The port is crowded with vessels of all nations and every burden. In the haze of twilight, they might be taken for a multitude of floating cathedrals--for nothing more resembles a church than a ship, with its spire-like masts, and the tangled tracery of its rigging. To finish the day, we went to the _Grand Théâtre_. Our conscience obliges us to say that it was full, although they were playing _La Dame Blanche_, which is anything but a novelty. The interior is nearly as large as that of the Grand Opera at Paris, but with much less ornament about it. The actors sang as much out of tune as at the real _Opéra Comique_. At Bordeaux, the influence of Spanish customs begins to be felt. Almost all the sign-boards are in the two languages, and the book-sellers have quite as many Spanish as French publications. A great number of persons can _hablar_ in the idiom of Don Quixote and Guzman of Alfarache. This influence increases as you approach the frontier; and, in fact, the Spanish portion, in this half-tint of demarcation, carries off the victory from the French--the _patois_ spoken by the inhabitants having much more resemblance to Spanish than to the language of the mother country. CHAPTER II. FROM BORDEAUX TO VERGARA. The _Landes_--Arrival at Bayonne--Information for Travellers--Urrugne--Saint Jean de Luz--Human Smuggling--Bridge over the Bidassoa--Irun--Travelling with Mules--Primitive Carts--Beggar Children--Spanish Bridges--Oyarzun--Astigarraga--A Spanish Supper--Puchero--Arrival at Vergara. On leaving Bordeaux, the _Landes_ recommence, if possible more sad, more desolate, and more gloomy than before. Heather, broom, and _pinadas_ (pine forests), with here and there a shepherd squatted down, tending his flocks of black sheep, or a miserable hut in the style of the Indian wigwams, offer a very lugubrious and by no means diverting spectacle. No tree is seen but the pine, with the gash in it from which the resin trickles down. This large salmon-coloured wound forming a strong contrast with the grey tones of the bark, gives the most miserable look in the world to these sickly trees, deprived of the greatest portion of their sap. They have the appearance of a forest unjustly assassinated, raising its arms to Heaven for justice. We passed through Dax at midnight, and traversed the Adour during the most wretched weather, with a beating rain and a wind strong enough to blow the horns off an ox. The nearer we approached a warmer climate, the sharper and more penetrating became the cold; and had not our cloaks been at hand, we should have had our noses and feet frost-bitten, like the soldiers of the _Grande Armée_ in the Russian campaign.