Béarn and the Pyrenees

by Louisa Stuart Costello

oh! nightingale that sing'st so sweet,
Perch'd on the boughs elate,
How softly does thy music greet
Thy tender list'ning mate.

While I, alas! from joy removed,
With heart oppress'd, must go,
And, leaving her so fondly loved,
Depart in hopeless woe.

Ah me! I see before me yet
Our parting and her pain,
My bosom throbb'd with vain regret
To hear her still complain.
My trembling hand she fondly press'd,
Her voice in murmurs died:
"Oh! is not our's a fate emblest,
Since we must part," she cried.

I promised her, whate'er betide,
To love her to the last,
And Fate, my truth has sadly tried,
In all our sorrows past;
But she may trust me, tho' we part,
And both our lot deplore:
Where'er I go, this bleeding heart
Will suffer ever more.

The clearest streams that gently flow,
The river murm'ring by,
Not purer than my heart can show,
Nor have more tears than I.
No book nor scroll can tell a fate
Where sorrows so combine;
No pen can write, nor song relate,
Such misery as mine!

Thus, like the turtle, sad and lone,
Who leaves his mate in pain,
I go, with many a tender moan,
And dream of love in vain:
By all the ties that bound us long,
By all the hopes we knew,
Oh I hear thy shepherd's latest song,
Receive his last adieu!

Anxious to visit a country whose history and traditions had so much excited my interest and curiosity, I accompanied a friend, early in the year 1843, on an expedition to the Vallée d'Aspe, and through part of the Pays Basque. I would willingly have waited for spring, particularly as I heard from everybody in Pau, that to reach the valleys leading to Spain in the month of February was impossible—was worse than folly: in fact, was what none but the English, who are supposed to have taken leave of their senses, would attempt. One French gentleman, who was well acquainted with every part of the Pyrenees, and had twice made the ascent of the Pic du Midi, was indignant at our perseverance, insisting that we should be stopped by the snows—although very little had fallen in the last winter—and that the Basque country was totally uninteresting except in summer. Others told us that it was never worth seeing at any season; but, as I had become aware that persons settled in Pau were bound in a spell, and scarcely ever ventured more than a league from their retreat until, being once in motion, they set forth towards the mountains in the opposite direction, I did not allow myself to be persuaded to remain in the "Little Paris of the South" for carnival balls, and, followed by the pity and surprise of most of our friends, we took our dangerous way, on a sunny morning, as hot as July, towards Oloron.

Oloron, finely situated on a height, is a wide, open, clean, and well-built town, with so much open, fresh air, that, after the enervating and confined atmosphere of Pau, one seemed to breathe new life. The walks are good and extensive, and the magnificent range of the snowy mountains very close. Two rushing torrents divide the town between them—the Gaves of Ossau and Aspe—and from the two bridges which span them the view of their impetuous course is extremely imposing. These magnificent torrents are the charm of the Pyrenees; making the country, through which they hurry, one scene of beauty and animation: they do also terrible mischief by their violence when swelled by rains, as we had afterwards occasion to observe; but, at all times, give a character of singular grandeur to the places where they sweep along in uncontrolled majesty.

The village, or faubourg, of S^te. Marie d'Oloron joins the main town; and here is situated the cathedral, once of great importance, but now, like all the religious establishments in this part of France, preserving little of its ancient glory. The pillars, however, of its aisles are very grand and massive, and are part of the early structure: the form and height are imposing, and the chapels of the choir graceful; but the chief curiosity is the portal, which bears marks of a Saracenic origin. The arch is a wide circle, finely ornamented, and, in the centre, an Indian-shaped pillar divides it into two smaller circular arches: the base of this pillar is formed of two figures standing back to back, stooping beneath the load they bear on their hands and depressed heads: they are covered with fetters, both on their legs and arms: their striped dresses are quite Indian, and they wear a curious, melon-shaped cap: the faces are hideous and exaggerated, the limbs strong and well made, and they are in perfect preservation.

I have not seen any satisfactory account of the cathedral, which might explain these curious supporters: on each side of the portal projects a carved figure—one much defaced, the other representing a leopard or panther. A series of beautiful pillars, forming pedestals to absent saints, fill up the space of the porch, and that beyond is closed by high, open arches—rebuilt, but, doubtless, originally of the same construction as those of the beautiful side-entrance to the cathedral of Bourges, where Moorish carvings also occur.