footman slipping down with a pile of silver plates, might be d-d for making all that noise for nothing,' as Sheridan's was when asked what he had broken. But the destruction involved in a similar mishap to any portion of a service of Dresden or Sevres would be very serious. There are pleasures, however, in breaking as well as pleasures in making, and if there is to be a smash of fine china, we can almost fancy the owner of it grudging the unlucky serving man the opportunity of so glorious a piece of destruction. Sardanapalus putting the torch to the pile composed of all the rich plenishment of his palace, Cleopatra casting the pearl to be dissolved in her drinking-cup, the sailor lighting his pipe with a tenpound note, are all instances of the gratification of this passion by the owners of property; and we fancy they enjoyed themselves quite as much as any Erostratus or Daroust, or the wanton smasher of the Portland vase, in their respective acts of demolition at Ephesus, Hamburgh, and the British Museum. We believe that an obscure consciousness of this feeling is at the bottom of most of the irritation with servants for breaking things. We should, in truth, have liked to do it ourselves. But we have followed the plates too far out of the dining-room, let us return to it for a very short time.

Flowers are always delightful ornaments of a table, and the natural vegetation of entire plants is perhaps the best way of displaying

them: only in transplanting the contents of the conservatory to the dining-room, care must be taken not to have a forest of dense and tangled foliage extending down the middle of the board, and cutting off all communication between the two opposite sides. Every one should be able to see every one round the table. Without this no conversa. tion can flourish, and there cannot be any of that general sense of mutual and common enjoyment which is the life and soul of success in a dinner-party. A leafy or flowery, barrier of this kind is by all means to be avoided. It may itself wear a gay and smiling aspect, but it is fatal to the spirits of the guests. Sometimes a well-known voice may be caught through an interstice of the hedge, and an attempt may be made to engage with it. But in vain; it is like shell-firing at a siege. An observation may be projected over the dividing rampart, but the conversational artillerist cannot see where his projectile falls, nor what is the result of its explosion. The company are reduced to two separate files of guests, who might almost as well be entertained in distinct chambers, and the social character of the occasion is altogether lost.

But we must have done! Dining and philosophizing about dining must both come to an end, and the philosopher would be impolitic as well as inconsistent, who, in trying to suggest how dinners may be made less wearisome, should become wearisome himself. So, let us ring for coffee.

EXCURSIONS IN THE

HAD been staying at Ax in the Eastern Pyrenees for some days in the autumn, when the time for returning to England having arrived, I resolved, instead of retracing my steps to Toulouse, to cross the mountains to Puicerda in Spain, thence proceeding through Cerdagne to Mont Louis, and reaching the Mediterranean by passing through Roussillon.

With this view, I engaged a muleteer, half French and half Spanish, who agreed, for the consideration of ten francs a day, and five francs for the return, to give me a riding mule and to act as guide.

This business being settled, and the bargain clinched by a preliminary bonne main, I was in the saddle at six in the morning, mounted on a tall strong mule, whose head was almost concealed by those gay trappings and bells with which Spanish muleteers love to decorate their beasts. My guide, attired in a semi-Spanish costume, walked at my side, and three mules laden with well-filled bags went before us. The morning was delicious. A slight autumnal temperature crisped the air, but the sun which fired the pine-tops gave promise that as the day advanced summer would be again with us.

About

three miles from Ax the road, thus far practicable for stout springed vehicles, contracted to a mule path, and we soon entered the gates of the great Pyrenean mountains. Two miles further, the gorge through which we had defiled opened, and we came upon the flank of the Mont de Mure, over which our route lay.

And

The path is carried by the side of a charming brawling stream, one of the head waters of the Ariège, or Oriège, as it was formerly called, from its auriferous nature. although gold is no longer found, except by the peasant, who occasionally discovers a few grains in the bed of the mountain streams,

EASTERN PYRENEES.

the Department of Ariège possesses far greater mineral wealth than any other in the Pyrenees.

We now entered a savage district, not, however, without beauties to those who have an eye for fine forms and exquisite tints. For the mountain masses are very grand, for the most part cone-shaped, giving you the idea that they were, as M. Elie de Beaumont asserts, elevated suddenly à un seul jet.* Who can describe the glory of mountain heights-what painter can limn them? Turner, says his great eulogist, felt that amongst the highest hills no work could be done; and although in one or two of his vignettes he showed his knowledge of them, his practice was always to treat the snowy mountains merely as a far-away white cloud, concentrating the interest of his picture on nearer and more tractable objects.'t

The Col de Merens, which we were now crossing, is 6345 feet above the sea. No snow lies on its summit, the elevation being 2000 feet below the height of perpetual congelation in this part of the Pyrenees; snow-crested mountains were, however, within view. The descent to the village of Merens occupied two hours. As we drew near the small and wretched hamlet, I observed a person surrounded by three gendarmes, and probably the entire population of the place. He was in a state of great excitement, speaking loud, and gesticulating violently. On a nearer approach, it was evident that he was very angry with the gendarmes. The cause of his wrath was soon explained. When within a few yards of the gendarmes, one advanced and seized the bridle of my mule, while another demanded my passport. This was immediately produced. It emanated from the Foreign Office, and bore the signature of Lord Palmerston. The three officials examined the document very minutely, and then

we

told me that it was perfectly worthless, adding, that I must consider myself under arrest; and that I should have to return to Foix, to be interrogated by the Prefet there. As this retrograde movement would have been fatal to my travelling plans, I vehemently protested against such a proceeding, asserting that my passport was in all respects authentic, that with it I had often travelled through various parts of France without hindrance, and that very recently it had been examined and approved by the authorities at Bayonne. But all my eloquence was of no avail-back to Foix I must go. Ah, then,' put in the gentleman, whose anger had been temporarily lulled while my passport was under examination, will go together.' 'Not if I can help it,' I rejoined. Companions in misfortune soon become acquainted. In a very short time I learned that the gentleman, who was a Belgian, had left Ax with a guide in the morning before me; that his passport, which he declared to be en règle, was not considered to be so by the gendarmes; and that he had been for the last hour protesting against the injustice of being detained, until he had lost his temper, a fact sufficiently apparent by his flushed face and excited state. As for my passport, it was evident that beyond Victoria,' the gendarmes could not decipherone word; and although I translated it to them at their request, taking care to give a very free translation to the words 'pass freely,' my pains were thrown away. They had never seen such a passport before-they doubted its genuineness; and, moreover, the law, according to their notion, required that every, traveller in France should be provided with a passport in the French language. It must be admitted that our prospects for now I include my Belgian friend-were none of the brightest; and I began to scrutinize the houses, apprehending that we should have to stay at Merens until the Prefet at Foix could be communicated with-for back to that town I was firmly resolved not to go unless force was used. Such was the state of affairs when a fresh face appeared on the scene. This

was the principal officer of the custom-house, who had just arrived from Ax to make his weekly inspection. Having learned the subject of dispute, he requested to look at my passport; and fortunately being master of a little English, and having previously seen a ForeignOffice passport, he at once pronounced mine to be perfectly genuine; and told the ger darmes that if they detained me, they would assuredly get into trouble. 'Besides,' he added, you must surely see that this is an English gentleman travelling for his pleasure, and not an Italian or French refugee.' Of this perhaps they still had their doubts; for they had stopped a traveller only two weeks before, who turned out to be a refugee; and they were especially instructed to exercise great vigilance. However, after more words, and long deliberation, they relaxed; the head of my mule was released, and I was allowed to depart. But I did not go until the Belgian had also obtained his freedom-not granted, by the way, without grave doubts-then, bidding adieu to the men-at-arms, we filed out of Merens. In the excitement of argument, my companion had dismounted from his mule, and the animal being under no control, had walked on towards Spain, glad, probably, to get as much of his journey over as possible without the incumbrance of the Belgian, who was a very corpulent man. When we had proceeded about a couple of miles we overtook the beast, and my companion having regained his saddle, we pursued our way. This we found would be common to us both for many days, so we resolved on fraternizing, and I do not think that either of us had cause to regret the resolution.

Although our little adventure at Merens did not terminate with the threatened march back to Foix, it was productive of inconvenience to

us.

Upwards of two hours had been spent in hot argument with the gendarmes; and thus, when we arrived at Hospitalet, where we had proposed dining while the mules rested, the afternoon was so far advanced that we deemed it better to sleep there than run the chance of being benighted before we could reach

Tour de Carol. Hospitalet, though smaller than Merens, boasts a better inn, or cabaret rather, being much frequented by muleteers passing between France and Spain, who doubtless prefer the place on account of its not being occupied by douaniers or gendarmes. Fortu

nately, the only bed-room, which contained two beds, was unoccupied ; and after a few changes in the furniture department, we made it do duty as salle à manger as well as dormitory; for although the landlady assured us that we should be very comfortable in the kitchen, the smell of garlic was too potent for us. Earnestly requesting that this bulb might not enter into any dishes intended for our consumption, we bade our hostess exhaust the resources of her larder and cuisine. The result was extremely satisfactory. First we were served with a great bowl full of hot milk, spiced and salted, which did duty as soup. This was followed by a dish of delicate mountain-burn trout; and then came the pièce de resistance, being about half an izzard, which the landlady's son had shot on the mountains near Hospitalet; omelettes sans garlic, cheese rather goaty, but not bad; good bread, and delicious wine, poured from goat-skin bags into a capacious jug, which was more than once plenished, completed the bill of fare. So good, pure, and fruity was the wine, that, as the evening was very chilly, I proposed to my companion that we should draw near the woodfire, which blazed cheerfully in the wide grate, and discuss another jug of the wine in good English fashion. To this he willingly assented; and although our flagon was rough, and mugs took the place of wineglasses, the unadulterated grape juice was fully appreciated.

re

In the course of the evening I learned that my companion was travelling through the Eastern Pyrenees for the purpose of visiting the mineral springs, many of which are only partly used, while others run entirely to waste. He did not conceal that his object was to turn his information to account; and he had stupendous visions of gigantic thermal establishments rivalling those of Luchon and Bagneres de

475

Bigorre, which were to be erected by a company, and realize large annual profits.

From mineral waters we turned to politics, which we discussed with no apprehension of being within earshot of gendarmes, and then turned into bed.

As the day dawned, our guides were at the door, assuring us that if we intended sleeping in Spain that night, it was time to be off. Softly, softly. What says the proverb

Chi va piano-va sano,

Chi va sano va lontano, and so, despite their eloquence, we did not hurry ourselves, believing that we had ample time before us, nor did we depart without a bowl of hot coffee. This drunk, we mounted, and were soon out of Hospitalet. Our route lay through a narrow valley, chaotic with rocks of all forms and sizes, which had fallen from the mountains on the right and left of our path. Presently we began to ascend the crest of the great Pyrenean chain, and after about three hours' climb, came to a temporary rest on the summit of the Port de Puy Maurins. This crest seems naturally the boundary between France and Spain, but national power, which frequently o'erleaps nature's barriers, has pushed the empire of France considerably farther south, and you have to travel many miles before the confines of this country are crossed. Not far from the summit of the Col, a path diverging to the right leads to Andorre, that curious little republic, which, too poor and wretched to be an object of national desire, has not been invaded or disturbed by France or Spain for six centuries. You may look into the opening of one of its valleys, without, I venture to say, having any desire to penetrate farther.

Far below the crest of the Port de Puy Maurins stretches the fertile valley of Carol, a name suggestive of that grand old Teuton, Charlemagne, after whom the valley is called. The rear army of Charlemagne was cut off on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees on his return from attacking the Moors, and a curious old tower, perched upon a rock in the Val de Carol, is said to

have been built by them, and wrested from their grasp by the warrior emperor.

Down, down; oh, the fatigue of riding a tall, big-boned, muscular mule down a precipitous, zigzag, stony path. The tourist must be tender-footed who does not prefer on these occasions leaving his mule to his own devices, and walking down the mountain-side. How delightful to stretch the long-bent knees, to enjoy the freedom of motion, to be able to pluck the wild flowers, and drink from any spring; and how lovely were the flowers which bloomed on the south side of the Port; you know by their number and beauty that your face is now turned to the south, for the flora on the north side of the Pyrenees cannot vie with that on the south flank. The bubbling waters, too, baby rivers which burst from the mountain side, are hurrying southward, and will be warmed by Catalonian suns before they merge into the Mediterranean.

The Belgian, being too fat, was unable to give his legs much walking liberty, but as mine were serviceable for mountain work, I broke away from men and mules, and went down the steep as inclination prompted. The descent, though effected on the straight line principle, was long and fatiguing, and as I could always see the bridle-road in the valley, but seemingly drew no nearer to it, I was reminded of the lines known by mathematicians as the asymptotes of the hyperbola, which have the curious property of constantly approximating and yet of never meeting. But I was at length made aware that the mountain curve and the valley line do meet, by finding myself on level ground by the side of a stream which, having fretted through infancy, was now flowing gently along, fertilizing the valley in its course. For here desolation and barrenness give place to fertility. Corn, nearly ripe for the sickle, was abundant, and other crops testified that the soil of La Cerdagne is kind and the peasants industrious. Nor is their industry confined to agriculture, for during the winter they manufacture wool, imported from Spain, into various articles.

Having learned the name of the village where we were to refresh men and beasts, I pushed on past the hamlet of Porta between the Mont de Mure and the Col Rouge, and presently reached the old and picturesque Tour de Carol, which I had ample time to sketch before I was overtaken by my little party. About two miles farther we came to Corbassil, our halting-place, where our mules fared better than their riders. The tourist who cannot put up with coarse food will do well to carry with him on an excursion through these mountains, something that he can eat, and which will have the advantage of being undefiled by garlic. Vent not your wrath, however, on the poor publicans in the untravelled Eastern Pyrenees, who having only ostrich. stomach muleteers to feed, are ignorant of the dainty requirements of many travellers. If their auberges were visited by tourists they would doubtless study their tastes. Do you not now find rich repasts on Alpine peaks which a few years ago were the home only of chamois and eagles ?

We had eaten our crust, softened in a cup of good wine, and began to think it was time to be off, but our guides were not forthcoming. Enquiring for them, we learned that my man was a native of Corbassil, that he had gone to see his wife and children, and to make sundry little commercial arrangements, probably not quite in accordance with customhouse laws. But he had another object, for when he joined us we scarcely knew him again. In place of his well-worn mountain clothes and rough sandals, he was attired in a gay Spanish dress, and carried over his shoulder an ample cloak of rich brown cloth. He was accompanied by a fine boy, about twelve years of age, also dressed in his holiday suit, whom he introduced to us as his son. Enquiring the reason for this sudden transformation, we were informed that on the following day there was to be a great fête on the summit of Mont Odeillo in honour of the Virgin, a very holy and highly venerated image of whom is preserved in a church on the mountain-top. At this fête, which is held annually, many