gabas—popular songs—pont crabe—the recluse of the vallÉe d'ossau—marguerite—the springs. I made another excursion to the VallÉe d'Ossau in the February of 1843, when the weather was singularly mild—infinitely more so than when I was first there in October, and the clearness of the sky enabled me to see all the mountains which were before concealed in clouds. With an adventurous party, all anxious to take advantage of the propitious moment, I undertook a long walk—for at this season it is difficult to procure horses—towards Gabas, having this time the Pic du Midi bright and clear and close in view. The carriage was able to From a certain place, however, where two paths diverged, we found that the height we had reached had brought us to the snows, and that it was too slippery for the horses to proceed; accordingly we alighted and performed the rest of the journey on foot. The walk was very exciting and amusing, our feet sinking deep in snow at every step, while a burning sun, gaÜmas, as the guide said, was shining over our heads, glittering on the white peaks above, and sparkling in the deep, clear, green torrent at the foot of the box-covered hills, over which silver streams of water were flowing from the summits into the murmuring wave, which churlishly received their tributary visits, and disputed the place they took, dashing, foaming, and springing over the enormous masses of rock in their course, till all the valley re-echoed with their ceaseless quarrelling. Every now and then we stopped to look back at the sublime scenery, and to make a hasty sketch of the peaks, which tempted us to pause. Summer and winter seemed combined in our stroll, and it appeared as if we were realizing the fable of "the man, the sun, and the cloud," not knowing whether to yield to the heat or the cold. We met two A long, loud, unmelodious drawl, like a dirge, with many a dying fall, was the vehicle in which the tender expressions of the poet were conveyed to our ears; and I was reproached by my companions for having injudiciously praised the verses of the Swan of BÉarn: certainly heard in mutilated fragments, and sung by such a musician—"La HaÜt sus las Mountagnes" and "La Plus Charmante Anesquette," were not calculated to excite much admiration. A lady of our party, who was acquainted with the popular songs of Languedoc, repeated a few verses to our guide, who took up the strain, which was not new to him: it is singular how widely these simple songs are spread from one part of France to the other; indeed, they are scarcely confined to I questioned the guide on the subject of the superstitions of the valley, and found that he had himself seen the fairies called Les Blanquettes: those charming mountain-fairies who roam along the peaks singing mournful songs. "I had often heard of them," said he, "and many of my friends had seen them hovering about the mouths of caverns on the highest points of the mountains. I wished, therefore, to satisfy myself, and went to the spot where others had beheld them, and sure enough there they were, figures in white, like women, in a circle round the entrance of a cavern." "And were these fairies?" I asked. He paused a moment, and then said—"As for fairies, that is an old story, which some people believe: these that I saw were only shadows." It appears to me that superstition is fast wearing out in the Pyrenees, as well as everywhere else. As we continued our way, we observed, along the snowy path, tracks of the feet of animals—a We observed near the Pont Crabe, i.e. Pont des ChÈvres, on the opposite side of the ravine, a desolate-looking mill, placed in so wild and rugged a position, that one could not but pity those whose fortune might have condemned them to a residence there all the year round: a story attached to the cottage made it still more sad. It appears that a young girl, the very flower of maidens in the VallÉe d'Ossau, had been deceived and deserted by her lover, and on the point of becoming a mother, when she consulted the priest of her parish, confessing to him her weakness, and entreating his aid to enable her to propitiate offended Heaven. The virtuous and holy man, shocked at the infirmity and want of propriety exhibited by the unfortunate girl, was very severe in his censures, and informed her that there was no way left for her but by penance and mortification to endeavour to wipe away her sin. He condemned her, therefore, to take up her abode in that solitary cottage, far away from all human habitation, to She did so; and she and her child lived for ten years in that secluded spot, where the constant sound of murmuring waters drowned her sighs, and where no intruding foot came to disturb her solitude, except when the good priest, from time to time, visited her, to afford the consolation of his pious prayers. At the end of that time her spirit departed, and her little son was received into the convent, of which he became a member. the recluse of the vallÉe d'ossau. "Say, ye waters raging round, Say, ye mountains, bleak and hoar, Is there quiet to be found, Where the world can vex no more? May I hope that peace can be Granted to a wretch like me! "Hark! the vulture's savage shriek— Hark! the grim wolf scares the night,— Thunder peals from peak to peak, Ghastly snows shroud ev'ry height. Hark! the torrent has a tone, Dismal—threat'ning—cold—alone! "Was I form'd for scenes like this, Flattered, trusting, vain and gay— In whose smile he said was bliss, Who to hear was to obey?— Yes! weak idol! 'tis thy doom, This thy guerdon—this thy tomb! "When I from my heart have torn All the mem'ries cherish'd long; When my early thought at morn, And my sigh at even-song, Have not all the self-same theme, Peace upon my soul may gleam! "When no more I paint his eyes, When his smile no more I see, And his tone's soft melodies Wake not in each sound to me; When I can efface the past, I may look for calm—at last. "When resentment is at rest, Scorn and sorrow, rage and shame, Can be still'd within my breast— And I start not at his name; When I weep, nor faint, nor feel, Then my heart's deep wounds may heal. "Years, long years, it yet will take, Spite of pain and solitude, Ere this heart can cease to ache, And no restless dreams intrude: Ere I crush each fond belief, And oblivion vanquish grief. "It might be—but in my child All his father lives the while; Such his eyes—so bright, so wild— Such his air, his voice, his smile— Still I see him o'er and o'er, Till I dare to gaze no more! "Is it sin to love him yet? Was it sin to love at all? Is my torture, my regret, For his loss—or for my fall? Change, oh Heaven!—thou canst, thou wilt— Thoughts that sink my soul in guilt! "Teach me that regret is crime, That my past despair is vain, And my penance through all time Shall be ne'er to hope again,— Only in His pardon trust— Pitying, merciful, and just." It is said that La Reine Marguerite, sister of Francis I., wrote the greatest part of her celebrated stories during a sojourn at the Eaux Chaudes: there, surrounded with a brilliant court of ladies and poets, she passed several joyous months, and recruited her health, while she amused her imagination, in wandering amongst the rocks and wild paths of Gabas and La Broussette: in her train were "joueurs, farceurs, baladins, and garnemens de province," and nothing but entertainment seemed the business of the lives of those fair and gay invalids, who, so long ago, set an example which has not failed to be well followed since. The pompous inscription which once appeared in a chapel at La Hourat, in honour of the passage of the Princess Catherine, sister of Henri IV. is now replaced by a modern exhortation to the traveller to implore the aid of the Virgin before he tempts the perils of the pass: and our guides very reverently took off their berrets, as they went by the little niche, where stands the image, which is an object of their adoration and hope. Poor Catherine, always disconsolate at her separation from the object of her choice, found but little relief from the waters—they "I write—sad task! that helps to wear away The long, long, mournful melancholy day; Write what the fervour of my soul inspires, And vainly fan love's slow-consuming fires." All was sad and solitary to her; for the only companion she desired was not there to give her his hand along the rugged paths, to support her amongst the glittering snows, and smooth her way through the pleasing difficulties of the abrupt ascents. Cold ceremony, and, at best, mere duty, attended her whose heart sighed for tenderness and affection which she was never destined to know. At that period, there was neither hotel nor street, and the rudest huts sheltered that simple court; but they might perhaps afford, after all, as much comfort as may at the present day be found, in cold weather, in the irreclaimably smoky rooms of the principal inn at the Eaux Chaudes. The accommodation is much superior—at least, out of the season—at the Eaux Bonnes, the situation of which is, as I before observed, infinitely more cheerful; but in hot weather it must be like an oven, closed in as the valley is with toppling mountains, These waters were first used, it is said, by Henri II. of Navarre, after his return from the fatal fight of Pavia, where he was wounded by a musketshot. They, from hence, took the name of Eaux des Arquebusades, as they were found efficacious in cases similar to his own. Michel Montaigne was one of the illustrious visitors to these healing springs, which he calls Grammontoises. Jacques de Thou came to the Eaux Bonnes in 1582; and recounts that, in the week which he These springs were forgotten for more than a century after this; and BarÈges was preferred to them. The great physician, Bordeu, of whom BÉarn is justly proud, restored their reputation in a great measure: but it is rather within the last thirty years that they have reached the celebrity which they now enjoy. It is generally said that the VallÉe d'Ossau combines all the beauties and grandeurs of the Pyrenees; and that the traveller, who has only time to visit this part, has had a specimen of all that is most admirable in this beautiful chain of mountains. For myself, I endeavour to believe this, not having been able to see so much of the Pyrenees as I desired. |