ntury
in all its confusion of ideas, all its lack of taste, all its travesty
of styles. There is the usual multitude of detail, the usual
unworthiness. Portals which have no beauty, an expanse of unfinished
facade, dark, ugly walls whose bareness is not sufficiently hidden by
the surrounding houses, heavy buttresses, ridiculously topped off by
globes of stone,--such are the salient features of the exterior of
Saint-Benoit.

The "spaciousness" of the interior has given room, if not for an
impartial representation, at least for a reminder of all the styles of
architecture to which the XVII century was heir. There is the
Renaissance conception of the antique in the ornamental columns; in the
rose-window, there is a tribute to the Gothic; the tradition of the
South is maintained by a coat of colours--many, if subdued; and the
ground plan of nave and side-chapels might be called Romanesque.
Although the vaulting is high and the room large, there is no
simplicity, no beauty, no artistic virtue in this interior.

Opposite the church is the episcopal Palace which Mansart built, a large
construction that serves admirably as a City Hall. Behind it, along the
river, are the charming gardens designed by Le Notre, where Bishops
walked and meditated, looking upon their not too faithful city of
Castres. Upon this very ground was the ancient Abbey and close of the
Benedictines; and as if in memory of these monkish predecessors, Bishop
and builder of the XVII century left in an angle of the Palace the old
Abbey-tower. This is the treasure of Castres' past, a Romanesque belfry
with the pointed roofing of the campanile of Italy, heavy in comparison
with their grace, and stout and strong.

[Sidenote: Toulouse.]

Toulouse is one of the most charming cities of the South of France. It
is also one of the largest; but in spite of its size, it is neither
noisy nor stupidly conventional; it is, on the contrary, an ideal
provincial "capital," where everything, even the climate, corresponds to
our preconceived and somewhat romantic ideal of the southern type. When
the wind blows from the desert it comes with fierce and sudden passion,
the sun shines hot, and under the awnings of the open square, men fan
themselves lazily during a long lunch hour. Under this appearance of
semi-tropical languor, there is the persistent energy of the great
southern peoples, an energy none the less real because it is broken by
the long siestas, the leisurely mea