We passed St. Jean de Luz, a queer tumble-down old town on the borders of the sea, in whose cathedral the Grand Monarque was married to Maria Theresa, daughter of Philip IV. of Spain, and in the great red house in the square the happy couple lived for a fortnight or so in nuptial beatitude. Some way off rises the mountain of Bayonnetta, down whose slopes a spirited band of peasants once charged their enemies with poles, to the ends of which they had lashed their long-bladed knives. Some find in this fact the origin of the bayonet. The town is inhabited by whale-fishers, a few soldiers, and some centipedes. When we arrived, the loungers at the station were still talking over the recent accident which had well nigh upset all the calculations that Napoleon III. has made as to his dynasty. The sea is generally very rough at the entrance to the little harbour; and on the occasion in question, as the Empress was landing in a small boat from her steamer, the boat was upset close to land. The Empress and Prince both struck out, the one shouting as much as was consistent with a mouthful of water, "Save my son!" the other, "Save my mother!" This was as it should be. Eugénie and the heir to the imperial throne were saved, but the poor pilot was drowned. We shortly reached Hendaye, the last French town, and the Bidassoa, which here divides the two countries, was crossed. There are some low swampy lands visible at low water between the sea and the bridge over the river, and no one but amphibious creatures would, one would imagine, venture upon them. In 1813, the Duke of Wellington, however, persuaded his army to wade through them; thereby succeeding in both astonishing Marshal Soult and taking his position.