As I sipped tea, squatted gipsy-wise on the ground, the thought occurred to my mind what a delightful, a unique villegiatura this spot might make. A clean, comfortable inn on the site of the ruined château, a sympathetic companion, a trusty guide, plenty of tea and one book--the book absolutely necessary to existence--perhaps mine would be Spinoza's Ethics or Schiller's 'Letters on the Æsthetic Education of Mankind'--under these conditions, months would glide by like an hour in such eerie, poetic, inspiring solitudes. The existence of a château on the borders of a veritable desert need not surprise us. The entire department of the Lozère was devastated by religious and seigneurial wars, and although the Causses themselves were not invaded, offering as they did no temptation to the thirsters after blood and spoil, the feudal freebooters had their strongholds near. The treeless condition of the Lozère chain and other once well-wooded regions was thus brought about. The Government is replanting many bare mountain-sides here, as in the Hautes Alpes, in order to improve the soil and climate. The barrenness of the Causses arises, as will be seen, from natural causes. Even in autumn--at least, on such a day as this--with these wild scenes is mingled much fairy charm and loveliness. Just as the distant scenery is made up of sharp contrasts--on the lofty plateaux, weird solitude and desolation; below, almost a southern luxuriance--so every square yard of rocky waste shows fragrant plant and sweet flower. We have only to stretch out our hands as we lie to gather half a dozen spikes of lavender, wild thyme, rosemary, Deptford pink, melilot, blue pimpernel, and white scabious. But the afternoon is wearing on. We must collect our tea-things, give the children a farewell sweetmeat, cast a last look round, and depart. It cost me many a pang to turn my back upon that farmhouse, boundary-mark between savagery and civilization, romance and the terre-à-terre of daily existence. Yonder diverging roads both led to fairy land and worlds of marvel--the one to Florac, so majestically placed under the colossal shadow of the Causse Méjean and above the lovely valley of the Jonte; the other across the steppe of Sauveterre and by the strange dwellings of the Caussenards to the picturesque little town of St. Éminie, the rapids of the Tarn, and the dolomite city. There was, however, the consolatory hope of seeing all the following year. Who could tell? Perhaps that very day twelve months later I might delight the children with my bonbon box, and a second time make tea on their breezy playground. At any rate, I entertained the project, and 'Should life be dull and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow.'