Thus you reach Toulouse, a noble city, of which it ill befits a
passer-through to speak. Volumes have been written on its
antiquities, and volumes on its history; and all of either that my
readers need know, they will find in Murray's hand-book.
At Toulouse--or rather on leaving it to go eastward--you become aware
that you have passed into a fresh region. The change has been, of
course, gradual: but it has been concealed from you by passing over
the chilly dreary uplands of Lannemezan. Now you find yourself at
once in Languedoc. You have passed from the Atlantic region into the
Mediterranean; from the old highlands of the wild Vascones, into
those lowlands of Gallia Narbonensis, reaching from the head-waters
of the Garonne to the mouths of the Rhone, which were said to be more
Italian than Italy itself.
The peculiarity of the district is its gorgeous colouring.
Everywhere, over rich plains, you look away to low craggy banks of
limestone, the grey whereof contrasts strongly with the green of the
lowland, and with the even richer green of the mulberry orchards; and
beyond them again, southward to the now distant snows of the
Pyrenees, and northward to the orange downs and purple glens of the
Cevennes, all blazing in the blazing sun.
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