experiment, it may be, before the author of tlio most learned work that has yet been written upon these imderground sepulchres of the early Christians. Leaving tliH Appian way we cross a i^arden to a circular stair lead- ing down to a dark chamber where lights are procured and other preparations are made for a still further descent into the cold passages underneath. The other preparation is a heavy cloak or shawl and a tumbler of wine as a fortifica- tion against the sudden change of temperature from the hot sun above to the chilly atmosphere beneath. The passages are narrow, crooked an.'ets are very narrow, the houses are many, and when each tenement poured its living stream of humanity into the narrow streets, mothers with their children, men with thire household goods or worldly possessions, the sky overlioad darkened with the falling ashes, unless where it may have been lit up by the burning embers, while from the mountain streamed the livid fire, — Oh I it must have been an uwful sight, and no doubt was made more fearful by the struggle for life that would characterize such a scene. Tlie rich in their carriages dashing madly down the streets utterly regardless of the moans or the groans or the curses of the down- trodden who would be swept beneath their chariot wheels as each one sought escape for himself. The sick left in their weakness to die in despair, terror and wild agony on every brow, all are brought before you as you turn this corner or enter that house. How strangely everything here has been preserved. As you walk the streets you look at the very signs that were over the shops of that day. They are written in large letters on the front walls in that red paint which seems to mock at time, and which even at tliis day ''^tains its brilliant hue. It is a very curious walk one takes in such a place, ar»d it requires a good deal of walk- ing, for the streets are long and numerous, and yet not more than half the city is uncovered, and workmen are still employed in these excavations, now under the Italian Government. It is really surprising to find with what accuracy they are entering every house and lot in a catalogue, marking every one with the trade or calling that was there carried on. In some places tliis is easy enough ; thus where you find an oven and a mill you may be sure a baker held his ground. And in one place a marble slab or block with the impression of a butcher's knife clearly traced on it would show what kind of a trade was carried on there ; but in other cases special knowledge is required to catalogue as accurately as they now do. There are many streets now uncovered, and a good idea can be had of what the city was. Some of the houses were evidently owned by very wealthy men, and some by poorer men. The inequalities of wealth were just as marked then as they are now. Several temples have been uncovered and two theatres, all of them magnificent in design. In colours the Pompeins were partial to a brilliant red, next a yellow, then a blue, and lastly a green. The mention of this latter colour reminds me that I have to carry you in imagination to the •V '':*V ] 28 Emerald IhIg, and em the diHtance ia very groat we can only name the rout''\ not stopiiing for a moment to describe any of the places on it. We return from Pompeii toNaj'lea and Home, where we tak<* tlie train for I'ariB hy way ol (Jcnnu and the Mount C'enifl tunnel. For thnn? huiuhi'd niileH w«^ run on the «>dg«> of tlie Mediler.anean, paswing Tiwa at night and (ienoa just before the break «)l y by renting for a day at Windsor, where we may take the opportunity of seeing the State iijiart ments. Windsor itself is an old-fashioned town with narrow streets and houses of all shapes and sizes ; but Windsor Castle is a place worthy of a long line of kings. It is built on a hill, and the grand old towers look proudly down on the whole country below. Th(«ro is the (Jurfew towor and Edward the Third's tower, then the towers of York. I^ncaster, Brunswick, Clarence, anil 1 don't know how many others ; but in the very centre of the enclosure aiid commanding u view of tho country for miles around is the great round cower so familiar in all pic- tures of tho Castle. From this tower a good view may be had of the Koyal I'ark, Frogmore, and Eton College, while right under your feet you have an historic pile that runs away back almost to the commencement of English history. It begins with Edward the Confessor, and it is ntill the chosen home of our noble Queen. The first room wo enter is called tho Queen's Audience Chamber. The coiling is covered with a beautiful painting representing Catharine the Queen of Chanes the Second sitting in a car drawn by swans and attended by any number of goddesses. Then the walls are all gobelin tapestry, wiiich look like rich oil paintings. Tliey represent scenes in the life of Esther, and the figures are life size. The Queen's Presence Chamber is very like the Audience Chamber, and the tapestries are a continuation of Esther's history. Each tapestry is al>out the size of a parlour floor. It covers the wall like an immense picture, and the bor- der of the tapestry is like a frame in which the picture is set. They have some consideration for visitors at the Castle, for, although the carpets are up and the furniture covered, they leave one or two pieces uncovered so that visitors may know what they are like. The chairs and sofas are all gilt, and the upholstery is either crimson or blue or light green to suit the walls. In two of the rooms the walls are covered with crimson satin, having the Koyal Arms worked in for a pattern. The grand Reception Room is ninety feet long, thirty-four high and thirty-three wide. It is furnished in the very richest style, with large looking ■ glasses, fine cabinets, elegant vases, and other furniture to match. Here, too, the walls are covered with tapestry, and represent the history of Jason and the golden fleece. The grand banqueting hall is two hundred feet long and nearly forty feet wide. The walls and ceiling are covered with the shields of the Knights of the Garter, and there are portraits of all the kings, from James the First to George the Fourth. The table is of solid mahogany, and a man sitting at one end would find it hard to distinguish a face at the other end, so great is its length. I was very much interested in what is called the Guard Chamber, where they keep a piece of Nelson's ship, the Victory — a piece of the mast, about eight feet high, with a hole right through it, made by a common ball at the battle of Trafalgar, kelson's bust is on top of the mast. There is also a bust of the Duke of Marl- borough, and a banner taken at the battle of Blenheim, with many other inter- esting relics. Then there is the Throne Room. Here the hangings and pictures are all blue. The Throne is ivory, richly carved. On the whole the visitor at ^ I / 24 [ !i Windoor Castle comes away satisfied that our Queen has a very good house to live in. It's a long leap from Windsor to Edinburgh, but, if we are to see Ireland to- night long strides will be necessary, and thei j must be few stopping-places by the way. Edinburgh is a beautiful city — it would be wrong to say more beauti- ful than Paris, but for its size it will compare favourably even with Paris. Its natural advantages are great, built, as it is, on ridges that slope up into lofty hills, like the Castle Hill on one side and Calton Hill on the other. The streets, too, are wide and well laid out, kept in good order, and clean, while the stores are solid-looking stone buildings. Between Calton Hill and the Castle there is a ravine which is kept as a public garden, and as, from either hill, you have this continually under your eye, you must of necessity be always looking at something at:ractive. Princes Street, the principal street of the city, is built only on one side ; the other sidv. is a terrace overlooking these gardens, and on this terrace, with much taste, they have erected their monuments to Scotland's great men — Sir Walter Scott, Sir James Simpson, Allan Ramsay, and others. Of course, I am speaking now of the New Town. 'I'he Old Town, which is reached by crossing this ravine, and which is built on a ridge that extends from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace, is something very different. Some of the houses are ten storeys high. Some of the lanes are not more than four feet wide, and, as these are crowded with tenement houses, it would be better, perhaps, not to attempt any description of the sights, sounds and odours that are pre- sented to the different senses as we make our way as rapidly as possible to more inviting streets and courts. St. Giles' Church, where John Knox preached, is in High Street, and his house stands on a bend of the same street, where it ticrns into the Cannongate, and leads down to Holyrood Palace, where Knox's Queen, the beautiful Mary Queen of Scots, lived in daily dread of her terrible subject, Knox. At the Chalmers' Memorial Church I had the pleasure of listening to a man whose sweet hymns we often sing. Dr. Horatio Bonar. He is a fine-looking old gentleman, and makes a good impression on you by his dignified appearance. He is slow in his delivery, but every word tells, and he never seems to waste a word, rather making his sentences abrupt, through a fear, one would think, of weakening what he had to say by a rounded phrase. Glasgow is distant from Edinburgh a little over forty miles by rail, and you can, if you like, make the journey in an hour ; but to get to Glasgow through the Trossachs takes a whole day, and it is well worth the roundabout journey it gives you. I don't think tliat Scotchmen need leave their o^vn country to see bold and romantic landscapes. The scenery coming through the 'lYossachs will compare very favourably even with Switzer- land. It is a quieter style of beauty. The mountains are not so lofty, and the lakes are not so large, but they have a beauty of their own of which Scotchmen may well feel proud. I may here say that the Trossachs is a district made famous as the scene f? Scott's " Lady of the I^kes," and thoroughly to enjoy the journey a fair know- ledge of that poem is necessary. Ben Ledi and Ben Lomond are not as high as the mountains in Switzerland, but their shape and colour greatly help them. Heather in full bloom, when It covers a whole mountain side, is a sight worth seeing. Loch Katrine and Ix?ch Lomond, especially the latter, remind you very forcibly of the lakes you see from the top of the Rigi. But the whole route, from Edinburgh over the field of Bannockburn to Stirling, then on to Callendar, and through Roderick Dhu's country to Ixxjh Katrine, thence by boat and stage to Invesnaid, where you take boat again on Loch Lomond, brings you through a district of romantic beauty and lands you in a city that will very soon take all the romance away. Glasgow is very much larger than Edinburgh, built with the same kind of limestone. The streets are long, straight and wide, well paved, but not over clean. The traffic through the city is enormous, and the people seem intent only on making money. It seemed to me as I sailed down the Clyde to Greenock that Glasgow must be doing the whole carrying trade of the world ! After leav- ing Greenock we get out to sea, and get into bed to wake up in the morning at Belfast. '^ (■[/' Vd li m^ 25 ■ Now, it requires a certain amount of enthuaiasm to see Ireland. It's like eating oysters. The taste must be cultivated. You can't take to it at first, especially if in your first dealing with an Irishman on his native sod you find he can cheat like a Neapolitan, and no Neopolitan hack driver ever thought of cheating as did the driver of my Irish jaunting car when he brought me irom the steamer to the hotel. I had read a good deal about the proverbial honesty of my countrymen. I was a firm believer once in that lady that travelled through the worst part of Ireland wearing rich and rare gems, and having a fine gold ring on her hand, who, when she was asked if she didn't fear to stray with so much wealth about that^ htr, was indignant at the reflection on her countrymen, and said " Though they love women ana golden store," " Sir Kni^iht they love hcncar iind virtue more." It is a charming picture of Irish chivalry and scrupulous honesty, but "tia poetry — not prose — and my countrymen are prosaic enough where they catch a presumed greenhorn. No one objects to being cheated now and then, but to be charged five times the ordinary fare for a bcHstly conveyance that keeps you in jeopardy every moment is enough to try the temper of any one. And of all modes of conveyance that were ever invented to try the patience of mortals commend me to the Irish jaunting car. You sit sideways in a seat that is placed over a low wheel, holding on as beet you may to a small iron bar. The shafts are tipped over the horse's head. In case ot a collision with a lamp-post, a street corner, or another vehicle, your legs serve as buflTers to protect the car, and your driver has a malicious pleasure in watching you squirm as with reckless audacity he turns a sharp corner that takes your breath away as you wonder how you managed to get past without a broken limb. Then the miserable little wheels go bump, bump, bump over uneven roads until you are chafed in temper ag well as in body, and ready to curse the stupidity that clings to the most miser- able conveyance that was ever dreamt of under the sun. Belfast has no pre- tence to beauty of any sort. Its streets are of fair width, but the houses are dingy and ill-assorted. They build with brick, and in some cases do not take the trouble to point the brick, which very seriously detracts from the general appearance. They have, however . some very fine stores, and seem to carry on a very brisk business. Clones, a town about three hours from Belfast by rail, is, I suppose, a fair specimen of an Irish town. It lies on the side of a hill, and the main street runs from the railroad station up the hill to a squiai-e called the Diamond. On this main street there are about half a dozen stores fairly respectable, but with goods in admirable confusion, as if customers were allowed to haul them about, and no one cared to put them up again. The rest of the street is made up of small whitewashed cabin stores, many of them with thatched roof. All these d'^^ores have wooden doors opening above and below. In the morning, when the upper half only is opened, customers are not expected in, for the whole estab- lishment is then busy — some industriously making their toilet. This is pleasantly (suggestive whete the goods sold are groceriesi, Others on their knees before the chimney place coaxing the fire to burn, while the children like little cherubs — like in the matter of clothing — gambolled like porpoises among the ediblee for sale. When the lower half of the door is opened customers \Falk in and suit them- selves. Irishmen are not over fond of order anywhere, either in politics or domestic economy. Or it may be that they like to have things handy. At all ^events I noticed in these small groceries that the potatoes were heaped up on the floor without so much «,s a board to keep them in their place, while soap, flour, eggs ahd grain were scattered about in rich profusion. Half an hour would tidy up any of the shops, but an Irishman would say, " Sure, and it would be all upset again." This feature in the Irish character is forced upon your notice even as you pass through the land by rail. There is a want of order mani- fest everywhere — a culpable carelessness as to the appearance of the little plots of grouhd oalled farm»«; that is noticeable even by one like myself, without any J '■ 26 {)retence to farm knowledge. The ground is seemingly as good as English farm and, but you see at once that they do nr^c make as much of it. There are, of course, excef)tions, but this is the general rule, and as you pass through the country places, where the Irish cabin comes under your observation, and remem- ber what an influence the surroundings of home have on personal character, you are satisfied that these homes are just what would make a careless, unthrifty man or woman. And in too many cases we must confess that the Irish peojile are sadly lacking in forethought, thrift and tidiness. There is a careless aban- donment of character that will have to be educated out of them before they will ever become anything but good-natured, helpless mortals, ready to account for their poverty in any other way rather than admit that they bring it on them- selves, and at bottom vainly believing that Providence has so ordered it, and that Providence some day will perhaps order it otherv/ise. The corduroy pants, battered hat, and shirt sleeves are no fancy sketches ot the Irishman, while the short pipe is as much one of his features as the nose on his face. Both men and women, in spite of poverty, dirt and rags, look healthy, cheerful and contented, and it does not require much association with them to find out that they are most aristocratically descended. I had an amusing illustration of this trait in Irish character while searching up some family records in Newtown Butler and Magheraveely. In Newton Butler, the chief house of the village is owned by a ferson bearing the family name I was seeking. The only member at home when called was Miss Jenny, a lady, tall, fair, and, let us say, thirty. She was not unwilling to talk about relatives, but some way the conversation always turned towards an uncle who had been a Colonel in the British Army, and, as my blood was not blue enough to run in the veins of a British Colonel, I made but little progress there. She, however, directed me to the Post Mistress of the village, a lady of fifty or thereabouts, ringleted, prim and precise. Well, no ; she didn't remember any of her family emigrating to America. She had an uncle who died a Colonel in the British Army, and the pedigree in that direction could be traced with unerring accuracy. From the Post Office I made my way to a small grocery store, kept by a woman whose name excited my curiosity, and announced my- self as a Canadian in search of his ancestors, but, bless you, this woman too had a relative who, when he died, was a Colonel in the British Army. By this time I had had a little too much of that Colonel. I was getting desparate, and ready, if necessary, to claim relationship with Brien Borhu or any other aristocratic Irishman. And I succeeded in my purpose. But this is a laughable feature in Irish character, and I think I have met with those who have carried it across the Atlantic. I have no difficulty in bringing up before my mental vision the mansions they describe as having been in possession of the family for genera- tions. Mud-wall mansions thatched with straw. My Irish friends will see nt once that I did not visit the Lakes of Killarney nor come near the Blarney Stone. Dublin is worth seeing. It is a stirring city ; more like London, by the rush of business, than any other city in Europe. Sackville Street is like an avenue in an American city ; but there is more business done on Grafton Street. The Bank of Ireland, formerly the Irish House of Parliament, is a very fine pile of buildings standing in College Green. Over against it is Trinity College — a school that has turned out some of the most gifted men in the world. Dublin has one of the best parks in Europe, and Phoenix Park is well worth a visit. The grass is like a green velvet carpet, kept in admirable order The Vice Regal Lodge is in this park: rather a mean-looking building, with small, old-fashioned windows. The Chief Secretary's house is over against it, perhaps half a mile away among the trees. I am not attempting any description of Dublin or its people. They require more study than I had time to give them. But here, too, as in London, the gin palace is in full blast, and reeling men are very plentiful, while free fights are not at all rare. Policemen in Dublin are great, stout men ; and they require to be stout, for an Irishman conscienciously believes that part of his missi >n in life is to resist the law ; and policemen, in making an arrest, have frequently to hold their prisoner against a little army of rescuers. latere are some very fine churches in Dublin, notably St. Patrick's Cathe- 27 dral and Christ Church Cathedral, both of them built in a very low neighbour- hood, and surrounded by the very worst slums in the city. Our Methodist friends have their best church on Stephen's Green, one of the best sites in the city ; but, with the humility that clings too '^losely to Methodism in the Old Country, they have built a chapel, not a cii^^rch. A little self-assertion on the part of our friends there would place them in a much better position before the world. As I took you out in the Russia I will ask you to return by the Sarmaiian, one of our own Canadian Line, and a much steadier vessel than the Russia. The journey back is somewhat shorter. We took the mails at Moville Bay on Friday evening, and landed them at Rimouski on the following Friday. In doing this we were greatly favoured by a storm which was with us, and sent the vessel flying over the waves like a thing of life. The sight was one not easily forgotten ; far as the eye could reach the sea was " rolling in foaming billows," and as you stood on the bow looking up at the waters they seemed to be coming down right over the ship, then in a few moments the^y were just as high over the stern, while at the side they lashed themselves mto fury against the vessel. Twice they broke over Ihe deck and washed things about in a lively manner, but our vessel gracefully dipped , -.d came up again like a duck. That gale drove us three hundred miles in nineteen hours. Coming up the Gulf I saw such scenery as Canada only can produce. On the shore our maple leaves, with their rich vermilion hue, lit up the landscape for miles around, while the broad expanse of water, smooth as a mirror, catching up this hue by reflection threw it against the eastern horizon in the richest mauve imaginable. Everywhere there was beauty, and many of these indentations on the Gulf coast are as beautiful as the Bay of Naples. . As I said at the beginning, there is a peculiar charm in visiting places that are rich in historical association. But when we have seen all that we can see, and then begin to make comparisons with our own country, think of our educa- tional advantages, our social customs, our free institutions, our liberty of thought and action, our present position and our future prospect, then as Canadians, proud of our country, we can truthfully say — " There'g no place like home." /