old town climbed a citadeled hill, and lay down at the foot of a sturdy though crumbling castle. If this were really my own tour, as I am trying to play it is, I would have commanded a long stop at Costebelle, to make explorations of the region round about. I can imagine no greater joy than to be able to stay at beautiful places as long as one wished, and to keep on doing beautiful things till one tired of doing them.
But life is a good deal like a big busybody of a policeman, continually telling us to get up and move on!
Our world was a flower world again, ringed in like a secret fairyland, with distant mountains of extraordinarily graceful shapes—charming lady-mountains; and as far as we could see the road was cut through a carpet of pink, white, and golden blossoms destined by and by for the markets of Paris, London, Berlin, and Vienna.
Before I thought it could be so near, we dashed into Toulon, a very different Toulon from the Toulon of the railway station, where I remembered stopping a few mornings (which seemed like a few years) ago. Now, it looked a noble and impressive place, as well as a tremendously busy town; but my eye climbed to the towery heights above, wondering on which one Napoleon—a smart young officer of artillery—placed the batteries that shelled the British out of the harbour, and gained for him the first small laurel leaf of his imperial crown.
I thought, too, of all the French novels I 'd read, whose sailor heroes were stationed at Toulon, and there met romantic or sensational adventures. They were always handsome and dashing, those heroes, and as we
