_bonhomie_, and accommodating spirit displayed under trying
circumstances might be imitated by certain insular tourists with advantage.

From St. Marie-aux-Mines we journeyed to Gustave Dore's favourite resort,
Barr, a close, unsavoury little town enough, but in the midst of
bewitching scenery. "An ounce of sweet is worth a pound of sour," sings
Spenser, and at Barr we get the sweet and the sour strangely mixed. The
narrow streets smell of tanneries and less wholesome nuisances, not a
breath of fresh pure air is to be had from one end of the town to the
other. But our pretty, gracious landlady, an Alsacienne, and her husband,
the master of the house and _chef de cuisine_ as well, equally
handsome and courteous, took so much pains to make us comfortable that
we stayed on and on. Not a thousand bad smells could drive us away! Yet
there is accommodation for the traveller among the vineyards outside the
town, and also near the railway station, so Barr need not be avoided on
account of its unsavouriness. No sooner are you beyond the dingy streets
than all is beauty, pastoralness and romance. Every green peak is crested
with ruined keep or tower, at the foot of the meeting hills lie peaceful
little villages, each with its lofty church spire, whilst all the air is
fragrant with pine-woods and newly turned hay.

These pine-woods and frowning ruins set like sentinels on every green
hill or rocky eminence, recall many of Dore's happiest efforts. "_Le
pauvre garcon_," our hostess said. "_Comme il etait content chez
nous_!" I can fancy how Dore would enjoy the family life of our little
old-fashioned hotel, how he would play with the children, chat with
master and mistress, and make himself agreeable all round. One can also
fancy how animated conversation would become if it chanced to take a
patriotic turn. For people speak their thoughts in Alsace,--nowhere more
freely. In season and out of season, the same sentiment comes to the