BREAK at last in the weary stretch of A ‘ghastly, wounded pines and glassy lagoons which has flanked the railroad all the way from Bordeaux. We are passing out of Jes Landes, (1) and entering upon the battle-ground of the sand and the sea. Beyond the little station of Labenne the bright surf of Biscay flashes into view ; there is a glimpse of a signal-tower, a mass of dark pines crowning a low promontory, lines of yellow sand, the chafing Adour, and the stone jetties—the long arms with which it

ANGLET, “Tato the silent land ! Ah, who shall lead us thither ? ’—SAL1s. LONG, low, unobtrusive little railroad A station seems to be trying to hide itself among the trees just behind the Allées Marines; and in front of this appear, every twenty minutes or so, a little locomotive with a very high and slender smoke-stack, and a train of twostory carriages, by which train one can run down to Biarritz in a quarter of an hour. A little more than half-way to Biarritz is the station of Anglet, a small

E linger in Bayonne. Who would not \ V be moved tolinger? For this summer morning, under the trees of the Allées Marines, is a veritable dream of peace. The Adour ripples and swirls against the long stone quay, its sparkling surface ruffled by the cool morning wind which blows up from the sea, filling out the sails of the huge barges, making a pleasant sound in the trees, and weaving an ever-shifting pattern of shadows on the trim, gravelled paths, and on the sides of the moored ships. The cheer

IARRITZ is neither French, English, Spanish, nor Basque: Asin all similar resorts, the local coloring is modified or washed out by successive waves of tourists, The shops are crowded closely together along the main street, which runs parallel with the sea. There are rich displays of dry goods and millinery, the varied daintiness of fancy stationery, heaps of bric-a-brac, and book-stores, where English, French, and Spanish titles appear cheek by jowl in the windows. The street is alive with carri

E were so fascinated by the gigantic \ \ play of the surf and the grandeur of the view down the Cantabrian coast, that it was hard to climb the rocks from Atalaye under the blistering sun to the streets of Biarritz. If there is one need for which that town is conspicuous, it is the need of shade on the public promenades. The view of the shady private gardens, under such circumstances, is peculiarly exasperating. But the coach was waiting at the stable in the busiest part of the busy street, and

OST modern travellers will enter Spain M by rail; in which case they must run the custom-house gauntlet at Irun. A hint to you, unwary tourist, booked through from Paris to Madrid. Trust not that passage in Mr. Henry O’Shea’s most valuable and generally accurate guide-book which saith that luggage, registered through, is examined only on the arrival at Madrid; otherwise you shall wake at Madrid with your luggage four hundred miles behind you, to be confronted with the tears and reproaches of one

THE BASQUES. Cantaber serd domitus cateni.—HORACE. LEARNED Scotch divine, commenting A upon a vexed passage of Scripture, remarked that “the varieties of exposition were enough to afflict the student with intellectual paralysis.” The same might be truthfully said of the question of the origin of the Basques. A hundred and thirty years after the deluge, say the old Spanish historians, Tubal, the son of Japhet, to whom was assigned the duty of peopling Europe, arrived on the Cantabrian coast, from

HE Basques call themselves Euscaldanac, T which is said to mean ‘‘ a strong hand,” and their language Eskara or Euskara. Upon the question of its origin, which is involved in the same obscurity with that of the origin of the people themselves, this is not the place to enter. Suffice it to say that its affinities, so far as they can be traced, seem to point to remote oriental sources. It has no likeness whatever to any of the dialects of Southern Europe. A Spaniard and a Basque can no more unders

The women pass us, bearing huge bundles of ferns which they deposit in heaps for manure. The ploughs which one sees are of modern construction, so different from those of Anda- “lusia, where one is constantly reminded of his pictorial Bible and his Bible-dictionary; for the plough is still the old oriental plough, little better than two sticks. There, too, the waterwheel still revolves in the streams, with earthen pots tied to the circumference, and the thresher is drawn on his drag by the mules

BRIGHT summer afternoon, and a hard, A smooth road under foot, made walking a luxury. The highway to San Sébastian, which we struck at the mouth of the Oyarsun after leaving Renteria, followed the western shore of the bay of Pasages, and turning off to the right, led round the shore of the inner bay, a veritable Serbonian bog at that hour, though all over its surface the inward-setting currents in the little pools and rivulets, heralded the rising tide. At the turn of the shaded path where the i

HE road from Pasages is lined for some T distance with red, ferruginous rocks. The excellence of their arms which rendered the Basques so formidable to the Roman armies, was due in great part to the abundance of metals afforded by their mountains. I have already spoken of the mines of Oyarsun; and this whole region abounds in haematite ore of the best quality. One of the most important industries of the Basque provinces is furnished by the iron mines of Bilbao, about eleven miles from that city,

HE streets of San Sébastian are enlivened T with touches of brilliant scarlet—the color of the closely fitting Jopnas or Basque caps of the hackmen, who swarm about the Alameda and up and down the Concha, perched on their neat basket-phaetons, and driving the little, hardy Basque horse, which Silius Italicus, a Roman poetaster of the first century, described as “ Parvus sonipes, nec Marti notus,” or, translating freely, ‘‘ a pony, and not a warhorse.” The labors of these little fellows are mitig

OFFEE was served early this morning, C while the surf-swept rocks at the foot of Chubillo were yet in shadow, The promenade overlooking the bathing pavilions was almost deserted ; the barge with its platforms and streamers was leisurely getting into position for the day ; the red and yellow flags along the deep water line flapped lazily in the light morning wind, and a solitary bather’s head appeared amid the listless breakers, Making our way to the railroad-station over the bridge of Santa Cata

UIPUZCOA might be supposed, from G the previous pages, to be little short of a paradise. But every Eden has its serpent; and though this province is not a territory of snakes, its capital city, at least, bears away the palm for fleas. I am morally convinced that the Cantabrian coast is the primitive home of the flea, and that the first created flea jumped on the Cantabrian sands when the morning-stars sang together. He partakes of the hardy, enterprising, indomitable character of the other Canta

HE Pic du Midi shook himself clear from T the heavy clouds for a few minutes this morning, by way of informing us that he was still there, and then resigned himself once more to the embrace of the mists which concealed his brethren. To the sight, at least, the French monarch’s words, ‘ There shall be no Pyrenees,” were realized. Above, it was an all-day fight between the sun and the clouds. An occasional gleam of sunshine and patch of blue sky awakened hopes which collapsed each time as a fresh

HAD counted on another half-day in Lourdes, but the morning came in with a dead, hopeless, gray sky, and a steady deluge of rain, which put mountain excursions out of the question. A day in the Hatel des Pyrénées was too appalling a prospect to be contemplated for a moment; and finding that there was a train for Toulouse at ten o'clock, I took polite leave of the thrifty landlady, and proceeded to the station, which presented an affecting combination of devotion and umbrellas in a crowd of drenc

HARDLY know what it was that had made me for so many years a sharer in the old peasant’s simple wish to see Carcassonne, but I am sure the desire had been deepened by that exquisite little poem of Gustave Nadaud; at any rate, the words had been running all night in my brain ; and when, through the parted curtain, I saw *‘ shadow streaks of rain ” crossing the gray morning haze, the verses took on the character of a prophecy— TI could not go to Carcassonne, I never went to Carcassonne.” Shall I n

Lelo is dead! Lelo isdead! Zara hath slain him. The Romans would conquer Biscay, and Biscay raised the song of war. Octavius is lord of the world, and Lekobidi is lord of Biscay. From the side of the sea and from the side of the land, Octavius attacks us with his warriors. They hold the plains, but the caverns and the mountains are ours, ‘When we are in a favorable position we defend it with courage. We fear not to meet them on equal terms, even though we lack necessary food. They go covered wit

They carry a little wand, ornamented with red ribands and terminating in a three-forked hooked prong. Blue is the color of the virtuous, red of the vicious. When the stage is empty of other actors, the *‘ Satans” occupy the front corners of it, and dance the wild Sexf Basque, singing at the same time some reflections on, or anticipations of the piece played, much like the chorus of a Greek tragedy; but in addition to this, there is generally a comic interlude, more or less impromptu, and very sl