Menorca, the second largest of the islands, is bare and bleak and flat round the coast, though at one point in the interior it rises to a height of nearly 6000 feet. Here and there are picturesque spots, notably the Barranco of Algendar; but speaking generally the island is the Holland of the Mediterranean. Cleanliness, well-being, industry and good conduct are the characteristics of the inhabitants, who live farther outside the world of romance even than most Latin people. We flatter ourselves of course that they learned their good qualities from our ancestors, when they ruled the island, and certainly there are frequent reminders of our influence to be traced in the daily life of Menorca. “Ashes to Ashes,” though seldom heard now, was in Ford’s time an oath or exclamation often on the lips of the natives, and children use English words when playing marbles, a game that we taught them among other perhaps less useful arts. We sent to the island a Governor Kasie, who made roads and built market-halls, and did all that a worthy and unimaginative English gentleman might feel it is his duty to do in such a position; but the natives do not sigh once more to be under our dominion, as they are sometimes polite enough to tell English folk they do, and a Spanish writer actually refers to our paternal government as the Babylonish captivity. Puerto Mahon was founded, as we have said, by the Carthaginians, and was appropriately enough occupied by us, the Carthaginians of later days. Its harbour is one of the best in the Mediterranean, and is very strongly fortified. Except for the forts, the town contains no public monuments of interest. The streets are very clean and rather quiet, and you remark the absence of the running water in the gutters characteristic of so many European towns. The streets are well paved, often with tombstones from the English cemetery; the dustman goes his rounds as he does in London, and many of the houses have English windows. The domestic life is held in high honour at Mahon, and the chief occupation and delight of the women is cleaning their houses. “It is an amusing spectacle” says M. Vuillier, “to see them armed with brooms of dwarf palm and immense pails of lime-water, gossiping along the walls from early morning, while they scrub and wash as if their lives depended upon it, fastening their brooms to long poles the better to reach the higher parts of the wall. Should a death occur in a house the walls are not whitened for a week, a fortnight or even a month, according to the closeness of the relationship or the degree of grief felt for the deceased. In rare cases the walls are not touched for six months.” The traveller comments on the absence of the tribe of unwelcome bedfellows, so persistent in their attentions in other parts of Spain.