BY E. Œ. SOMERVILLE AND MARTIN ROSS AUTHORS OF ‘THROUGH CONNEMARA IN A GOVERNESS CART, ETC. [Image unavailable.] ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. H. TOWNSEND FROM SKETCHES BY E. Œ. SOMERVILLE LONDON W. H. ALLEN & CO. LIMITED 13 Waterloo Place S.W. 1893     The following pages, with their accompanying Illustrations, originally appeared in the columns of ‘The Lady’s Pictorial,’ and are here reprinted by permission of the Proprietors.     IN THE VINE COUNTRY...

I T was our first day’s cub-hunting, and things had been going against us from the outset. To begin with, we had started rather late,—it is noticeable that the minutes between five and six A.M. are fewer and closer together than they are at any other period of the day,—and, when half way to the meet we found that Betty had given way to her sporting proclivities, and had surreptitiously followed us. When it is explained that Betty is a St. Bernard puppy of cart-horse dimensions, whose expression

‘T wenty minutes—half an hour—three-quarters—what mademoiselle pleases!’ This was what the waiter said when we asked him how long it would take to drive to the Gare d’Orléans on the morning that we left Paris. We selected half an hour, and by so doing as nearly as possible missed our train—in fact, when we arrived at the Quai d’Austerlitz the station clock was already at the hour of departure. It was consoling to be told officially that it was five minutes fast, but five minutes does not go far

T HE steamer that plies between Bordeaux and Royan, calling en route at several dozen places on the Garonne and Gironde, is of an unfortunate popularity. From reasons hereafter to be explained, we arrived early at the landing-stage, and we found the forepart of the vessel already crammed with blue-clad peasants, from whom, as they screamed, gesticulated, and even danced in the ardour of conversation, the well-known odour of garlic was slowly winnowed forth, and floated aft to where the first-cla

S HUTTERS in the Médoc are serious affairs, impregnable barriers that are fastened irrevocably outside the windows, and admit neither air nor light. Neither do they admit mosquitoes; but we had so far seen none such, and we resolved to risk them, and sleep with the windows open. The mosquitoes forbore—perhaps we were caviare to their countrified tastes, or perhaps they missed the usual seasoning of garlic; but the sunshine that flamed in our windows at some six of the Waterbury (I have not menti

The sitting-room in our hotel at Pauillac was discovered and annexed by us on the afternoon of our first day in the Médoc. It was a large room and a pleasant, and, so far as we were aware, had never before been trodden by the foot of man; certainly none trod it once we had taken possession. The sandy bootmarks that we distributed about its polished red floor remained there during the whole of our stay at Pauillac undisturbed by a brush, and unmingled with the footprint of the négociant en vins .

W E stood side by side, my cousin and I, and viewed the disaster with the gloomy, helpless ignorance of jurymen at a coroner’s inquest, and the mirage of tea that had risen before our thirsty eyes a few moments before, sank into the yellow sand in which wallowed our broken-winged wagonette. The cocher made light of it. There was a blacksmith quite close— en effet , a cousin of his own, and a man of great intelligence, and all would be arranged in a little quarter of an hour. My cousin with some

‘M AIS! vous êtes fraîches comme des roses, mesdemoiselles! ’ shouted Suzanne, as her two guests seated themselves at her kitchen table with faces of a pale lavender colour. ‘Blue roses,’ said my cousin ungraciously, as she rubbed her cheeks to free them from the frozen stiffness produced by the contents of the watering-pot, ‘and the coffee is cold,’ putting her hand round the thick cup that had just been filled for her. The discontented British croak was happily overwhelmed in Suzanne’s loud an

I T is a truism, venerable to the verge of dotage, to say that the way not to enjoy travelling is to do it at a rush, spending the days in sight-seeing, and the nights in the train; but this disposition of things has one merit, it keeps the anguish out of farewells. The heart-tendrils have not time to weave themselves round the concierge , the chambermaid is still your bitterest foe, the waiter has not yet risen to the position of an unnaturally obliging brother; you are too hurried to discover

I T was market day at Libourne. We were aware of that from a very early hour of the morning, as the complaining utterances of every class of rickety waggon and ungreased wheel were wafted in at the windows of our hotel, blended with the solid, carpet-like whacking of donkeys’ backs, and the screams of their drivers, all ladies of advanced age and leathern lung power. Monsieur and Madame A. called for us at nine, and before setting forth on the legitimate expedition allotted to the day, we drove

I T happened to one of us—no matter which—in early youth to have a governess who hailed from the parts about Bordeaux. She was a small rigid lady, with a cast-iron black silk skirt, and an environing squint that extended her jurisdiction round illimitable corners, and up and down stairs at the same time. So, at least, her pupils felt, as they trembled in the glare of that erratic green-brown eye, and quavered the regulation early French to one another, even in the fastnesses of their own rooms.

F AMILIAR ground, but with what a difference! While the early train from Libourne neared the Bastide Station at Bordeaux, we sat serene and languid in our carriage, reading London papers, and talking English politics to Monsieur A. with an assurance which, we hope, concealed our ignorance; luggage, cabmen, and porters were remote appendages of travel, interesting only to Monsieur A’s. servant, a few carriages off. The dog from whose tail the tin kettle has been newly removed could hardly feel a

T HE lamps were all lighted on the long bridge over the Garonne; the lights quivered and lengthened in the sleek broad ripples; other lights twinkled on the masts and in the rigging of the half-seen shipping, and but for the trams and the traffic all things were as they had been at our midnight arrival in Bordeaux. It was only 6.30 o’clock, but autumn was catching up to us even in the Médoc, robbing us daily of more and more light, and blunting our regret for a portmanteauful of soiled white ski