From Nantes too I went to see the naval workshops at Indret, where I was received by exceedingly capable and intelligent chiefs of departments, and where I saw a body of artificers quite out of the common, but all of them misplaced in a badly situated establishment, the original plan of which was utterly defective, and in which they were forced to vegetate uselessly in spite of their own impotent efforts and endeavours.  Thence we took our way across the Morbihan to Vannes, which during the whole of my father’s reign was administered by the same prefect, and that with the esteem of every party.  An exceptional case this (especially when the state of latent civil war in which the department was, is considered), and one much to the credit of the gentleman in question, M. Lorois.  Our journey was so hurried that we had barely time to kneel at the shrine of St. Anne d’Auray, so highly venerated by Breton pilgrims, and to give some hasty alms to the crowd of beggars clustered on the steps of the sanctuary.  They all limped off at once, with a great clatter of crutches and wooden shoes, to fetch us water from the Bonne-Mere to wash our faces and eyes with.  The journey across Brittany from Nantes to Brest, by Auray, Rosporden, and Quimper, is a delightful one.  Smiling and picturesque scenery everywhere, old churches too, surrounded by fine trees, and at the period of which I speak, 1842, the quaintest of costumes as well.  Here withy-cutters, or salt-marsh workers from Guerande, in blouses, breeches, and long white gaiters, with broad-brimmed hats laden with charms on their flowing hair.  There people from St. Pol-de-Leon, all in black.  Further on, a group of women, in embroidered bodices and quaint headdresses, kneeling on the open heath, at the foot of a stone cross.  How pretty those little Breton women are with their well-shaped waists and their short petticoats, showing glimpses of neat blue stockinged legs, and fresh rosy faces under their white caps!  Those eyes of theirs are cast down devoutly at their prayers, but on feast days they are raised and shine with passionate fire.  On such occasions, if we may believe report, the pretty little devotees follow the guidance of that eleventh commandment, which, according to the late Lord Clarendon, sums up all the rest: 

 D’etre pince te garderas,
 Afin de fauter librement—­

or, in the English version, “Thou shalt not be found out.”

We reached Lisbon after a swift passage.  The Tagus is a fine river, certainly, but, to my mind, the much vaunted panorama of Lisbon does not merit its reputation.  The Tower of Belem alone, with its curious architecture, enchants the eye, and the enchantment is prolonged, on landing, by the sight of the exquisite church standing behind it.  But there it ends.  All the rest is ugliness.  We went ashore in the royal launch (Falua), a vessel adorned with gilt carvings, and with a silken awning over her stern.  The crew were men from Algarve, with tanned skins, dressed in short drawers and jackets of amaranth-coloured velvet, with Venetian caps on their heads.  They stood upright to row, keeping their strokes in time to a sort of litany in the Queen’s honour, which they sang in chorus.