Although we have in reality come to the end of our tour, and have consequently no more places to discourse on, it may be suggested that our task is but badly ended if we omit to mention such resorts as Amélie, Vernet, Molitg, and other spots, which, if of less importance than those we have visited, are nevertheless in the Pyrenees. That they are in the Pyrenees cannot be disputed, but being in the eastern portion, the way of reaching them from the resorts among the western heights is so roundabout, that but few people would think of visiting both. However, for the information of any intending travellers, we have collected what reliable facts we could about the above-mentioned places—as well as Capvern, Preste-les-Bains, Panticosa, and a few others—which will be found in the general information [Footnote: See Appendix A.] at the end of the volume, and will, we trust, be of service.
We have but little left us now to do but to take our leave, though we have one little incident to record, which, though it occurred far from the Pyrenees, resulted, nevertheless, from our visit.
Travelling slowly homeward by the route through Normandy to Cherbourg, we stopped a few days at the delightful town of Caen. While there—in consequence of negotiations that had been carried on for some time—Miss Blunt had her desires gratified by the arrival of a fine Pyrenean puppy—like a small white bear with brown points—from Cauterets, one of the identical pair about which we had such a lively scene with the old French fancier. He was christened "Riou," after the Col of that name, and his owner has very kindly drawn his portrait among his native hills, to adorn these pages.
[Illustration: "MY PAW IS ON MY NATIVE HEATH, AND MY NAME IS 'RIOU.'">[
Our party did not break up till we reached Weymouth, but after that our ways diverged. We were by no means glad to part, the memories of our trip being very pleasant ones, and we can hardly think of a more delightful way of spending a couple of months than in driving about these beautiful mountains. The people are so pleasant, and hotels so moderate (in the spring-time), and the country in the full beauty of spring is at its best; and yet, as a rule, the few English and Americans who do go, wait till the season begins, with its crowds, heat, and extra expense, and the fiery sun has effectually cleared the mountains of that snowy mantle which was their greatest charm.
We were once asked, "Are not the Pyrenees very bare mountains, without any trees or herbage?" We could only repeat, what we have so often asserted in this book, that the foliage on the mountain slopes is magnificent, and their fertility and wealth of flora are of the highest order.
They are indeed so beautiful in every way that they cannot fail to touch many a chord in the heart of any lover of nature. At one moment hid in mists, at another clear and stately under a cloudless sky; in winter, wrapped completely in their garb of snow, trees and grass and rocks and all, only to reappear under spring's influence, still retaining their snowy crown, but with their slopes bright with the contrasting tints of beech and fir, oak and maple, interspersed with banks of bright gentian and fields of golden daffodils; what could be more lovely than a scene such as this, with the morning sun gilding the snow summits, or the last rays of a roseate sunset lingeringly bidding them "Farewell"?
As we then follow their example, we do not think we could make a more fitting ending than these lines, written amid those lovely scenes, and entitled
"THE LESSON OF THE MOUNTAINS."
Look on yon mountain peaks,
Mark how each summit seeks
Upward to lift its crest, base earth to spurn.
Tow'ring above the plain,
Over the weak and vain,
Ever for realms of light seeming to yearn.