troubadours wander amongst orange groves, or tinkle their
guitars under the shade of the vine and the fig-tree. There is something
in a name, and Provence, if it were only for the sake of its roses, ought,
one would think, to be a smiling and beautiful country. And so part of it
is; but in this part is assuredly not included the district around its
chief city. One hears much of the vineyards and orange groves of the south.
We do not profess to care much about vines, except for the sake of what
they produce; most of the vineyards we ever saw looked very like
plantations of gooseberry bushes, and the best of them were not so
graceful or picturesque as a Kentish hop-ground. As to olives, admirable
as they undoubtedly are when flanking a sparkling jug of claret, we find
little to admire in the stiff, greyish, stunted sort of trees upon which
they think proper to grow. But neither vines nor olives are to be found
around Marseilles. Nothing but dust; dust on the roads, dust in the fields,
dust on every leaf of the parched, unhappy-looking trees that surround the
country-houses of the Marseillais. The fruit and vegetables consumed there
are brought for miles overland, or by water from places on the coast;
flowers are scarce--objecting, probably, to grow in so arid a soil, and in
a heat that, for some months of the year, is perfectly African. Game there
is little or none; notwithstanding which, there are nowhere to be found
more enthusiastic sportsmen than at Marseilles. It is on this hint M.
Dumas speaks. His description of the manner in which the worthy burghers
of Marseilles make war upon the volatiles is rather amusing.

"Every Marseillais who aspires to the character of a keen sportsman, has
what is termed a _poste a feu_. This is a pit or cave dug in the ground in
the vicinity of a couple of pine-trees, and covered over with branches. In
addition to the pine-trees, it is usual to have _cimeaux_, long spars of
wood, of which two are supported horizontally on the branches of the trees,
and a third planted perpendicularly in the ground. These _cimeaux_ are
intended as a sort of treacherous invitation to the birds to come and rest
themselves. So regularly as Sunday morning arrives, the Marseillais
Cockney installs himself in his pit, arranges a loophole through which he
can see what passes outside, and waits with all imaginable patience. The
question that will naturally be asked, is--What does he wait for?

"He waits for a th