there is no one stream which is called The Burn;' though there may be the burn of Bullockbraes, the burn of Coddlekrankie, and a hundred others, real or apocryphal.

It is well to make friends with the Gaves at once. You will rarely find a sleeping-place without having one for your next-door neighbour. By day, when you have other things to see and hear, they do not obtrude themselves on your attention; but in the dead of the night, as you turn in your bed, they shout with a voice to which you cannot shut your ears, Here I am still! I never rest nor stop. I began this exercise before you were thought of, and shall go on with it after you are forgotten. Despise me not, dislike me not, but admire and study me; for He who made you, made me also.'

In my chamber, the ceaseless, ever-noisy Gave d'Ossau made much the same impression on me as the roar of London streets heard withindoors. In a few hours, one gets used to it, while further habit would render it a sedative; like the monotonous tic-tac of the mill, the stopping of which prevented the feverish miller from sleeping. But by listening, I found that my Gave had a voice; it could talk, though I did not yet understand its language. And then, my Gave was so lovely in its own proper person. Beryl and chrysolite may be beautiful substances, but their beauty is nothing to the beauty of the living substance of the Gave. Its waters, when I first saw it, combined perfect transparency with some indescribable brilliant hue. The trout reposing in its pools, and the pebbles at their bottom, became themselves enamelled jewelry enshrined in crystal. Professor Tyndall showed the colour of distilled water (of which, in a drinking glass, it exhibits no trace) by passing a beam of electric light through a cylinder fifteen feet long, half filled with water, and stopped with plate glass at both ends. The air-half of his image remained pure white, while the water-semicircle was bright and delicate blue-green. I wish he had a few gallons out of the Gave to

try; but he will hardly quit his beloved Alps, though even here he might find some respectable foreign climbs, with the additional pleasure of risking his neck.

Before a dancer makes her entry on the stage, she stretches her limbs with a few preliminary skips behind the scenes. Before the pedestrian makes a long ascent, he will train his muscles with a preparatory walk. Just such is the walk from Eaux Chaudes to Goust, a village perched on a shelf in the mountains. It consists of some dozen houses sown broadcast, each with its orchard and piggery attached, inhabited by seventy or eighty individuals who are all cousins more or less, forming a sort of little republic governed by a council of elders. Ecclesiastically, it is a hamlet of the town of Laruns (ever so far off down on the plain, and piously built on the ground plan of a cross). For baptisms and weddings there is little difficulty; newborn babes are portable, and brides and bridegrooms are rarely halt or lame. At funerals, they simply allow the coffin to slide down the rock by the force of gravity; and then, when it has reached the bottom, they decently convey it to its final resting-place.

It is impossible to mistake the way to Goust; after crossing the Pont d'Enfer, a zig-zag path conducts you up to it. If you chance to see a viper basking in the sun, there is no need to irritate the beast; for not only is France richer than we are in vipers, but the vipers are richer than ours in venom. Less formidable strangers to meet are the wasps, who build their little nests full in the sun against the naked rock. Near the bridge, a torrent rushes down to the Gave, at which the ladies of Goust wash their linen, and after washing carry it up again. Rather they than I; for up at Goust you are suspended in the air, as if you were visiting a colony of jackdaws. The horses, trotting along the high road below, look like black or chestnut mice; while the sheep, browsing on the hill side opposite, might be taken for that rarity, a swarm of white

flies. The descent, too, on foot, from Goust, is a nice little exercise of the crural sustainers of the human body.

When gazing at the range of mountains seen from Pau, there is one which is sure to attract attention; it is a cloven peak a little awry. To compare great things with small, it is like the tail of a rotifer seen under the microscope. Its name is the Pic du Midi d'Ossau. Being near it here, I resolve to walk to its foot, in spite of the Spanish wind. What a striking excursion! An excellent road (although leading to nothing, or, if you like, to a wilderness) conducts you as far as Gabas (the last village, and a station of French customs-men), through an avenue, or rather a crowd of lofty mountains; some clad to their very summits with mixed forests of firs and deciduous trees; others, only half way up, the remainder rising in barren nakedness. On the branches of fir hang tufts of mistletoe, not a common parasite, I think, on them. The road often hangs in mid air, with a profound wooded gulf below, and majestic ruined crags aloft. There are profuse thickets of box, hazel, black-berried elder, and bramble. It is not until you attain a certain elevation, after leaving Gabas, that the red-berried elder of the Jura is met with.

From Gabas to the French frontier is ten kilometres, or nearly seven miles. A wretched road, much more satisfactory to traverse on foot than in a carriage, takes you steeply and roughly up to Bious-Artigues (a name only, not an inhabited place), where charcoal is deposited to be brought on mule-back down to the lowlands. At Bious-Artigues, you have reached a considerable elevation; and find yourself looking down upon a grassy hollow, from the extremity of which the double-horned Pic du Midi d'Ossau towers aloft. Note that there are several Pics du Midi, each of which has its distinctive name. To proceed further, you must follow paths known only to guides and smugglers, with the certainty of meeting with neither shelter, accommodation, nor refreshment. One guide-book coolly in

forms you, 'You may go from Arrens to Sallent by a footpath little frequented, except by smugglers, which nevertheless deserves the preference of tourists, for the sake of the wild and picturesque_valley through which it passes. In another place it tells you, 'For want of a guide, apply to a smuggler.' But the recent commercial treaty between France and Spain may have the usual consequence of rendering smuggling an unprofitable trade.

All the whole way from Eaux Chaudes up to this concluding point, is a solitude; and, but for the road, a pathless wilderness. There are no cottages, no cows, no busy comers and goers. Of the halfdozen people beheld on the highway, one was a poor man with a goitre, which opens the door to a discussion (which I spare the reader) on the causes of goitre. One theory is, that it proceeds from carrying heavy burdens when young. There was even a scarcity of birds and beasts; only a few lizards on the rocks; a few wagtails and waterouzels (the pretty bird persecuted in Scotland, under the false accusation of eating the salmon's roe, whereas it eats the water-insects, which really eat the salmon's roe,) flitting to and fro across the Gave; a few sheep with, out any visible shepherd, and a few charcoal-carriers with their grimy donkeys. There is a waste of wealth and a neglect of material. The marble remains unhewn in its rock; where the tree falls, there it lies, and rots. There is a waste of manufacturing power, in letting the waters fall unemployed, which the sun has lifted all the way from the ocean. They grind no corn, they saw no wood or stone, they churn no butter, they rock no Pyreneean babe to sleep, they press no oil, they prepare no tan for the currier. As you gaze at those innumerable charming cascades, they seem almost to beg for something to do; and yet no man will supply them with useful work.

This solitude, this absence of inhabitants and travellers, is one point in which the Pyrenees are greatly contrasted with Switzerland. In the latter country, at every

remarkable point of view, you will find a hut, a refreshment stall; a châlet, an hotel, and that in the most extraordinary situations; witness the two hotels on the top of Mount Pilate. One of these days, there will be an hotel on the top of Mont Blanc (although that has now been shifted into France), with omnibuses for the conveyance of passengers thither. It is only for experimental ascents, and very, very exceptional excursions, that you need carry food with you. At every turn, on every hillside, you continually meet travellers from all parts of the world. In the Pyrenees, away from the villages, which are few and far between, unless you carry your own nosebag, you may reckon upon starving; and you meet so few people, that the exception confirms the rule of there being nobody to be met with.

While reposing on the velvet turf, under a clump of trees, at Bious-Artigues, with the Pic du Midi drawn up to his full height in front of me, I refresh the bodily man by taking luncheon. After what has been stated, needless to say that the luncheon had been carried from Eaux Chaudes thither; otherwise I might have lunched on grass and buttercups. Three or four travellers on horseback approach, attended by a mounted guide, of the first class, of course; and also of course, the guide has taken the best horse for himself. They are hurrying homewards; for a few big rain-drops have announced that the Spanish wind is coming to its usual conclusion. They pass close to me, and we exchange a few civil words. To descend the rugged slope up which I have climbed, they are requested by their guide to dismount and walk, of which he himself sets the example. It is usual to do so hereabouts, on arriving at any rough little bit; but hiring a horse for the pleasure of leading it, is very like the privilege allowed to Whittington by the kind waggoner who permitted him to trudge up to London by his side. 'As well,' I thought, to walk purely and simply, and save the money,' Therefore, by attending

to the warning drops, and by_putting one foot before the other, Eaux Chaudes and the hospitable Hôtel Baudot were reached in time for the table d'hôte. At night, I dreamt that the Gave had altered his tone, and was trying hard to tell me a piece of news.

In the morning the Gave had changed his language; his continuous brawling was louder and hoarser than before. The news was, that the vent d'Espagne had ceased; that it had rained heavily all night long, and was raining still; that the bed of the stream was fuller, with the water, instead of being clearer than glass, turned opaque and muddy, and the wind blowing up instead of down the valley. Pity it rains; because no walking over the Gourzy mountain to Eaux Bonnes, even should it hold up. It does hold up at noon, so the road round the mountain is taken instead.

Eaux Bonnes is a finer place than Eaux Chaudes, and frequented by finer people. It is a village of hotels, whose ground plan is a horseshoe, lighted at night with bright oil lamps, and which just fills a slope between the hills. To show how space is economised, you will find a cellar converted into a billiard-room. One of its most striking buildings is an hospital for the reception of poor patients, which is being erected at the cost of the Farmer of the Waters. There are charming walks, amongst which is the Promenade de l'Impératrice, where you may hear the owl hooting after sunset. All the inns at Eaux Bonnes are probably good. The Hôtel de France (kept by Taverne, Senior) is clean, comfortable, and far from dear. Excellent table d'hôte dinner, with wine, 3 francs; breakfast, with meat and tea, 24.

In projecting a move from Eaux Bonnes to Argelés and Cauterets, the peculiar formation of the Pyrenees must be remembered. You may either drive down one valley and up the other by the road, or you may go over the intervening ridge by the horse and foot path. I choose the latter under the con

duct of a guide. There is a carriage road making from Eaux Bonnes to Argelés direct, but let nobody persuade you that it is made. I saw it overhead, while mounting to take the short cut by the Col de Tortes, at such a height above us that it looked like a road in another world. The view from it must be magnificent. To the left of the Col is a curious rock, shaped like a double rock-crystal; and at its foot, in the middle, is a little aperture or natural door, through which the daylight streams like a star. Other rocks are twisted into whimsical shapes that must strongly strike the fancy by twilight, while others look suspended in so nice an equilibrium, that the least puff of wind would cause them to fall. It is a wild walk, through forest of firs, beech, and box, and then over naked upland. Starting at eight, I reach the top of the Col at a quarter past eleven, meeting nobody. You are therefore at liberty, without interruption, to contemplate the savage grandeur of the scene. You are not tormented, as in Switzerland, with people playing horns, firing guns, showing off echoes, and other pretences for beggary. Mendicity is prohibited in the departments both of the Low and the High Pyrenees.

Past the Col, you descend but slightly, and every now and then get distant glimpses of the plain. Snow fallen during the night on the mountains in the far horizon gives them quite an alpine aspect, while a passing shower exhibits the phenomenon of a rainbow lying on the grassy hillside. At last we encounter a human being. A barefooted peasant overtakes us, and communicates the news that last night the wolves of the neighbourhood have killed a cow and four sheep. Exploits like these explain the reason why the shepherds' dogs wear collars armed with iron spikes. We fall in with a portion of the unfinished road, following its course as far as suits us; and then, yielding to the influence of air and exercise, and seated on a bank of London Pride-an alpine plant which bears the smoke of English

towns-we pull out our provisions, and dine at the Hôtel de la Source, or the Spring Hotel, with water gratis, no waiter to pay, no parting bow to make, and no door to shut after us.

The whole descent to Argelés is lovely, from the peeps you get into sundry lateral valleys. Its own

proper valley is rich and wide, though not populous. The lower you get, the more luxuriant become the walnuts, the chestnuts, and the maize. An ugly practice, however, is stripping ash trees of their leaves as food for cattle; nor are slate hedges exactly compatible with the picturesque. The conclusion of our walk is cheered by the sight of a devout unbridled donkey, who, every five minutes, goes down on his knees to compel his mistress to relieve him of her weight. It is certainly unpolite to laugh; but even politeness must yield to possibility. And so we enter the little town of Argelés.

Oh, for the flesh-pots of Argelés! 'You will dine better, if you can wait for it half an hour,' was a significant hint which it was wise to obey. From the gallery leading to my destined chamber, I can overlook the culinary preparations and a portion of the material. What do I behold? A row of goodly trout, and a fresh fowl stuck on the spit for me. Yes, indeed, expressly for me, as is proved in the event. For this dinner, with soup and cutlets, and I know not what besides, with a dessert of peaches, grapes, and figs, and biscuits and cheese, I am charged three francs! How it is done I cannot tell. But certainly an honourable mention is due to the Hôtel de France at Argelés, and to M. and Mdme. Peyrafitte who keep it. It would be a capital place for travel-tired folk to repose and refresh in for two or three days, if provided with books or other occupation-for you can't stare at a view all day long. One reason, I believe, of the excellent fare enjoyed in the Pyrenees, is, that the landlord very frequently either superintends the cooking or cooks himself. Oh, for the flesh-pots of Argelés! Long will its dainty little dishes, its

quails and its scalloped mushrooms, remain engraved on the tablet of my memory.

From Argelés to Cauterets is an easy walk along a capital highway. There are diligences which will take you up; but they have no fixed price for these broken distances; the figure varies according to the number of vacant places. At Pierrefitte (where the Hôtel de la Poste has an inviting appearance) you begin seriously to mount, taking the valley of Cauterets to the right. For at Pierrefitte there is a bifurcation of the road; the road to the left leads to Luz and Baréges, through gorges which are worth going miles to see. Box becomes scarce in the valley of Cauterets, being replaced by heaths and exquisite ferns. The chilliness of the climate is denoted by the woollen blankets in which the natives wrap themselves; and the importance of the place whither you are wending your way by the telegraphic wire which runs up the valley.

Continually ascending by a gentle slope, you reach Cauterets without any preparation. It is a good big handful of houses thrust into a hole so deep that, in the afternoon, it loses the autumnal sunshine. It boasts an Eglise Protestante, and new buildings are on the increase. Its little central Square, or Place, is a scalene triangle, serving as a general gossiping shop, where women spin hemp and wool with distaffs, knit stockings, suck sticks of barley sugar, and pursue other equally serious occupations; where men congregate to see the coaches and omnibuses go out and come in to and from distant cities and suburban springs; where guides and attendants discuss the promise of the crop of strangers or lament the approaching fall of the leaf and the departing flight of the birds of passage; where Catalan pedlars (or sturdy fellows got up as such), in full costume, display their gaudy wares, their Catalan knives, and their Spanish chocolate of the first calidad or quality. Pyreneean puppies are led about, in the hope of inviting inquiries respecting their price. Individuals (not of the belle espèce) are

to be had for the moderate sum of ten francs. They are somewhat bearish in aspect, but with good heads. White coats, with livercoloured spots, would render them hard to keep neat in towns.

One

A little street leading off to the left as you look uphill, takes you in a very few paces to the Waters Establishment, a solid stone building of considerable dimensions. Bathing et cætera at the Thermes begins at four in the morning, continuing until ten at night, with an interval of rest from twelve till two-not a bit too much repose for the bathingpeople and their superiors. would say that they must be thoroughly sick both of the sight and the smell of the waters; only, as Vespasian remarked, money has never an unpleasant odour. The whole building is perfumed by the sulphur springs; you breathe their vapours whether you will or no, without entering the Salles d'Inhalation. The springs at the Thermes are Cæsar's and the Espagnols, which have each their respective votaries. Wishing to treat them with equal favour, I bathe in Cæsar and taste the Espagnols, which latter resembles very poor broth before it is sufficiently boiled. Cæsar's water is genial in temperature and soft and oily to the touch.

Water-worship must certainly be the fulfilment of a vow, the performance of a pilgrimage. Ecclesiastics (this being their holiday time) form a large proportion of the water-drinkers. The stalls in the vestibule of the establishment are laden with religious articles;' medals, rosaries, chaplets, pictorial representations of modern miracles, and lives of saints; all to be sold for the benefit of good works,' without specifying what good works are. This 20th of September, it rains and is cold; but in spite of that, the hydrolaters still remaining go to take their draught (which does not inebriate, if it do not cheer), and creep into their bath, or support their douche, although afterwards compelled to wrap themselves up in cachenezs and paletots.

The excursion at Cauterets is up to the Lac de Gaube. The lake