Whether the mother of Raymond would have continued in the same intentions, cannot be known; for grief and sickness soon brought her to the close of her sad career. When she was dying, the poor man who had succoured her and her child, conceiving that he was not acting according to his conscience, in withholding from her the exact situation in which he was himself placed, threw himself on his knees at her bed-side, and with tears entreated her forgiveness, for that he had the misfortune to be a Cagot.

"'Have pity upon me,' said he, 'that I thus add to the weight of sorrow which you carry with you to the tomb.'"

Instead of the start of abhorrent contempt which the persecuted man dreaded, she turned upon him a look of the most ineffable benevolence; and, placing her cold hand upon his head, uttered these words:—

"'It is well;—Cagot since thou art, I bless thee; for thy heart is more noble than the proudest blazon could make it.'

"No human description can convey an idea of the impression made on the heart of the good man by these few words,—the first of pity and consolation he had ever heard addressed to one of his own fated race. A new life, a new being seemed given him as he heard them; and, from that instant, he vowed to exist only for the salvation of the being left behind by the angel who had shed her benediction upon him. She died, and he kept his word."

* * * * *

The supreme tribunal of Bearn, the Cour Majour, was assembled at Orthez, in one of the grand saloons of the castle of Moncade, to dispense to the people, by its irrevocable decrees, the national justice of its celebrated Fors. Great excitement prevailed; for it was known that the Knight-Cagot, or Cagot-Knight, as Raymond was called, was about to appear, to defend himself from his accusers.

"The Lord and Lady of Artiguelouve were present in the great assembly, summoned to appear for their deceased son, to support the charge he had made. The fair Marie de Lignac sat pale and agitated, supported by her uncle, the Knight of Lescun. The Bishops of Lescar and Oloron, the eleven judges,[50] and all the nobles of the country attended, and were seated on elevated benches, in due order, near Prince Gaston de Foix."

[Footnote 50: The number of twelve was reduced to eleven since the period that the village of Bidous was removed from the territorial jurisdiction of Bearn.]

After a consultation of some length, these equitable magistrates had decided that justice should be allowed to the complainant, and punishment awarded to those who had injured him, provided that he could prove that he was a man and not a Cagot.

Nothing now remains for Raymond but the presentation of his mother's letter, and all the proofs which establish his birth. On opening the paper, and on examining the embroidery on the mantles which wrapped the rescued infant; on looking at the initials of the chain of gold, the Knight of Lescun recognised the son of his cousin, Marguerite d'Amendaritz, first wife of Messire Loup Bergund, who, when he hears the truth, is seized with sudden remorse and amazement, and, being now without an heir, is not sorry to recover him whom he had before abandoned to destruction. In spite, therefore, of the indignation of his wife—and her endeavours to repress his agitation throughout the scene—he starts up, and proclaims himself the father of Raymond: who, he declares aloud, is his long-lost son,—stolen from him by routiers—whose loss had cost him the life of a beloved wife, whom he deplored.

The result is, however, far different to his expectations, or that of all present. The young knight, on finding that he is the son of a man so laden with crime as Loup Bergund, is seized with a frenzy of contempt and disgust.

"His open and expansive forehead became contracted with horror—he stood silent a few seconds, petrified and overwhelmed with his emotions—his body shrinking back in an attitude of repulsion and dislike, as if a venomous reptile were before his sight. His regard then fell full on Loup Bergund, and the terrible severity of its expression made the unworthy tyrant shrink beneath his glance of fire.

"You my father!"—exclaimed he, at length, in a terrible voice—"do you open your arms to me as to your son? Hence!—back! there is nothing in common between us—we can be nothing to each other! I know you not. Go—say to your captive of yonder dungeon that her son is dead; that the routiers have stolen him: you my father! no; you have no son—it is a falsehood—you are a great lord, and I a wretched foundling—a being without a name—one disdained by wolves and robbers. No; you are not my father. I have no other but he who stands beside me; I am the son of no other than the poor Cagot."

As he spoke, Raymond dashed the chain of gold on the ground, and trampled it under his feet—he seized his mother's letter from the hands of the Knight of Lescun, and thrusting it into the flame of a torch hard by, burnt it to ashes; then, throwing himself into the arms of Guilhem, he burst into a passion of tears. Recovering himself, however, in a few moments—while all looked on silent and aghast—he cried aloud—

"'And now I am, indeed, a Cagot—irrevocably so—and it is my glory and my joy! But hear me all! while I proclaim what you are worth, and those whom you dare to despise, and for whom the Redeemer died, as well as for us all: You are decked in gold and gorgeous raiment, and they are in rags; but they have hearts which beat beneath, and you have souls of ice: you are their executioners, and they are martyrs. You cast your wives and children into the dungeons of your castles, from whence the poor Cagots save them: you are great upon the earth, but they will be great in Heaven!"

These last words fell, like thunder, upon the ears of all, but most on those of Gaston Phoebus—who thought of his murdered son—and writhed with agony. Raymond continued:

"'God will yet do justice, in his time, to the oppressors of the innocent. Your names, in future ages, will be execrated. Meantime, keep your pomp, your pleasures, your grandeur, and your luxury; while our possessions are opprobrium and contempt, shame, banishment, and suffering—days without sun, and nights without repose or shelter. Yes, drive us from you—you know that we are infectious, that we shall contaminate your purity—Away! Room, room for the Cagots!'"

And Raymond and Guilhem retired through the crowd, which shrunk back, appalled, to let them pass.

The next day Marie de Lignac received a letter, the contents of which were never seen but by her tear-dimmed eyes; nor ever re-read by her after she entered the convent of Marciniac.

The Lord of Artiguelouve, on his death-bed, was a prey to the most bitter repentance: he implored that some priest of more than common sanctity should hear his last confession; and one was discovered in a holy hermit, who, when he was summoned from his retreat, was found kneeling beside a humble tomb, where he passed all his days in prayer, with rigorous fasting and unwearied penance. He obeyed the call of the expiring sinner, and received his last sigh. Thus did the repentant Lord of Artiguelouve meet the forgiveness of his son, Raymond: for it was he that closed his eyes with a blessing, and then returned to his hermitage to weep by the tomb of his father, the Cagot.

* * * * *

I am indebted to M. Baron du Taya's (of Rennes) learned researches and obliging kindness for a few particulars respecting the Cacous of Brittany.

It is thought there that this proscribed race are the descendants of leprous Jews, which would at once account for the detestation in which they continued to be held, but for the term "Chrestaas" applied to them, which destroys that supposition: again, it is said that they are descended from original lepers, and that diseases are inherent in their blood—though not leprosy, it may be epilepsy: for this reason, the rope-makers of Ploermel were held in abhorrence, and are even now shunned: they are irritated when the term caqueux is applied to them, but it is common to call them Malandrins—a word of opprobrium, only less shocking to their ears. They had always their separate burial-ground and chapel; and, till the revolution of 1789, the prejudice existed against them: even now it is not entirely extinct.

Rope-makers, coopers, and tailors are still held in a certain degree of contempt in Brittany, as those of these trades were formerly all looked upon as Cacous.

The Cacous of St. Malo met with some compassion from Duke Francis II., the father of Anne of Brittany; and also in the time of Francis I., King of France, ordinances were made in their favour; but they were not so fortunate as their brethren of Rome, who, in the sixteenth century, are said to have sold, in one Holy week, rope to the amount of two thousand crowns, to make disciplines.

In 1681, a law was passed to this effect; "Seeing that there are no longer any Leprous, Ladres, or Caquins at Kerroch, parish of St. Caradec d'Hennebon, there is in future to be no distinction made in the inhabitants of this village—who formerly had their burial-ground and chapel apart—and all shall be admitted to the benefit of parish assistance during their lives, and buried in the church after their death. For it is considered that it was ill and abusively ordained by the Bishop of Vannes, in 1633, that the wives of the said inhabitants should not be purified, except in their own chapels; for it is well ascertained that no native of the said village of Kerroch has ever been afflicted with leprosy."

Notwithstanding this sensible and humane act, the people of Kerroch are not free from the absurd suspicion even yet.

"It would appear," observes M. Baron du Taya, "that the Cacous were first a subdivision of lepers, and afterwards, by hereditary remembrance of them, the latter were always the objects of commiseration amongst the professors of religion and chivalry. Thus the first Grand Master of St. Lazare was himself a leper. Several great names occur amongst these Grand Masters: such as Jean de Paris, in 1300; a Bourbon in 1521; and, under Henri IV., a Philibert de Nerestang."

In 1436 a prohibition was issued against the Cacosi receiving the kiss of peace, and the kiss of the monks, before men who were whole; it was not denied them, but they were to be the last.

In many places in Brittany the rope-makers work out of the towns near those places where lazar-houses were once established. They were not authorized to place their benches in the lower part of the church at Pontivy till after the revolution in 1789! The villagers still look upon certain rope-makers, tailors, and coopers, as possessing an evil eye, and are in the habit of concealing their thumbs under the rest of their fingers,[51] and pronouncing the word argaret as a counter-spell: this word is unintelligible even to the Bas-Bretons themselves. The prejudice still exists in Finisterre against the Cacous: the village of Lannistin is one of their abodes. The Cagot girls of Bearn are said never to be able to draw water from a brook or well without spilling half of it: so that their houses are always dirty, and themselves thirsty. Probably the same misfortune exists in Brittany, for there is little cleanliness to be found there.

[Footnote 51: This practice is similar to that of the Neapolitans, who wear a little hand in coral (gettatura) as a preservative against the evil eye.]

Perhaps, after all, the most probable conjecture as to the origin of these unhappy Cagots is, that they were persons suspected of witchcraft, and banished in the first instance from society, to which traditional prejudice prevented their return; and, though the cause of their banishment was no longer remembered, the abhorrence they had once inspired did not wear out with ages. The supposition of their having been the first Christians, persecuted and contemned, and never regaining the world's good opinion, seems a notion difficult to adopt, except that the first Christians were suspected of sorcery and communication with evil spirits. "He casteth out devils through Beelzebub, the chief of the devils." If such were, indeed, the case, what a lesson for prejudice and superstition, that the descendants of the earliest converts should be persecuted by their Christian brethren!

The Vallee d'Aspe, where the scene of the preceding story is laid, is one of the most picturesque of Bearn, and the customs of its people remarkable.

The Pic d'Anie, whose solemn height rises above the village of Lescun, is regarded by the Aspois as the sojourn of a malignant deity. From thence come the fearful storms which desolate the country, and no inhabitant of the village will dare to climb the ascent: it is looked upon as a piece of presumption to attempt it; for it is believed that the Jin of the mountain, called the Yona Gorri, or flame-coloured spirit, has there fixed his solitary abode, and has his garden on the summit, which he will not allow to be visited by strangers. Certain evil spirits have occasionally been seen in his company, each holding a lighted torch and dressed in shining scarlet habiliments: they thus surround the chief, and dance round him to the music of an unearthly instrument, like a drum. Loups-garoux, and sorcerers mounted on dragons and other animals, may be seen in the air, wending their way towards Anic, as far as from Jurancon, Gan, and St. Faust.

At Escout is a fairy oak, beneath which, whoever places an empty vase, having belief, will find it, after a short period, when he returns, full of gold and silver: there are known to exist persons in the Vallee d'Aspe whose fortune had no other source.

There is a famous rock at the entrance of the valley, the object of attraction to all females who desire to become mothers. Many of the superstitions are similar to those in the Landes where the belief in the power of the demon is generally received. The Homme Noir—a fearful spirit with large black wings—may frequently be seen perched on the summit of the highest peaks, shaking from his pinions showers of hail, which break the early flowers and crush the rising corn.

There are persons, even now—though they are rarer than in the time of that acute discoverer, De Lancre—who are believed to deserve the name of Poudoueros, Hantaumos, Brouchos, Mahoumos, for they are votaries of the evil one, and many spells are requisite to avoid their "witch knots," and "combs of care," &c.

Presages can be drawn from the croak of a magpie, from the rush of waters, and the howling of dogs. If a flower is seen to expand on a barren rock, or in a place where there is no other vegetation, it is looked upon as an augury of an abundant harvest throughout the country. But if a tree spreads its branches over the roof of a house it announces all sorts of misfortunes: the sons of that house will perish in a foreign land: the lovers of those daughters will be faithless: the parents will be abandoned by their children, and die in aged destitution.

If a single rose is left

"——Blooming alone, Its lovely companions all faded and gone;"

and if it grows with its beautiful head inclined towards a cottage, woe to the inhabitant; he has but a brief space of existence left him! Let every one beware of insulting the fountains; for if a stone or any rubbish is thrown into their waters, the person doing so will perish by thunder!

At the entrance of the Vallee d'Aspe, on the Spanish side, is St. Christine, where formerly stood one of those hopitaux des ports, erected by benevolence for the safety of pilgrims and travellers. This was called, in a bull of Innocent III., one of the three hospitals of the world; but it has been long since destroyed.

The forests of Itseaux, Gabas, Benou, and Irati, were formerly the most considerable in this part of the Pyrenees: that of St. Engrace is still very extensive. About a century ago the forest of Itseaux was so thick, and so little known in its vast extent, that more than one person was lost in its depths. A singular circumstance occurred at that period, which may give an idea of the perfection of its solitude. A young girl of about sixteen or seventeen was found there in a savage state: she had been a denizen of the shades from the age of seven or eight. All that was known of her was, that she had been left by some other little girls in the woods, having been surprised by the snow. The shepherds who found her conducted her to the hospital of Mauleon: she never spoke, nor gave any sign of recollecting the past; they gave her grass and vegetables to eat, but she continued to droop, and in a very short time died of grief for the loss of her liberty.

About twenty years after this a wild man was observed in the same forest: he was very tall, and strongly built, hairy like a bear, active as an izard, and perfectly harmless. His delight was in coursing the sheep and dispersing them, uttering loud peals of laughter at the confusion he created. Sometimes the shepherds sent their dogs after him, but he never suffered them to come up with him. Nothing was known or traced respecting his history, and he appears to have finished his wild career in the forest: probably he was some child left by accident or design in that savage solitude; where, like Orson, some bear nursed him, but who never found a Valentine to restore him to humanity.

Itseaux still presents an immense extent of wood: it covers one side of the mountains of Lescun, fills the valley of Baretous, and joins the great forest of St. Engrace, to the entrance of the Vallee de Soule. It is the largest of the Pyrenean forests.

There is scarcely a valley in the Pyrenees to which some celebrity is not attached. Amongst others, the Vallee d'Aspe resounds with the fame of the pastoral poet, Despourrins: and Ariosto has celebrated that of Gavarnie, where, in the Tours de Marbore, he places the abode of some of his heroes.

"Charlemagne, Agramont, tous leurs fameux heros; Les Zerbin, les Roger, les Roland, les Renaud: De ces Palais du Temps habitent les ruines.

Tout parle d'Arioste en ce fameux vallon Et comme aux champs Troyens, chaque roche a son nom."

Cyprien Despourrins, though he wrote as one of the people, and for them, was not a man of obscure birth; his family was originally of a race of shepherds; but one of his ancestors having made his fortune in Spain, returned a great man to his native valley, the beautiful Vallee d'Aspe, and there bought the Abbey of Juzan, and became a proprietor, with many privileges. The father of the poet inherited his estates, and distinguished himself in the career of arms, being cited for his bravery, the character of which bears the impress of the times in which he lived, namely, the end of the seventeenth century. Numerous anecdotes are told of him: amongst others, that he had had a dispute with three foreign gentlemen; and in order to get the quarrel off his hands at once, he challenged them all three at the same time, and came off victorious in the combat. To perpetuate the memory of his victory, he obtained from the King permission to have engraved, over the principal entrance of his house, three swords, which may still be seen on the stone of the old building shown as his residence. After this notable exploit, Pierre Despourrins visited the Eaux de Cauteretz, where, in the neighbourhood of Argelez he formed an acquaintance with the family of Miramont, and an attachment to the fair Gabrielle, daughter of that house; through his marriage with whom, he afterwards became possessor of the chateau of Miramont, near St. Savin, destined to become famous by means of his son, the famous poet Cyprien. The chateau is still to be seen, and is a great lion in the neighbourhood.

There are constant disputes between the people of Bigorre and Bearn, as to which has the greater right to claim the poet as their own, for he belonged to both; but as he chose the musical patois of the latter in which to sing his pastorals, it appears but just that the Bearnese should have the preference. He was born at Accous, in 1698: his two brothers, Joseph and Pierre, became, one the vicar, the other the curate of the village, and he was called, par excellence, the chevalier. There is a curious story told, illustrative of the simple manners of these mountaineer-priests. The two brothers were very musical: one played the flute, the other the violin; and every Sunday their talents were exerted for the benefit of their parishioners. All the young people of the place were accustomed to meet in the court-yard of their house; and, seated at a casement, the reverend pair played to their dancing. As soon as the bell sounded for vespers, the ball was suspended, and all the docile flock accompanied the good pastors to church.

The chevalier had inherited his father's warlike qualities, and was, it seems, always ready with his sword. He was at the Eaux Bonnes when he received an affront from a stranger, which—as Sir Lucius O'Trigger has it,—"his honour could not brook." Unluckily, he had not his sword with him, and the affair must be decided at once; he therefore sent his servant to Accous to fetch it, recommending him great promptitude and address in inventing some story to prevent his father from guessing his errand. The servant used his utmost despatch, and thought he had managed very cleverly to avert suspicion: the old knight, however, was too clear-sighted in such matters; and, having divined the state of the case, mounted his mule instantly, and secretly followed the messenger. He traversed the mountains of Escot and Benou, and, braving all their difficulties, arrived at the Eaux Bonnes. On asking for his son, he was informed that he was closeted with a stranger: he repaired thither, and, pausing at the door, heard the clashing of swords. Satisfied that all was as he surmised, the imperturbable old knight remained quietly at his post, awaiting the issue of the combat. At length the noise of arms ceased; young Despourrins came out precipitately, and found his father on the watch, who, embracing him tenderly, exclaimed—"Your servant's hasty departure prevented my setting out with him; but I followed closely, guessing that you had an affair of honour on your hands; and, in case you should fall, I brought my sword with me, which has never yet failed at need." "I am your son," replied the Chevalier; "my adversary is grievously wounded; let us hasten to afford him assistance."

After Despourrins, the son, was established near St. Savin, and the estates of the Vallee d'Aspe were abandoned by his father for his new domain, he seems to have given himself up to the charms of poetry and music, living the life of a shepherd, and familiarizing himself with the habits, customs, manners and pleasures of that simple race, until he spoke with their words, and thought with their thoughts. Whoever has visited the beautiful Valley of Argelez, and wandered amongst the wilds in the neighbourhood of the once famous abbey of St. Savin, can well understand the poet's delight in such a retreat, and will not wonder when he is told that Despourrins often passed whole nights in the woods, singing his verses, like one transformed to a nightingale. Even now the songs he sung are remembered and cherished; and though the pastous of his native mountains probably know nothing of the poet, his lays are constantly on their tongues. One of the most famous is a romance, called "La Hauet sus las Mountagnes," which I give entire, with a translation in prose and verse, in order to show the nature of this Troubadour language, which differs from the Gascon dialect, in being softer and less guttural; in fact, resembling rather more the Italian than Spanish language:—

La hauet sus las Mountagnes, u Pastou malhurous Segut aue pe d'u Hau, negat de plous, Sounyabe aue cambiamen de sas amous.

"Co leueye, co boulatye!" dise l'infourtunat, "La tendresse et l'amou qui t'ey pourtat Soun aco lous rebuts qu'ey meritat?

"Despuch que tu frequentes la yen de counditiou Qu'as pres u ta hauet bol, que ma maysou, N'ey prou hauete enta tu d'u cabirou.

"Tas oueilles d'ab las mies, nous degnen plus meacla; Touns superbes moutous, despuch enca, Nou s'approchen deues mes, qu'entaues tuma

"De richesses me passi, d'auenous, de qualitat: You nou soy qu'u Pastou; mes noun n'y a nad Que noues surpassi touts, en amistat,

"Encouere que ay prauebe, dens moun petit estat, Qu'aimi mey moun Berret tout espelat, Que nou pas lou plus bet Chapeue bourdat.

"Las richesses deue mounde nou ben queda turmen; Et lou plus bet Seignou, dab soun aryen, Nou baue pas lou Pastou qui biue counten.

"Adiue, co de tygresse, Pastoure chens amou, Cambia, be pots carabia de serbidou: Yamey noun trouberas u tau coum you!"

TRANSLATION.

High up, amongst the mountains, an unfortunate shepherd was seated at the foot of a beech, drowned in tears, musing on the changes of his love.

"Oh light, oh fickle heart!" said the unhappy youth; "for the tenderness and the affection which I have borne towards you, is this wretchedness a fitting reward?

"Since you have frequented the society of persons of condition, your flight has been so high that my humble cottage is too low for you by at least a stage.

"Your flocks no longer deign to mix with mine; your haughty rams, since that period, never approach mine but a battle ensues.

"I am without wealth or dignity; I am but a simple shepherd but there is none that can surpass me in affection.

"And methinks, according to my simple ideas, that I prefer my berret, old and worn as it is, to the finest ornamented hat that could be given me.

"The riches of the world only bring uneasiness with them, and the finest lord with all his possessions cannot compare to the shepherd who lives content.

"Adieu, tigress-heart! Shepherdess without affection; change, change, if you will, your adorers, never will you find any so true as I have been."

I here give a metrical version of the same song:

DESPOURRINS.

"La Haut sas las Mountagnes."

ABOVE, upon the mountains, A shepherd, full of thought, Beneath a beech sat musing On changes time had wrought: He told to ev'ry echo The story of his care, And made the rocks acquainted With love and its despair.

"Oh! light of heart," he murmur'd, "Oh! fickle and unkind! Is this the cold return My tenderness should find? Is this a fit reward For tenderness like mine?— Since thou hast sought a sphere Where rank and riches shine,

"Thou canst not cast a thought Upon my lowly cot; And all our former vows Are in thy pride forgot. For thee to enter in, My roof is far too low, Thy very flocks disdain With mine to wander now.

"Alas! I have no wealth, No birth, no noble name, A simple shepherd youth Without a hope or claim; But none of all the train That now thy favours share Can bear, as I have borne, Or with my love compare.

"I'd rather keep my habits, Tho' humble and untaught, Than learn the ways of courts, With dang'rous falsehood fraught; I'd rather wear my bonnet, Tho' rustic, wild, and worn, Than flaunt in stately plumes Of courtiers highly born.

"The riches of the world Bring only care and pain, And nobles great and grand With many a rich domain, Can scarcely half the pleasures, With all their art, secure, That wait upon the shepherd Who lives content and poor.

"Adieu, thou savage heart! Thou fair one without love: I break the chain that bound us, And thou art free to rove.

But know, when in thy vanity, Thou wanderest alone, No heart like mine will ever Adore as I have done."

The royal circle of Neuilly has been enlivened sometimes by the sound of the Bearnese minstrelsy; and, on one occasion, listened to a band of mountaineers from Luchon, who undertook, a few years since, a journey through Europe, singing their choruses in all the principal cities. On hearing the above song of Despourrins, the King exclaimed, with his usual ready kindness,—"Your songs alone would be sufficient to make one love your country."

Several celebrated singers, favourites in the Italian world, were natives of Bearn: one of these, Garat, surnamed "the musical Proteus," was born at Ustaritz. Nothing appeared impossible to this prodigious singer: his voice was splendid and his taste exquisite: his only defect was an inordinate vanity—by no means an uncommon fault in artists of this description. A person on one occasion, thinking to embarrass him, inquired how high in the scale he could go; "I can mount as high as it pleases me to go," was his reply. He used frequently to surprise the Parisians by the introduction of Basque and Bearnese airs, whose peculiarity and originality never failed to cause the most lively admiration and enthusiasm; but he did not announce them as mountain songs till he had secured the praise he sought for them, having passed them for Italian productions. A similar ruse was practised by Mehul, when he brought out his "Irato," which the public was given to imagine was composed by an Italian maestro. Its success was very great, and Geoffrey, the editor of a popular paper, in noticing the opera, exclaimed,—"O, if Mehul could compose as well as this, we might be satisfied with him." When the triumphant composer threw off his incognito, the unlucky critic was not a little mortified. The celebrated singer Jelyotte was from Bearn, and Louis the Fifteenth used to delight in hearing him sing his native melodies: in particular one beginning, "De cap a tu soy Marion," one of Despourrins' most spirited pastorals:—

"I am your own, my Marion, You charm me with each gentle art; Even from the first my love was won, Your pretty ways so pleased my heart; If you will not, or if you will, I am compell'd to love you still.

"No joy was ever like my joy, When I behold those smiling eyes, Those graceful airs so soft and coy, For which my heart with fondness dies: And when I seek the charm in vain, I dream the pleasure o'er again.

"Alas! I have no palace gay, My cottage is but small and plain; No gold, nor marble, nor display, No courtly friends nor glitt'ring train; But honest hearts and words of cheer Are there, and store of love sincere.

"Why should we not be quite as blest, Without the wealth the great may own? A shepherd life, methinks, is best, Whose care is for his flock alone; And when he folds them safe and warm, He knows no grief, he dreams no harm.

"If you, dear Marion, would be mine, No king could be so blest as I; My thoughts, hopes, wishes, should combine, To make your life pass happily; Caresses, fondness, love, and glee, Should teach you soon to love like me."

Another very favourite song is the "Aue mounde nou y a nat Pastou,"[52] in which mention is made of the national dances for which Bearn is celebrated, as well as the Pays Basque which produces baladins, famous throughout France for their feats of agility and grace. There is a great variety of these dances, and those executed by the young men of St. Savin are remarkable in their kind: bands of the dancers go from village to village in the times of fetes, and are much sought after: they appear very like our May-day mummers, or morrice-dancers, and have probably the same, namely, an eastern, origin: instead of Robin Hood, the Chevalier Bayard is the personage represented in their disguise, and a female always appears amongst them, who answers to our Maid Marian: they are covered with flaunting ribbons, and hold little flags in their hands.

[Footnote 52: There are two songs beginning with the same words: both favourites.]

SONG.

"There's not a shepherd can compare With him who loves me well and true; French he can speak, with such an air, As if the ways of courts he knew: And if he wore a sword, you'd say, It was the King who pass'd this way.

"If you beheld, beneath our tree, How he can dance the Mouchicou,— Good Heaven! it is a sight to see His Manuguet and Passe-pie too! His match for grace no swain can show In all the Valley of Ossau.

"Lest Catti, in the summer day, The noon-day sun too hot should find, A bow'r with flow'rs and garlands gay, By love's own tender hand entwined, Close to our fold, amidst the shade, For me that charming shepherd made."

There is considerable variety of style and expression in the poetry of Despourrins, although his subject does not change—being "love, still love."

The following might pass for a song by a poet of the school of Suckling:—

SONG.

"Malaye quoan te by!"

"OH! when I saw thee first, Too beautiful, and gay, and bland, Gathering with thy little hand The flow'r of May, Oh! from that day My passion I have nurst— 'Twas when I saw thee first!

"And ever since that time, Thy image will not be forgot, And care and suff'ring are my lot; I know not why So sad am I, As though to love were crime— Oh! ever since that time!

"Those eyes so sweet and bright, Illume within my trembling breast, A flame that will not let me rest; Oh! turn away The dazzling ray— They give a dang'rous light, Those eyes so sweet and bright!

"Thou hast not learnt to love, But, cruel and perverse of will, Thou seek'st but to torment me still. Faithful in vain I bear my chain, Only, alas! to prove Thou hast not learnt to love!"

But, perhaps, one of the most striking of all Despourrins' poems, from the beauty of the patois and the pretty conceits, is the "Deus attraits d'uc youenne pastoure," which reminds one of Ronsard's "Une beaute de quinze ans, enfantine."

POEM.

"Tis to a maiden young and fair, That my poor heart has fall'n a prey, And now in tears and sighs of care Pass all my moments, night and day.

"The sun is pale beside her face, The stars are far less bright than she, They shine not with so pure a grace, Nor glow with half her charms to me.

"Her eyes are like two souls, all fire; They dazzle with a living ray; But ah! their light which I desire Is turn'd from me by Love, away.

"Her nose, so delicate and fine, Is like a dial in the sun, That throws beneath a shadowy line To mark the hours that love has run.

"The fairies form'd her rosy mouth, And fill'd it with soft words at will, And from her bosom breathes the South— Sweet breath! that steals my reason still.

"Her waist is measured by the zone The Graces long were wont to wear; And none but Love the comb can own, That smooths the ringlets of her hair.

"And when she glides along like air, Her feet so small, so slight are seen, A little pair of wings, you'd swear, Were flutt'ring where her step has been.

"Dear object of my tender care, My life, my sun, my soul thou art, Oh! listen to the trembling pray'r, That woos thee from this breaking heart."

A QUARREL.

"Adechat! las mies amous."

He.—MY pretty Margaret, good day! The mountain air is chill; And if you guide your lambs this way, The cold will do you ill.

She.—No, gentle friend, tho' cold I seem, The air I need not fear; It is the chillness of your stream That runs so fresh and clear.

He.—The cock had not begun his song; When with my flocks I came; To meet you here I waited long— Your haste was not the same.

She.—My lambs and I were in the mead Before the break of day; And you, methinks, have little need To blame me for delay.

He.—My sheep, with many a ruddy streak, And bells of jocund sound, Heav'n knows, a lively music make, Which can be heard far round. Come, let our flocks be hither led, Beneath this shade repair; For you have butter, I have bread, And we our meal will share. Feed, pretty lambs, and feed, my sheep, Awhile her flock beside, And, as on flow'rs ye browse and sleep, We'll leave you for a tide. Thou, God of Love, who in the air, Art hov'ring in our view, Guard well our flocks, and to thy care Oh! take two lovers too!

She.—No,—farewell till to-morrow, dear, I may not now abide; For if I longer tarry here, My friends will surely chide.

* * * * *

DESPOURRINS.

* * * * *

"Y Ataue quoan la rose ey nabere."

* * * * *

"When first the rose her perfume threw, And spread her blossoms to the day, I saw thee, Phillis, blooming too, With all the charms that round her play.

"Pure as the sun, thy glace of power, Thy voice has music's softest swell,— I saw thee in an evil hour, Or never should have loved so well!

"Though from thy presence I remove, While I lament I still adore,— Oh! what can absence do to love, But to increase the feeling more!

"Ye simple swains, who know not yet What pleasure and what pain may be, Guard well your hearts from Love's regret, If you would live from danger free."

* * * * *

DESPOURRINS.

* * * * *

"Aue mounde nou-y-a nad Pastou, T'a malhurous coum you!"

* * * * *

"No shepherd in this world can be The child of wretchedness like me: One would not think it, but I know No feeling but continued woe; For Sorrow came into my fold, And there her dwelling loves to hold.

"It seem'd the joy of Fate, New pleasures to provide, And, 'midst my happy state, A lamb was all my pride. The sun conceal'd his light, Whene'er she came in sight.

"I never dreamt of gold, I lived content and free; The treasure of my fold, Seem'd but to live for me.

Alas! those hours that bless, Not long would time allow, My joys, my happiness, Are changed to sorrow now!

"She loved my pipe to hear, And midst the flock would pause, And with a smile, so dear, Would give me soft applause: And with her music sweet My notes she would repeat.

"How many jealous swains Would look, and sigh, and long: Not one a word could gain, She only heard my song; But now that lamb has stray'd I see her form no more; My ev'ry hope betray'd, My fate let all deplore! My sleep, my rest, is gone, And I am all undone!"

* * * * *

DESPOURRINS.

* * * * *

"Moun Diue! quine souffrance— M'as tu causat!"

* * * * *

"Of what contentment Those eyes bereft me— And ah! how coldly Thou since hast left me: Yet didst thou whisper Thy heart was mine,— Oh! they were traitors Those eyes of thine! For 'tis thy pleasure That I repine.

"Alas! how often I sigh'd in vain, And loved so dearly To purchase pain: And all my guerdon To be betray'd, And only absence My safety made, To muse on fondness So ill repaid.

"But let me warn thee While time is yet, Thy heart may soften And learn regret: Should others teach thee New thoughts to prove, And all thy coldness Be quell'd by love, Thou mayst glean sorrow For future years,— Beware—false maiden! Beware of tears!"

DESPOURRINS.

"Per acere castagnere."

BENEATH a chesnut shade A shepherd, drown'd in tears, By her he loved betray'd, Thus sung his grief and fears: "Why dost thou smile," he said, "As all my woes increase? When will my truth be paid, And all thy coldness cease?"

The fair one listen'd not,— And feign'd she had not seen; But sought a distant spot, The furze and heath between, But, as she proudly went, Thorns, in her path that lay, Her little feet have rent, And stopp'd her on her way.

She paused, in sudden pain, Her pride aside she laid, And, in soft tone, was fain To ask her lover's aid; She bade, in piteous mood, He would the thorns remove, And take from gratitude The kiss denied to love.

That grateful kiss she must Bestow—tho' she deplore it; And he had been unjust Not—doubly—to restore it.

DESPOURRINS.

"Roussignoulet qui cantes."[53]

[Footnote 53: This song singularly resembles Burns' charming "Banks and braes" in its opening, though it is greatly inferior as a whole.]

OH! nightingale that sing'st so sweet, Perch'd on the boughs elate, How softly does thy music greet Thy tender list'ning mate.

While I, alas! from joy removed, With heart oppress'd, must go, And, leaving her so fondly loved, Depart in hopeless woe.

Ah me! I see before me yet Our parting and her pain, My bosom throbb'd with vain regret To hear her still complain. My trembling hand she fondly press'd, Her voice in murmurs died: "Oh! is not our's a fate emblest, Since we must part," she cried.

I promised her, whate'er betide, To love her to the last, And Fate, my truth has sadly tried, In all our sorrows past; But she may trust me, tho' we part, And both our lot deplore: Where'er I go, this bleeding heart Will suffer ever more.

The clearest streams that gently flow, The river murm'ring by, Not purer than my heart can show, Nor have more tears than I. No book nor scroll can tell a fate Where sorrows so combine; No pen can write, nor song relate, Such misery as mine!

Thus, like the turtle, sad and lone, Who leaves his mate in pain, I go, with many a tender moan, And dream of love in vain: By all the ties that bound us long, By all the hopes we knew, Oh I hear thy shepherd's latest song, Receive his last adieu!

Anxious to visit a country whose history and traditions had so much excited my interest and curiosity, I accompanied a friend, early in the year 1843, on an expedition to the Vallee d'Aspe, and through part of the Pays Basque. I would willingly have waited for spring, particularly as I heard from everybody in Pau, that to reach the valleys leading to Spain in the month of February was impossible—was worse than folly: in fact, was what none but the English, who are supposed to have taken leave of their senses, would attempt. One French gentleman, who was well acquainted with every part of the Pyrenees, and had twice made the ascent of the Pic du Midi, was indignant at our perseverance, insisting that we should be stopped by the snows—although very little had fallen in the last winter—and that the Basque country was totally uninteresting except in summer. Others told us that it was never worth seeing at any season; but, as I had become aware that persons settled in Pau were bound in a spell, and scarcely ever ventured more than a league from their retreat until, being once in motion, they set forth towards the mountains in the opposite direction, I did not allow myself to be persuaded to remain in the "Little Paris of the South" for carnival balls, and, followed by the pity and surprise of most of our friends, we took our dangerous way, on a sunny morning, as hot as July, towards Oloron.

Oloron, finely situated on a height, is a wide, open, clean, and well-built town, with so much open, fresh air, that, after the enervating and confined atmosphere of Pau, one seemed to breathe new life. The walks are good and extensive, and the magnificent range of the snowy mountains very close. Two rushing torrents divide the town between them—the Gaves of Ossau and Aspe—and from the two bridges which span them the view of their impetuous course is extremely imposing. These magnificent torrents are the charm of the Pyrenees; making the country, through which they hurry, one scene of beauty and animation: they do also terrible mischief by their violence when swelled by rains, as we had afterwards occasion to observe; but, at all times, give a character of singular grandeur to the places where they sweep along in uncontrolled majesty.

The village, or faubourg, of Ste. Marie d'Oloron joins the main town; and here is situated the cathedral, once of great importance, but now, like all the religious establishments in this part of France, preserving little of its ancient glory. The pillars, however, of its aisles are very grand and massive, and are part of the early structure: the form and height are imposing, and the chapels of the choir graceful; but the chief curiosity is the portal, which bears marks of a Saracenic origin. The arch is a wide circle, finely ornamented, and, in the centre, an Indian-shaped pillar divides it into two smaller circular arches: the base of this pillar is formed of two figures standing back to back, stooping beneath the load they bear on their hands and depressed heads: they are covered with fetters, both on their legs and arms: their striped dresses are quite Indian, and they wear a curious, melon-shaped cap: the faces are hideous and exaggerated, the limbs strong and well made, and they are in perfect preservation.

I have not seen any satisfactory account of the cathedral, which might explain these curious supporters: on each side of the portal projects a carved figure—one much defaced, the other representing a leopard or panther. A series of beautiful pillars, forming pedestals to absent saints, fill up the space of the porch, and that beyond is closed by high, open arches—rebuilt, but, doubtless, originally of the same construction as those of the beautiful side-entrance to the cathedral of Bourges, where Moorish carvings also occur.

There are no other antiquities in Oloron; but it is an agreeable, healthy town, and looks flourishing and lively; and, I should imagine, must be a cheap place to live in, and has several advantages over its rival, Pau; this, however, is not acknowledged by the partisans of that exclusive town, which is supposed, by those who patronise it, to bear away the bell from every other in Bearn.

The Vallee d'Aspe begins its winding way soon after Oloron is past; and the magnificent, broad river dashes along its rocky bed, as green and bright and foaming as its rival of Ossau, which it exceeds in volume. Our destination was to Bedous, where we were to rest for the night; and, as the shades of evening were already coming on, we could not long enjoy the beauty of this lovely valley, which we anticipated seeing on our return, after having visited all the wonders of the pass into Spain, as far as Urdos, where the high road, which is remarkably good, ends.

Bedous is a shabby, insignificant, and, at this time of year, desolate-looking town, in the bosom of the mountains, where we were fain to lodge for the night as we best could, having good reason to congratulate ourselves on our precaution in taking provisions, particularly bread, wine, and coffee, as all we found there was bad. There was, however, no want of civility and desire to please; and the attendance, if not good, was, at all events, ample: two of the waiting-maids were extremely handsome—- with dark eyes and fine features, and their handkerchiefs put on very gracefully; but the voices of all the inhabitants of Bedous were cracked and hoarse, and so unmusical, that it was difficult to imagine oneself in the country of Despourrins.

As early as possible the next morning we set forth on our journey further up the valley; and, the weather being fine and the sky clear, we were delighted with the aspect of the snowy mountains above and around us. The plain of Bedous is of some extent, and, in the fine season, must be extremely beautiful, being highly cultivated and very picturesque: seven villages are scattered at distances along its expanse—the most conspicuous of which is Accous, where the poet was born; and on a mound without the town stands a pyramid, lately erected to his memory. Nothing can be more beautiful than this position; and, in summer, it must be a little Paradise. The village of Osse, opposite, is a small Protestant retreat in an equally charming spot: hills, called in the country Turons, surround this happy valley—avant-couriers of the higher chain, which rise as the Gave is followed into deeper solitude.

Marca, the historian of Bearn, cites, in his work, a curious document relative to this valley. It is dated June 1, 1348, and its title is sufficiently singular; it runs thus.

"Contract of a peace made between the valleys of Aspe and Lavedan, by order of the Pope, who had absolved the earth, the inhabitants and the castle of Lavedan, from the sin committed by the abbe of St. Savin, in causing the death, by magic art, of a great number of the inhabitants of Aspe, in revenge for the rapines and ravages they had committed in Lavedan: in punishment of which crime, neither the earth, the women, nor the herds of Lavedan had borne fruit for six years."

The people of this neighbourhood have the credit of being remarkably intelligent, and, at the same time, simple in their habits and manners: there is considerable jealousy between them and those of Ossau: all we could judge of was that the civility appeared equal, and it appeared to us that the beauty of the peasantry was more striking, though in this opinion we are not borne out by that of others. The boasted costumes are rarely seen in winter; but we observed one young woman very picturesquely dressed in an old and faded black velvet boddice, peculiarly shaped, laced with red, which, if it had ever been new in her time, might have been pretty. Every article of their dress, however, looks as if it had descended from generation to generation, till every bit of colour or brilliancy had departed from it, leaving only a threadbare rag, which imagination alone can invest with grace or beauty.

The route we were following was the high road to Saragossa, and, occasionally, we met sombre groups of men in black capotes, mounted on horses or mules, and others escorting waggons laden with Spanish wool—the chief article of commerce. Flocks of beautiful goats were very frequent, and every object seemed new and singular to our eyes.

We dismounted from our carriage at a little bridge over the Gave, and, under the direction of a guide who had accompanied us from Bedous, we set forth, beside its rushing current, towards the cascade of Lescun, far up in the hills. The loud roar and dash of the beautiful torrent, foaming and splashing over its bed, strewn with huge pieces of rock, was the excuse which our guide gave for declining to sing Despourrins' songs, with which he was, however, well acquainted. "Ils sont plus forts pour ca en Ossau" was his remark, in a voice so harsh and coarse that I did not pursue my entreaties. We met a fine old man, whom I took for a shepherd, from his cloak and brown berret, and the large Pyrenean dog which followed him, but he turned out to be a rich proprietor of land, showed us part of his domains, and seemed a well-informed man, talking familiarly of England and its comte de Chester, asking us our motive for visiting this part of France, which he concluded to be economy, and entertaining us greatly by his remarks. Our walk, or rather scramble, to the cascade was very agreeable, but exceedingly rugged, mounting the whole way between the hills till we reached the spot where the Gave comes foaming over a broad ledge of rock, and falls into the valley below with a thundering sound. It is much interrupted in its descent, and forms new cataracts as it goes: so that the whole side of the mountain is in commotion with its leaps and gambols; clouds of spray, like smoke, curling up from the foamy abyss, and every echo sounding with its hoarse murmurs. It reminded me of some of the falls in the Mont Dore; but without the pines.

Meantime, the snowy peaks of the giants of the valley were seen peering over the lower hills, and shining in light; but scarcely had we reached the highest point of the cascade, and were standing on the bridge which spans it, when clouds came over the scene, heavy drops began to fall, and we found it necessary to hasten our return to the high road, where we had left our carriage.

To descend the stony and slippery ways was infinitely more difficult than to mount; and I soon found that clinging to the tough branches of box, which here grows luxuriantly, and sheds a fine fresh odour round, was not sufficient assistance. The guide now proved, by the strength of his arm in assisting us, and his agility, that he possessed qualities more useful than the Arcadian accomplishment, the want of which had annoyed me as we came, and I forgave him for being unable to sing the praises of La Plus Charmante Anesquette, the words of which ditty he nevertheless repeated, with surprise and pleasure at finding they were old acquaintances of ours.

Our way was now towards Urdos, by Cette Eygun, and through Etscau, where the Gave forces its way along the street, and where, on the opposite bank, on a high terrace, stands the antique village of Borce—once of importance and now only picturesque. We did not see the town of Lescun, but the path to it appears most precipitous: the inhabitants are said to be the most daring smugglers in the valley, and the town stands perched like a vulture's nest, closed in by savage hills, and concealed from sight, as if it had much to hide.

The Spirit of the Pic d'Anie was evidently offended at our seeking his vicinity at so unaccustomed a season, and sent down one of his storms of rain which are so frequent in the valley. As the weather, however, continued warm we did not heed his anger, and continued our journey through the most magnificent scenery—grander and more surprising at every step—till we reached the huge masses of rock called Le Portalet, where once stood a fort, built by Henri Quatre to arrest the approach of the Spaniards. A little further on is a wondrous path, worked in the rocks, over a tremendous precipice, for the purpose of transporting timber. A new fort is being constructed here, and the appearance of a little toy-like hut, fastened to the entrance of a cave for the convenience of the workmen who are to blast the rock, is startling and curious.

Urdos is a wild-looking place, at the extremity of the valley, with no interest belonging to it except that it is the end of the road for carriages, and that at this spot the remainder of the way to Jacca must be made on mules. As the weather was unpropitious, and the snows rendered the trajet uncertain, we did not allow our curiosity to carry us further, and contented ourselves with observing the remarkable groups crowding round the inn-door at which we stopped. Spaniards, in wild costumes, with white leggings buttoned behind, sandaled feet, turbaned heads, and rough cloaks thrown over their shoulders, carrying large bundles of goods, were lounging by the entrance, waiting till the rain should cease that they might pursue their way. Some women were of their party, whose appearance was very singular, and the colours of their dresses varied and brilliant in the extreme: one had thrown her green gown, lined with red, over her head, like a veil, and her face was nearly concealed by its folds; her petticoat was of two other bright hues, and she stood, in a commanding attitude, grasping a large staff, a perfect specimen of a brigand's wife.

By degrees, as different guests passed in and out of the inn, and were attracted to the door by the appearance of strangers, we were able to form the most charming pictures, till all Murillo's groups seemed combined in the shifting scene within that narrow frame.

At one time, the tableau was complete with the following figures, all coloured in the richest manner, and harmonizing most exquisitely:—a very pretty, intelligent young woman, dressed in green, violet, red, and brown, stood leaning against the doorpost, with an infant in pink, grey, and stone-colour, in her arms: her husband—a handsome, dark Spaniard, with a many-coloured handkerchief with ends twisted round his wild, black, straggling hair—raised his face above her: in shade, behind, stood a sinister-looking smuggler with a sombrero, dressed in dark velvet, and a large white cloak thrown over his shoulder: occupying the front space, leant, in a graceful attitude, a female who seemed mistress of the inn. She was a very striking figure, and, both as to costume and feature, might have been the original of many a Spanish Sainte Elizabeth, but younger than she is usually represented. Every part of her dress had a tint of red so subdued into keeping, that it seemed the effect of study, although, of course, mere chance; her gown was rich dark crimson, her apron brighter geranium, her handkerchief, sleeves, and boddice, shades of reddish brown; the large hood on her head a chocolate colour: it was formed of a handkerchief tied negligently under her chin; a second, of rich tint, was bound tightly over her brows, hiding her hair, and her beautiful features came out in fine relief; a delicate blush was on her somewhat tanned cheek, and her eyes were full of calm expression: she had very prettily-shaped hands and feet, and was altogether a model for a painter; struggling through this group, almost at their feet, came, from beneath their drapery, a lovely little brown child, all reds and purples, with glossy black hair, ruddy cheeks, and large black eyes fixed upon us with a sly, smiling gaze. The stained stone, of which the house was built, was of a fine cold colour, and the deep rich shade within made a back-ground which completed the whole.

In the door-way of a neighbouring stable was another party watching the rain, nearly as picturesque; and before them was dancing, in grotesque attitudes, a half-crazed old woman, at whose vagaries the lookers-on indolently smiled. Our admiration of the beautiful children quite won the hearts of the mothers, who had, apparently, at first regarded us with a somewhat haughty air, and a few little silver pieces completed our conquest; we, therefore, drove off on our return to Bedous, in high favour with our strange wild friends, and ceased to feel at all alarmed at the possibility of their overtaking us on the mountains.

We were obliged to pass another night at the inodorous inn of Bedous, amidst the noise of a carnival night, and the hideous howls of a jovial party who had that day assisted at a wedding, and who seemed bent on proving that music was banished from the valley. I heard the word "Roncevaux" in one of their songs; but could distinguish nothing besides to atone for the discord they made, as they danced La Vache under our windows, in the pouring rain, by the light of a dim lanthorn.

I was told by the landlady that in the church of Bedous were formerly two benitiers, one within the aisle, and one in the porch; the latter being appropriated to the use of that unfortunate race—the Cagots—about whom I had been so inquisitive ever since I arrived in Bearn. Accordingly, we lost no time in going to seek for these strange relics; after looking about in vain, and discovering only one benitier, we were assisted in our search by a man belonging to the church, and our female guide; who understood only patois, and led to the mysterious spot where the worn stone is to be seen on which once stood the vase of holy water into which the wretched outcasts were permitted to dip their fingers. The recess is now used as a closet, which is closed with wooden doors, and the benitier is removed, "because," said the man, "there is no distinction now, and the Cagots use the same as other people,"[54] I inquired if it was known who were Cagot families, and was told "certainly;" but little account was taken of the fact. "Bedous," said my informant, "was one of the Cagot villages, but the prejudice is almost worn out now: it is true we do not care to marry into their families if we can help it; not that there is any disease amongst them; it is all mere fancy. Only when people quarrel, they call each other Cagots in contempt; however, we shall soon forget all about it."

[Footnote 54: At Utraritz, near Bayonne, they show, in the porch of the church, a similar recess, where once stood the benitier of the Cagots.]

On our return through the valley to Oloron, we paused at Notre Dame de Sarrance, a place of pilgrimage, entirely uninteresting as a church, but placed in a beautiful position amongst the hills.

At Oloron, when we passed before, there was no room for us, in consequence of the whole inn being occupied with guests at the wedding of the landlord's fourth daughter, the three others having been lately married. As we arrived the day after the wedding, there still remained sufficient good cheer to supply our wants, and make a pleasing contrast to Bedous.



CHAPTER XVI.

ARAMITZ—THE PLAY—MAULEON—THE SISTERS—WORDS—ST. JEAN.

OUR intention now was to visit Mauleon, and see as much of the Pays Basque as the uncertain state of the weather would allow. The route to Aramitz is very beautiful, with the fine valley of Baretous, and the Bois d'Erreche stretching out at the foot of the bold hills. When we entered the town of Aramitz the whole population was assembled in a great square; some acting, and others gazing at a carnival play, the performers in which were dressed in flaunting robes, with crowns and turbans; while a troop, in full regimental costume, figured away as a victorious French army, headed by a young Napoleon, who ever and anon harangued his troops and led them on to battle against a determined-looking band of enemies, amongst whom were conspicuous a bishop and a cure, in full dress. A combat ensued, when the heroes on each side showed so little nerve, being evidently afraid of their own swords—which seemed real steel, that no child's-play in England could have gone off so tamely: the enemies all fell down at the first attack, and the only comic part was the rushing forward of the fool, and his agonized exclamation of "O! mon cure!" as he dragged that reverend gentleman from beneath a heap of slain. We asked our driver how it happened that the clergy of the parish allowed this travestie, and how the cure's dress had been procured: he told us that the costume belonged to some one who had formerly been in the Church, and as for the representation no one could prevent it, particularly as the sons of the mayor were amongst the actors. "But," he added, "M. le Cure will have his revenge next Sunday by preaching them a sermon which he intends shall make their ears tingle; though no one will care a bit about it."

We observed, that it was wrong to turn the ministers of religion into ridicule, to which our lively guide agreed, concluding with the usual shrug and inevitable remark of all Frenchmen—Bearnais and other—"Mais, que voulez vous!"

My companion's donation of a franc, was received with rapture by a general and an emperor, who came to our carriage with a plate, in the centre of which was an apple with numerous slits, in which were inserted certain borrowed napoleons, to excite to generosity. We were vehemently invited to mount to a place of honour to view the play at our ease; but we declined, as it was not the dramatic performance that delighted us, but the extraordinary effect of the costumes of the crowd below. All the young girls wore their new and most brilliant handkerchiefs tied on their heads with the utmost care, and exhibiting colours so rich and glowing, that, as they flitted about in the sun, they seemed so many colibri with changeable crests of all the hues of the rainbow. The rich colours worn here give an air of gaiety and cheerfulness, agreeably contrasted with the dark and gloomy tints of the head-dresses at and near Pau; which, though gracefully tied, are usually sombre and dim.

The whole town of Aramitz was gay with carnival rejoicings, and as we drove along we came upon another crowd in another square, where we saw a party of six young men in black-and-green velvet dresses, and scarlet sashes, nimbly dancing the Rondo Basque; while the gorgeously-adorned young girls stood by, observing, but taking no part in the exercise. They seemed very agile and nimble, and kept up an incessant movement, not without grace; but it had an odd effect to see the men dancing alone, and that circumstance impresses one with the conviction of the dance being of eastern origin. We had not an opportunity of seeing any of the other dances so celebrated in the country, which are precisely similar to our morris-dances still exhibited, occasionally, in the country on May-day.

The Basque country, properly so called, begins at Montory, and a perceptible change, singular enough, is observable in the country: a range of hills, of shapes impossible to describe—so witch-like and irregular is their outline—extends for some distance along the way, ushering the traveller into the pretty plain below.

At Tardets there is a bridge over the charming Gave of Uhaitshandia; and now begin the extraordinary names of places, which French, Bearnais, and Spanish alike find so difficult to pronounce or understand. Now the few familiar words which we comprehended in Bearnais were heard no more, and a language of the most singular yet musical sound took its place. The first objects we saw were two Andalusian women, ragged, filthy, and slovenly, to a degree quite amazing, their dingy white woollen gowns thrown over their heads; faded apple-green petticoats in thick plaits hanging from their shoulders, with no indication of waists, bare legs and feet, and bold, savage aspect. They laughed loudly at some remark en passant of our driver; who seemed accomplished in languages, being able to speak to all he met. Immediately afterwards we met some Basque women, whose costume had no other distinction but that of their headkerchiefs being white; this, however is rare, except on occasions of fete, as we always saw the same beautiful brilliant colours as before, throughout our journey.

Mauleon, one of the chief towns of the Basque country, is charmingly situated in a rich country, on the Gaison Gave, surrounded by the varied hills of the Bois de Tibarene. Of all its former grandeur and strength scarce a vestige remains: one ruined fort, of a commanding height, above the town, alone attests its ancient glory: from this spot is a charming view, taking in all the town and plain and surrounding mountains. The churches, once of great importance, are dwindled to insignificance; and we were much disappointed to discover nothing interesting either at the antique church of Berautte or Licharre. We found, however, an equivalent in the beauty of the scenery round, and the charm of hearing the sweetest of languages from the lips of two pretty little girls of ten and eleven years of age, the daughters of our hostess, who herself had a melodious voice, and peculiarly pleasing manners. These little fairies constituted themselves our attendants during our stay at Mauleon, and as they spoke, equally well, French and Basque, we enjoyed their innocent prattle and intelligent remarks extremely. They were very eloquent in praise of a certain English traveller named Francois, who had stayed some time at their inn, and wanted to take them away to England, and they tried hard to persuade us that he must be a relation, because he talked and drew like us, and because we wanted to take them away too.

I made a little vocabulary of Basque words under their tuition; and it was like listening to music to hear them utter the pretty phrases and words; maita suthut hanich—I love you much; ene-madtea—my friend; ama—my mother; aita—my father; belhara—grass; nescatila—little girl; minyiate bat—a fairy; oheitza—remembrance.

I procured a Basque dictionary at Mauleon, at a somewhat primitive library, where the usual commodities sold were candles and soap. At one end of the shop was a range of books on a shelf; and while the very civil master was gone to look for those more choice volumes which we required, his housekeeper stood by, in a state bordering on distraction at the sacrilege committed by us, in daring to remove from their positions tomes which her master evidently did not permit her to lay a finger on. In Basque, and all the French she had, did she clamour to us to desist, assuring us it was a thing unheard of, and would derange the whole economy of the establishment; and, certainly, as her anger increased with our indifference, she proved to us that it was possible to make discord out of sweet notes; however, the purchase of the books her master had found silenced and confounded her; and we escaped with our prize, much to the delight and amusement of our little guides, who thought it necessary, en chemin, to apologize for the old woman's rudeness.

The father of our favourites we found, though taciturn at first, a very well-informed man; he confirmed all that I had gathered from works I had read on the subject of the Basques—their language and manners; and regretted that the unpropitious state of the weather prevented our witnessing any of the usual out-of-door amusements, common at the season. He described the eloquence and wit of the common people as something wonderful; but their comedies, he said, were seldom fitted for more refined ears than their own. The character of their amusements, he added, was grave, as their improvised tragedies prove; the language lends itself to poetry with such singular facility, that poets are by no means rare; and, amongst the lower class, some are, as I had heard before, singularly gifted, but they never write down their compositions, which are, therefore, difficult to collect. The airs of their songs are almost always melancholy and solemn, and require fine voices to give them effect. I have since been told, by a Basque gentleman of taste and information, precisely the same; and, as he sings well, he kindly allowed me to hear some of their melodies, which remind me much of the saddest of the Irish native airs. His opinion was, that there is great similarity in the character of the Basque and Irish; and he tells me, that the sound of many of their words is alike; but when they speak together all proves to be mere sound; for they do not understand a syllable of either tongue.

The greater part of the language seems to me corrupted by the introduction of French and Spanish words, probably required to express wants, which the original Basque had acquired in the course of time;

"When wild in woods the noble savage ran,"

he did not want much that he afterwards sought for words to express his desire to obtain. But the genuine words, in which there is no mixture of another language, may well puzzle the learned; for they are most singular: as for instance,

Oghia Bread Uhaitza River Hoora Water Haicha Stars Hala Ship Harhibat Stone Egura Wood Eskia Hand Mahatsac Grapes Sahmahia Horse Etchia Habitation Begitatiha Face

Our next destination was to St. Jean Pied de Port; and we took our way across the mountains of Musculdy, the scenery the whole way being exquisitely beautiful, and richly cultivated in the plains. We continued mounting without cessation for nearly two hours; and as we walked the greatest part of the time, we met with a few adventures by the way. We were joined, in a very steep part, by a party who were travelling from Mauleon to St. Just. We had been struck with the brilliant colours of the young woman's dress as we passed her and her mother, and a boy accompanying them; she was leaning against a stone wall, where she had rested her large white bundle, and her attitude was free and graceful in the extreme, as she bent her head on her hand evidently fatigued. She wore a headkerchief of deep chocolate-colour, striped with blue, and bordered with bright yellow; her stuff petticoat was scarlet, edged with black velvet; she had tucked up her green-striped gown, and thus displayed its crimson lining; her shawl was of fine red merinos, embroidered in glowing colours, of Spanish manufacture, as she afterwards informed us, and smuggled; her legs were bare, but she wore black shoes; and her umbrella, the constant appendage, was brown; her gait, as she walked along the road, with her white package on her head, was that of a heroine of a melo-drame. I never saw a more striking figure; for she was, though not pretty, remarkably well-made and tall, and all her motions were easy and unconstrained. She did not seem so communicative as her mother,—a pretty little old woman, whose pride was evidently gratified by our admiration of her daughter's finery, and our pleasure in sketching her as she stood; her gratitude was so great on our allowing her boy and her bundles to be put on the carriage, that she became quite enthusiastic in our praise; and the present of a small piece of silver enchanted her. She actually cried with pleasure; and yet we found she was not poor; but had been to see a son, who had amassed several hundred francs and set up in a cabaret at Mauleon: this explained the gorgeousness of his sister's costume, which, at the risk of spoiling, she continued to wear on her journey home to their village, aware of the sensation her macaw-like appearance created wherever she passed.

On a high hill, opposite that we were mounting, we observed a chapel, which we found was dedicated to the Sainte Madeleine, and held in much reverence throughout the country: pilgrims coming from great distances to visit her shrine, and sick persons thronging there in the hope of a miracle being performed in their favour. The same occurs at another chapel, on a neighbouring height, dedicated to St. Antoine; but there, it seems, the young men resort, in order, by the saint's intercession, to obtain an exemption from the chance of conscription. They entreat of Heaven that they may choose a good number, and be allowed to remain at home; and so firmly are they convinced of the efficacy of the saint's prayers, that hundreds had, we understood, lately taken their way to the holy mountain; for this was the season for the fatal lots to be drawn.



CHAPTER XVII.

ARNEGUY—THE CACOLET—ROLANDO'S TREE—SNOW-WHITE GOATS—COSTUME—SAUVETERRE—THE PASTOR—NAVARREUX—SPANISH AIR.

WE arrived at St. Jean Pied de Port late in the day, and the aspect of affairs at Le Grand Soleil, where we stopped, was by no means exhilarating. Having passed through the black, dirty kitchen, and climbed the dingy staircase, we were shown several rooms, which we could not have, by a very sour-looking old woman, who tried to persuade us to content ourselves with apartments without fire-places. This we resisted determinedly, suggesting that ladies had a right to supersede male travellers, and, assisted by the eloquence of our invaluable cocher, we at length obtained possession of the disputed chambers. As it was soon discovered that we meditated remaining several days, no further opposition was made to our convenience, and the fat landlady, having reproved her thin sister into good humour, we were allowed to command, in the worst of all possible inns, where good-will held the place of performance in most instances, and where carelessness seemed carried to a perfectly Eastern excess.

We began to make immediate enquiries as to the possibility of entering Spain, of visiting the convent of Roncesvalles and the neighbouring mountains; and every sort of contradictory information was given us, enough to bewilder an ignorant traveller into giving up the projected expedition altogether. However, as we resolved that we would not be altogether disappointed, and recollected all the romances invented to deter our daring, by our friends at Pau, we ordered a guide and cacolet and mule to be sent on before, and on the following morning set forth in the carriage as far as Arneguy, the last French town, from whence we were to cross the Gave of Bihobi, and trust ourselves to the perils of a Spanish journey.

Accordingly, we pursued the very good road to that frontier village—one of the most miserable I ever beheld, filled with soldiers and mud and ruin: here we alighted, and walked across the little bridge which divides the two kingdoms. Once in Spain, and having made a drawing of the spot, as a souvenir, we mounted our mule; seated comfortably in the arm chairs, slung at each side of the patient animal, and, with our muleteer and two servants on foot, began the scrambling ascent of one of the most rugged paths I ever beheld.

Every step, however, exhibited new and startling beauties; and the further we advanced the more sublime the mountains became: the foaming stream rushing beneath us, the deep ravines and precipices, the wooded hills and enormous trees, all possessed a character quite unlike that of the two valleys of Bearn, which we had already seen; both of which led into Spain, as did this pass of Roncesvalles; but we now felt ourselves really in another country; and, as we passed the opposite village of Ondarol, and heard that the last houses in France were left behind, and all the mountains, on each side of the ravine, belonged to Spain, there was something singularly agreeable in the idea. Our cocher Francois had, at the village of Valcarlos, an opportunity of exhibiting his knowledge of Spanish; for the officer there, who took cognizance of us, could not understand either patois or French.

We wound along the beautiful ravine of Valcarlos, by a road more stony and rugged than can be described, trusting to our mule, who kept his feet in a manner perfectly surprising; it was like mounting a ruined staircase, so steep was the path in many places; but, going slowly and carefully as we did, and seated in our comfortable panniers, we felt no inconvenience, and were scarcely conscious of the difficulties, sensibly understood by all our companions, who toiled through the mud, and over the stones and torrents with infinite cheerfulness and perseverance.

The beeches and chesnuts here grow to an immense size, and look so old in their winter guise that one might almost believe they had spread the shade over the paladins of Charlemagne. We could not do otherwise than indulge in this idea, when we reached a spot where an enormous plateau of rock seemed to bar our further progress; and, beside it, we rested beneath a gigantic chesnut, which threw its naked arms far across the ravine below, and, when covered with leaves, must have been a majestic tree. A huge stone lay amongst others near it, and this was pointed out by our guide as the identical stone thrown by Rolando in his anger when his horse's foot slipped over the rock at the edge of which we stood. The print made by the hoof as it slid along the surface is clearly visible to poetical eyes, and this is one of the numerous Pas de Roland so celebrated in the Pyrenees, where the great hero's course is marked in many directions.

As we desired to avoid the possibility of a similar accident happening to us, we dismounted from our cacolet, and walked across the ledge to some distance: and, after a short repose beneath the shelter of the overhanging rocks, which a violent shower made most convenient at the moment, we prepared to retrace our steps; satisfied with having advanced so far on the same route taken by "Charlemagne and all his peerage."

The return was infinitely less easy than the advance, for we had now to descend; and we felt the motion much more, for the mule could not so well keep its feet in spite of the guide's assistance. We had sundry adventures by the way at Posadas—tasted the bitter Spanish ordinaire wine from a wine-skin, and the excellent maize bread and cream cheese of the country, and returned to Arneguy, much gratified with our trip.

These mountains must be exquisitely beautiful in summer, when all the fine trees are in full grandeur, for I never saw any larger or more flourishing. It is the custom for the French to decry everything Spanish, even to the natural productions; and I had often been told that the moment the French side was quitted all was barren and worthless; I found, however, on the contrary, that the mountain-scenery greatly increased in sublimity the nearer we advanced towards Roncesvalles, and on our return that which had looked well on our way had dwindled into tameness in comparison with what we had left. Our driver, in the true spirit of his country, laboured to convince us that even the Basque on the Spanish side was inferior to that on the French—a fact we were not in a condition to decide on, as readily as we could with respect to the scenery. I think, as a general rule, that a foreign traveller may always be sure, if a country is abused in France, it possesses attractions for him, and vice versa; for the "toute beaute" of a French amateur is invariably a piece of formality or common-place, unendurable to the lovers of the really beautiful.

Flocks of snow-white goats, with long hair, were climbing up the steepest parts of the mountains; and a few stragglers, with their pretty kids, greeted us on our rugged road: a party of Zingari, with scowling brows but civil demeanor, hurried past us, with a swiftness rather unusual to their indolent race, unless indeed they were afraid of pursuit—as our muleteer seemed to hint by his exclamation of alarm as they appeared. Besides these, and a traveller mounted on a mule, who was, we understood, a rich merchant of Pampeluna, who constantly made the trajet by that bad road, we were little disturbed in our solitude. The Gave sounding far below, the smaller brawling cataracts crossing our rocky path, the overhanging rocks and gigantic trees, the constantly-changing scene, and the novelty of the whole, made our wild and strange journey altogether delightful. We were congratulated on our return that the rain, which overtook us on our way, had not been snow; for in these regions the path is sometimes obstructed in the course of half-an-hour; and a sad story was related to us of a courier despatched to Roncesvalles in sunshine, having been overwhelmed by the snow on his return the same evening. Whether this was a mountain fable we could not be sure; but we had heard so many terrors, and experienced none, that we found it difficult to give credit to all the histories of travellers eaten by wolves and destroyed by avalanches, such as had arrived at Pau from the heights of Gabas and Urdos throughout the winter, only to be contradicted after they had had their effect for the given time.

From St. Jean Pied de Port—where the female costume is pretty, and whose arsenal, and the fine view from it, are all that claim the slightest attention in the most slovenly of ugly towns, and whose church portal tells of former magnificence long since swept away—we took our departure by St. Palais to Sauveterre, crossing the Pays Basque, which is perfectly lovely as to scenery, and, in fine weather, is worth a long journey to visit—so varied, rich, and agreeable is the country in all directions. Sauveterre is a neat, clear, respectable town, finely situated, well-enough paved, and having many attractions—particularly a magnificent ruin of a strong castle, which is called that of the Reine Jeanne, but is, evidently, originally of much more ancient construction. One high tower is very commanding, and must have been formidable in its time: that of the church, on still higher ground above, is of the same date, and is very curious: on the whole, Sauveterre is as picturesque a town as any we had seen, and we were sorry that bad weather a good deal masked its beauties.

We paid a visit to the Protestant church; and the minister's wife, a very simple, kind person, who deeply regretted the absence of her husband—gone to look after his scattered flock, which is dispersed, in distant hamlets, all over that part of the country towards Navarreux. This excellent man is in the habit of walking many leagues, in the severest seasons, to visit his people, who reside by twos and threes in villages far remote; and he seems to spare no pains in his vocation. His establishment is of the simplest and most primitive kind, evidently quite unknown to luxury; and the sight of the good pastor—which we were fortunate enough to get on the morning of our departure—confirmed our preconceived opinion of his benevolence, if countenance be a faithful index of mind. Our interview happened in this sort.

We had decided to leave Sauveterre early, fearing the weather, and were just starting, when, at the carriage-door, we beheld two figures, which we at once recognized as the returned pastor and his wife: a violent shower greeted them; but, mindless of it, there they stood, under their umbrellas, determined to make our acquaintance, and to thank my companion for a donation she had sent to the poor Protestants under his charge. His fine open, healthy countenance, and cheerful, good-humoured expression, gentlemanlike manners, and easy address, pleased us extremely; and the unassuming little wife, dressed in a cap like a bourgeoise—joining him in kind exclamations of sorrow at losing their friends of the moment—equally amused and gratified us with the naivete of the whole proceeding. I have no doubt that our apparition in that solitary town was quite an event, and one which the good minister would have been sorry to miss. He had come back late the night before, through a deluge of rain, and by the most difficult cross-roads—of course flooded—after walking twenty or thirty miles; yet he had energy to rise early, dress himself in his best, and come to meet the strangers, before their departure.

I think he must really be a pattern of a minister, and is a worthy example for many richer and less zealous clergymen. The French government is not able to allow more than a thousand francs a-year to the Protestant ministers, and out of this he no doubt gives much in charity, for almost all his flock is poor, and I believe he has a family to support besides: yet he seemed cheerful and contented, and probably thinks himself well off, happy in the exercise of his duty, and in relieving the sufferings of his fellows.

Navarreux is a strongly-fortified little town, looking extremely warlike, filled with troops: it would be difficult to say why, as it is so far from the frontier; but, probably, they are ready, as at Pau, in case of an outbreak on the part of the Spaniards, which seems improbable, but is talked of.[55] From hence to Pau the country is pretty; but the nearer approach to the wide, marshy lands round, renders the prospect infinitely less interesting, and the air less refreshing.

[Footnote 55: This has since occurred, and Espartero is in England and Queen Christine in Spain.]

I had now accomplished, however imperfectly, a long-entertained intention of visiting Spain; and, although I had merely breathed Spanish air for a few hours, yet it has given me a sort of assurance that I shall, one day, be able to put my favourite project in execution—of travelling over that most poetical and interesting of all countries—at a time, I trust, when its government shall be well established, and peace and order so prevail, that the fear of brigands may not deter strangers from seeking its romantic cities, and crossing its wild and wondrous mountains.

For the present, I take leave of my readers; hoping that, in my next tour, they will indulgently accompany me to Madrid and the Alhambra.



London: Printed by R. Clay, Bread Street Hill.

THE END