In 1859 a friend accompanied me to the Pyrenees. Travelling by French railways, we reached Bayonne at the end of August, and then crossed the Spanish frontier in a Spanish diligence, which had all the lumber and shabby trappings of French ones. We reached San Sebastian at night, and next morning took a walk on the promenade, where the ladies in mantillas and veils flourished their fans with grace and dignity; and if there be something gay in French solemnity, there is something grave in the gaiety of Spaniards. We again climbed up a diligence, and travelled through the Lower Pyrenees to Pau, where, from the Grand Terrace, we saw peering out from the haze of a hot summer sky the mountain range—not near, as many imagine, but many miles off. Of course we saw the old palace where Henri IV. was born and wrapped up in his shell cradle. Along roads bordered by woods and hills, reminding one of Wharfedale, we reached an elevation at Sevignac, overlooking the valley of the Gave, with magnificent mountains in front, Pic du Midi coming into full view. Eaux Bonnes, with all the luxuries of a French watering-place, was then reached, whence we proceeded to Eaux Chaudes, where the mountains become awfully precipitous. We looked down from zigzag roads, cut out of declivities buttressed by rocks and embankments, with boiling torrents at the foot, roaring like thunder. The Pic du Midi, streaked with snow, rises up so as to remind one of an Egyptian pyramid. We determined to visit Pantacosa, and passed through a romantic defile, crossed the Spanish frontier again, and halted at a village, where the houses seemed walls without windows, the outlook being altogether from the back. Glimpses of Aragon’s broad plain were caught, as we looked south, and crowds of Spanish muleteers passed us, laden with merchandise. The baths of Pantacosa occupy a gloomy region, shut in by rocks, and there I spent the Sunday as an invalid, my strength being overtaxed; but next day I rose in the enjoyment of health and vigour. Then we made our way to Luz. The church of the Templars built there is half fortress and half sanctuary. You enter through a machicolated gateway, into a church, the gloomiest I ever saw. Through a little door, the _Cagots_, a proverbial race weak both in body and mind, used to enter for worship.