of Limagne, and entered the uplands. As we approached Clermont the diligence stopped to enable the passengers to alight and walk up a steep hill. While descending from the coupé, my eyes fell on the face of my friend, who looked woefully ill. He had been seized by a violent fit of what had every appearance of being cholera- he was suffering acute agony, and writhed in pain. With the assistance of a fellow passenger, I supported the invalid into a neighbouring vineyard, where we laid him down in the shade of the vines, for the heat was excessive. Among the passengers was a physician, who, on hearing of my friend's illness, offered his services. I drew him aside, and expressed my apprehensions that cholera was the cause of the sudden illness. 'On that score,' said he, 'you may be perfectly tranquil, for no case of cholera has ever occurred in Auvergne.' He was not bold enough to say that the terrible disease would never enter the province, but he assured me that my friend was not suffering from it. The result confirmed his assertion.* In the course of a short time my companion had sufficiently recovered from the spasms to be moved into the diligence, which was waiting for us; and giving him my seat in the coupé, we set off on our

* He was correct, also, in declaring that cholera had not visited Auvergne. It had circled this region of extinct volcanos, slaying thousands, but in no instance had it penetrated the province. Another proof of the mysterious nature of this disease.

last stage, and finally reached Clermont about five o'clock,-after difficulties which the reader will admit were sufficiently harassing. We found the Hôtel de l'Ecu, which is the best in Clermont, in a state of mad bustle and excitement, consequent on the arrival, the previous evening, of Rachel the actress, and a troupe of artists from the Odéon. This was made an excuse for putting us into shabby holes of bed-rooms; however, by dint of remonstrating, I finally contrived to obtain better apartments. As usual, the beds were clean and comfortable, but the noise extended far into the night.

A

CHAPTER III.

GLANCE at Clermont is sufficient to make the visitor aware of its volcanic origin. Not that the public buildings, as such, were vomited forth from the surrounding craters, but the materials composing them are dark lava. The entire town is built of this substance, and the streets paved with it; the inhabitants, however, wearied and saddened by the lugubrious hue of their houses, determined a few years ago to whitewash them, which had the effect of instantaneously changing their dull complexion-and now Clermont, under its white mask, wears a more cheerful aspect. The roadways, nevertheless, are as black and dirty as they were sixty-two years ago, when Young wrote of them- Clermont is in the midst of a most curious country, all volcanic; there are many streets that can, for blackness, dirt, and ill scents, only be represented by narrow channels cut in a night dunghill.' But so much of the picturesque attaches to these narrow and crooked ways that, as a mere wayfarer, I was glad they had not given place to wide, straight thoroughfares, intersecting the town at right angles to each other. No one can deny that the broad streets in our provincial towns, with their spacious trottoirs, and prim, stiff, cast-iron gas lamp

pillars, are not a thousand times more convenient than the alleys of communication in a French country town, and that our houses, all cast, as it were, from the same mould, are more comfortable than the projecting gables and high-roofed edifices of our neighbours. But as a beggar in rags and unshorn hair is a more picturesque object than a spruce tradesman, so are these continental houses and streets, dirty and tattered though they be, far more engaging to the artist than those of our clean English towns. Our first visit was to the cathedral, which stands in the centre of the town on the summit of an eminence; houses cluster round it, incasing its sides, and in many places blotting out the beautiful tracery of the windows. Strange that so many splendid cathedrals at home and abroad should continue to be so disfigured! The phrenzied hand of revolution has dealt harshly with the great house of God in Clermont, and had not a brave citizen stood up in its defence, the enraged and maddened mob would have levelled it to the ground. Already the spoilers had commenced the work of destruction, when M. Latour suggested that the building would be useful for public meetings. This happy thought turned their wrath aside, and the cathedral was spared. More astonishing is the preservation of some exquisite painted windows which shed hues of interwoven brilliance throughout the vast interior. The present inhabitants of Clermont do not appear to have any great respect for their cathedral, as they make it a thoroughfare from one

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street to another. The view from the summit of the tower is particularly striking; the Puy de Dome, the chief of a host of Puys, rises grandly over its subjects :

Si Dôme était sur Dôme,

On verrait les portes de Rome,

says the popular adage; and although the mountain is only 4846 feet above the sea, its bold configuration yet gives it an air of imposing grandeur.

The architectural gem of Clermont is the very ancient church of Nôtre Dame du Port, situated in one of the most labyrinthine parts of the town. It is a Romanesque edifice, dating probably from the tenth century. The walls are of castle-like thickness, defying the sun's powers as well as those of man. At the time of our visit, the weather out of doors was suffocatingly oppressive, while within this old church the temperature was deliciously cool. Beneath the choir, inlaid with rough mosaics, is a most curious crypt, the abiding place of one of the numerous family of black virgins, who are traditionally reported to have sprung from deep wells, but which, unlike Truth, the inhabitant of those localities, have done little to enlighten mankind. Out of respect to the black vestal, the vault is lighted by ever-burning lamps, which cast a religious hue on the surrounding objects. From early morn, until the church doors are closed, the floor is filled by kneeling figures, supplicating aid from the little sombre image, in groups forming capital studies for the artist.