TWO SUMMERS IN GUYENNE

A Chronicle of the Wayside and Waterside

BYEDWARD HARRISON BARKER

Author of 'Wayfaring in France', 'Wanderings by Southern Waters, ' ETC. 

WITH MAPS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

[Illustration: _G. Vuillies_ DOORWAY OF THE ABBEY CHURCH AT BEAULIEU(CORRÈZE). ]

PREFACE

Of the four summers which the writer of this 'Chronicle of the Wayside andWaterside' spent by Aquitanian rivers, the greater part of two provided theimpressions that were used in 'Wanderings by Southern Waters. ' Althoughthe earlier pages of the present work, describing the wild district of theUpper Dordogne, through which the author passed into Guyenne, belong, inthe order of time, to the beginning of his scheme of travel in Aquitaine, the summers of 1892 and 1893, spent chiefly in Périgord and the Bordelais, furnished the matter of which this volume is mainly composed. Hence thetitle that has been given to it. 

It may be thought that there is not a sufficient separation of interest, geographically speaking, between the tracts of country described in the twobooks. The author regrets that it is not possible to convey in a few wordsan idea of the extent of the old English Duchy of Aquitaine as it wasdefined by the Treaty of Brétigny. Still less easy would it be to dealrapidly with its physical contrasts, its relics of the past, and itshistorical associations. Surely no writer could pretend to have exhaustedthe interest of such a subject even in two volumes. 

Before the final expulsion of the English, Aquitaine was gradually takingthe name of Guyenne; but when this designation came to be definitivelyapplied, at the time of the Renaissance, Gascony was not included init, nor were Poitou, Saintonge, Angoumois and Limousin. Even when thusrestricted in its meaning, Guyenne still represented a very considerablepart of France, including as it did the regions or sub-provinces known asthe Bordelais, Périgord, the Agenais, the Rouergue, and the Quercy. 

If the author's work during the fifteen years that he has been living inFrance has served to make the people, the scenery, and the antiquities ofthis ever-fascinating country somewhat better known to those who speakthe English language, he believes that it is to his favourite mode oftravelling that such good fortune must be largely attributed. His faring onfoot has caused him to see much that he would otherwise have never seen;it has also widened his knowledge of his fellow-men, and has helped him tocontrol prejudices which are not to be entirely overcome, but ever remainan insidious snare to the traveller and student of manners. 

E. H. B. 

PARIS, _May_, 1894. 

CONTENTS

THE UPPER DORDOGNEACROSS THE MOORS OF THE CORRÈZEIN THE VISCOUNTY OF TURENNEIN UPPER PÉRIGORDIN THE VALLEY OF THE VÉZÈREIN THE VALLEY OF THE ISLEFROM PÉRIGUEUX TO RIBERAC (BY BRANTÔME)THE DESERT OF THE DOUBLEA CANOE VOYAGE ON THE DRONNEBY THE LOWER DORDOGNEBY THE GARONNE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

DOORWAY OF THE ABBEY CHURCH AT BEAULIEU (CORRÈZE)A BIT OF AUVERGNETHE DORDOGNE AT LA BOURBOULEA MOORLAND WIDOWTHE VALLEY OF THE RUEA WOMAN OF THE CORRÈZEA PEASANT OF THE MOORSPLOUGHING THE MOORA GORGE IN THE CORRÈZETURENNEA PEASANT OF THE CAUSSECHÂTEAU DE FÉNELONRETURNING FROM THE FIELDSBEYNACCLOISTERS OF THE ABBEY OF CADOUINCHÂTEAU DE BIRON: THE LODGETRUFFLE-HUNTERSCHÂTEAU DES EYZIESCHÂTEAU DE HAUTEFORTA HOUSE AT PÉRIGUEUXTHE TOUR DE VÉSONETHE 'NORMAN GATE' AT PÉRIGUEUXTHE DRONNE AT BOURDEILLESTHE ABBEY OF BRANTÔMECHÂTEAU DE BOURDEILLESTHE DRONNE AT COUTRASA STREET AT ST. ÉMILIONTHE CHÂTEAU DE MONTAIGNE AFTER THE FIREMONOLITHIC CHURCH AND DETACHED TOWER AT ST. ÉMILIONCONVENT OF THE CORDELIERS: THE CLOISTERSTOUR DE L'HORLOGE AT LIBOURNETHE HILL OF FRONSACBAZASINTERIOR OF THE CHÂTEAU DE VILLANDRAUTTHE GARONNECHÂTEAU DE MONTESQUIEUTHE GARONNE AT BORDEAUXTHE PALAIS GALLIEN AT BORDEAUX

THE UPPER DORDOGNE. 

I had left the volcanic mountains of Auvergne and had passed throughMont-Dore and La Bourboule, following the course of the Dordogne thatflowed through the valley with the bounding spirits of a young mountaineerdescending for the first time towards the great plains where the largetowns and cities lie with all their fancied wonders and untasted charm. 

But these towns and cities were afar off. The young Dordogne had a verylong journey to make before reaching the plains of Périgord. Nearly thewhole of this distance the stream would have to thread its way throughdeep-cut gorges and ravines, where the dense forest reaches down to thestony channel, save where the walls of rock rising hundreds of feet oneither side are too steep for vegetation. Above the forest and the rockis the desert moor, horrible to the peasant, but to the lover of naturebeautiful when seen in its dress of purple heather and golden broom. 

[Illustration: A BIT OF AUVERGNE. ]

I had not been long on the road this day, when I saw coming towards me anequipage more picturesquely interesting than any I had ever met in theChamps-Elysées. It was a ramshackle little cart laden with sacks and acouple of children, and drawn by a pair of shaggy sheep-dogs. Cords servedfor harness. A man was running by the side, and it was as much as he coulddo to keep up with the animals. This use of dogs is considered cruel inEngland, but it often keeps them out of mischief, and I have never seen onein harness that looked unhappy. Traces must help a dog to grow in his ownesteem, and to work out his ideal of the high destiny reserved for him;or why does he, when tied under a cart to which a larger quadruped isharnessed, invariably try to persuade himself and others that he is pullingthe load up the hill, and that the horse or donkey is an impostor?

[Illustration: THE DORDOGNE AT LA BOURBOULE. ]

The width of the Mont-Dore valley decreased rapidly, and I entered thegorge of the Dordogne, where basaltic rocks were thrown up in savagegrandeur, vividly contrasting with which were bands and patches of meadow, brilliantly green. Yellow spikes of agrimony and the fine pink flowers ofthe musk-mallow mingled with the wiry broom and the waving bracken aboutthe rocks. 

It was September, but the summer heat had returned, and when the roadpassed through a beech wood the shade was welcome. Here over the mossyground rambled the enchanter's nightshade, still carrying its frail whiteflowers, which really have a weird appearance in the twilight of the woods. The plant has not been called _circe_ without a reason. Under the beechesthere were raspberry canes with some fruit still left upon them. Afterleaving the wood, the scene became more wild and craggy. The basalt, bareand sombre, or sparsely flecked with sedums, their stalks and fleshy leavesnow very red, rose sheer from the middle of the narrow valley, down whichthe stream sped like fleeing Arethusa, now turning to the right, now to theleft, foaming over rocks or sparkling like the facets of countless gemsbetween margins of living green. 

Then I left the valley in order to pass through the village of St. Sauveon the right-hand hill. There was little there worth seeing besides a veryancient Romanesque archway, or, as some think, detached portico leading tothe church. 

Many of the women of St. Sauve wore the black cap or bonnet of Mont-Dore, which hangs to the shoulders. It is a hideous coiffure, but an interestingrelic of the past. The prototype of it was worn by the châtelaines of thetwelfth century. Then, however, it had a certain stateliness which it lacksnow. It is only to be seen in a very small district. 

I consulted some of the people of St. Sauve respecting my plan of followingthe Dordogne through its gorges. They did not laugh at me, but they lookedat me in a way which meant that if better brains had not been given to themthan to me their case would be indeed unfortunate. I was advised to see acobbler who was considered an authority on the byways of the district. Ifound him sitting by the open window of his little shop driving hob-nailsinto a pair of Sunday boots. When I told him what I had made up my mind todo, he shook his head, and, laying down his work, said:

'You will never do it. There are rocks, and rocks, and rocks. Even thefishermen, who go where anybody can go, do not try to follow the Dordognevery far. There are ravines--and ravines. _Bon Dieu!_ And the forest! Youwill be lost! You will be devoured!'

To be devoured would be the climax of misfortune. I wished to know whatanimals would be likely to stop my wayfaring in this effectual manner. 

'Are there wolves?'

'No; none have been seen for years. '

'Are there boars?'

'Yes, plenty of them. '

'But boars, ' I said, 'are not likely to interfere with me. '

'That is true, ' replied the local wiseacre, 'so long as you keep walking;but if you fall down a rock--ah!'

'I would not care to have you for a companion, with all your localknowledge, ' I thought, as I thanked the cobbler and turned down a verystony path towards the Dordogne. It is always prudent to follow the adviceof those who are better informed than yourself; but it is much moreamusing--for awhile--to go your own way. I had lunched, and was preparedto battle with the desert for several hours. It was now past mid-day, and notwithstanding the altitude, the heat was very great. But for thediscomfort that we endure from the sun's rays we are more than amplycompensated by the pleasure that the recollection brings us in winter, whenthe north wind is moaning through the sunless woods and the dreary foghangs over the cities. When I again reached the Dordogne there was nolonger any road, but only a rough path through high bracken, heather andbroom. Snakes rustled as I passed, and hid themselves among the stones. Thecobbler had forgotten to include these with the dangers to be encountered. To my mind they were much more to be dreaded than the boars, for thesestony solitudes swarm with adders, of which the most venomous kind is thered viper, or _aspic_. Its bite has often proved mortal. 

The path entered the forest which covers the steep sides of theever-winding gorge of the Dordogne for many leagues, only broken where therocks are so nearly vertical that no soil has ever formed upon them, exceptin the little crevices and upon the ledges, where the hellebore, the sedum, the broom, and other unambitious plants which love sterility flourish wherethe foot of man has never trod. 

The rocks were now of gneiss and mica-schist, and the mica was so abundantas to cause many a crag and heap of shale to glitter in the sun, as thoughthere had been a mighty shattering of mirrors here into little particleswhich had fallen upon everything. There was, however, no lack of contrast. To the shining rocks and the fierce sunshine, which seemed to concentrateits fire wherever it fell in the open spaces of the deep gorge, succeededthe ancient forest and its cool shade; but the darkly-lying shadows wereever broken with patches of sunlit turf. Pines and firs reached almost tothe water's edge, and the great age of some of them was a proof of thelittle value placed upon timber in a spot so inaccessible. One fir had anenormous bole fantastically branched like that of an English elm, andon its mossy bark was a spot such as the hand might cover, fired by awandering beam, that awoke recollections of the dream-haunted woods beforethe illusion of their endlessness was lost. 

The afternoon was not far spent, when I began to feel a growing confidencein the value of the cobbler's information, and a decreasing belief in myown powers. It became more and more difficult, then quite impossible, to keep along the bank of the stream. What is understood by a bankdisappeared, and in its stead were rocks, bare and glittering, on which thelizards basked, or ran in safety, because they were at home, but which Icould only pass by a flank movement. To struggle up a steep hill, overslipping shale-like stones, or through an undergrowth of holly andbrambles, then to scramble down and to climb again, repeating the exerciseevery few hundred yards, may have a hygienic charm for those who aretormented by the dread of obesity, but to other mortals it is toosuggestive of a holiday in purgatory. 

Having gone on in this fashion for some distance, I lay down, streamingfrom every pore, and panting like a hunted hare beside a little rill thatslid singing between margins of moss, amid Circe's white flowers and purpleflashes of cranesbill. Here I examined my scratches and the state of thingsgenerally. The result of my reflections was to admit that the cobblerwas right, that these ravines of the Upper Dordogne were practicallyimpassable, and that the only rational way of following the river wouldbe to keep sometimes on the hills and sometimes in the gorge, as theunforeseen might determine. Hitherto, I had not troubled to inquire where Ishould pass the night, and this consideration alone would have compelledme to depart from my fantastic scheme. After La Bourboule there is not avillage or hamlet in the valley of the Dordogne for a distance of at leastthirty miles, allowing for the winding of the stream. 

After a hard climb I reached the plateau, where I saw before me a wide moorcompletely covered with bracken and broom. Here I looked at the map, anddecided to make towards a village called Messeix, lying to the east in afork formed by the Dordogne and its tributary the Chavannon. Going by thecompass at first, I presently struck a road leading across the moor in theright direction. I passed through two wretched hamlets, in neither of whichwas there an auberge where I could relieve my thirst. At the second one acottage was pointed out to me where I was told a woman sold wine. When, after sinking deep in mud, I found her amidst a group of hovels, and thepreliminary salutation was given, the following conversation passed betweenus:

'They tell me you sell wine. '

'They tell you wrong--I don't. '

'Do you sell milk, then?'

'No; I have no beasts. '

As I was going away she kindly explained that she only kept enough wine forherself. I had evidently not impressed her favourably. Although I thinkwater a dangerous drink in France, except where it can be received directlyfrom the hand of Nature, far from human dwellings, I was obliged to begsome in this place, and run the risk of carrying away unfriendly microbes. 

Having left the hovels behind me, the country became less barren or morecultivated. There were fields of rye, buckwheat, and potatoes, but alwaysnear them lay the undulating moor, gilded over with the flowers of a dwarfbroom. It was evening when I descended into a wide valley from which camethe chime of cattle-bells, mingled with the barking of dogs and the voicesof children, who were driving the animals slowly homeward. There were greenmeadows below me, over which was a yellow gleam from the fading afterglowof sunset, and in the air was that odour which, rising from grassy valleysat the close of day, even in regions burnt by the southern summer, makesthe wandering Englishman fancy that some wayfaring wind has come laden withthe breath of his native land. Suddenly turning a corner, I so startled alittle peasant girl sitting on a bank in the early twilight with a flockof goats about her, that she opened her mouth and stared at me as thoughCroquemitaine had really shown himself at last. The goats stopped eating, and fixed upon me their eyes like glass marbles; they, too, thought that Icould be no good. 

I hoped that the village of Messeix was in this valley; but no, I had tocross it and climb the opposite hill. On the other side I found the placethat I had fixed upon for my night quarters. 

Very small and very poor, it lies in a region where the land generally isso barren that but a small part of it has been ever broken by the plough;where the summers are hot and dry, and the winters long and cruel. Althoughin the watershed of the Gironde, it touches Auvergne, and its altitudemakes it partake very much of the Auvergnat climate, which, with theexception of the favoured Limagne Valley, is harsh, to an extent that hascaused many a visitor to flee from Mont-Dore in the month of August. In thedeep gorges of the Dordogne and its tributaries, the snow rarely lies morethan a few days upon the ground, whereas upon the wind-swept plateau abovethe scanty population have to contend with the rigours of that FrenchSiberia which may be said to commence here on the west, and to extendeastward over the whole mass of metamorphic and igneous rocks, which istermed the great central plateau of France, although it lies far south ofthe true centre of the country. 

At the first auberge where I applied for a night's lodging, an elderlywoman with a mournful face declined to take me in, and gave no reason. WhenI had left, she came after me and said, with her eyes full of tears:

'I have a great trouble in the house, that is why I sent you away. '

I understood what she meant; somebody dear to her was dying. A man who waslistening said his brother-in-law, the baker, was also an innkeeper, and heoffered to take me to the auberge. I gladly consented, for I was fearful ofbeing obliged to tramp on to some other place. Presently I was in a large, low room, which was both kitchen and baker's shop. On shelves were greatwheel-shaped loaves (they are called _miches_ in the provinces), some abouttwo feet in diameter, made chiefly of rye with a little wheaten flour. Filled sacks were ranged along the wall. In a deep recess were thekneading-trough, and the oven, now cold. The broad rural hearth, with itswood-fire and sooty chimney, the great pot for the family soup hanging to achain, took up a large share of the remaining space. I sat upon a ricketychair beside a long table that had seen much service, but was capable ofseeing a great deal more, for it had been made so as to outlast generationsof men. Bare-footed children ran about upon the black floor, and a thin, gaunt young woman, who wore very short petticoats, which revealed legs notunlike those of the table, busied herself with the fire and the pot. Shewas the sister of the children, and had been left in charge of the housewhile her father and mother were on a journey. She accepted me as a lodger, but for awhile she was painfully taciturn. This, however, her scantyknowledge of French, and the fact that a stranger even of the class ofsmall commercial travellers was a rare bird in the village, fully accountedfor. The place was not cheerful, but as I listened to the crickets aboutthe hearth, and watched the flames leap up and lick the black pot, myspirits rose. Presently the church bell sounded, dong, dong, dong. 

'Why are they tolling the bell?' I asked. 

'Because, ' replied the gaunt young woman, 'a man has died in the village. '

By pressing her to speak, she explained that while a corpse lay unburiedthe bell was tolled three times in the day--early in the morning, atmid-day, and at nightfall. The conversation was in darkness, save suchlight as the fire gave. It was not until the soup was ready that the lampwas lighted. Then the young woman, addressing me abruptly, said:

'Cut up your bread for your soup. '

I did as I was told, for I always try to accommodate myself to localcustoms, and never resent the rough manners of well-intentioned people. Thebread was not quite black, but it was very dark from the amount of rye thatwas in it. The soup was water flavoured with a suggestion of fat bacon, whatever vegetables happened to be in the way, and salt. This fluid, pouredover bread--when the latter is not boiled with it--is the chief sustenanceof the French peasant. It was all that the family now had for their eveningmeal, and in five minutes everyone had finished. They drank no wine; itwas too expensive for them, the nearest vineyard being far away. A bottle, however, was placed before me, but the quality was such that I soon leftit. To get some meat for me the village had to be scoured, and the resultwas a veal cutlet. 

I was not encouraged to sit up late. As the eldest daughter of the innshowed me my night quarters, she said:

'Your room is not beautiful, but the bed is clean. '

This was quite true. The room, in accordance with a very frequentarrangement in these rural auberges, was not used exclusively for sleepingpurposes, but also for the entertainment of guests, especially on fair andmarket days, when space is precious. There was a table with a bench for theuse of drinkers. There were, moreover, three beds, but I was careful toascertain that none would be occupied except by myself. I would soonerhave slept on a bundle of hay in the loft than have had an unknown personsnoring in the same room with me. One has always some prejudice toovercome. The bed was not soft, and the hempen sheets were as coarse ascanvas, but these trifles did not trouble me. I listened to the song ofthe crickets on the hearth downstairs until drowsiness beckoned sleep andconsciousness of the present lost its way in sylvan labyrinths by theDordogne. 

At six o'clock the next morning I was walking about the village, and Ientered the little church, already filled with people. It was Sunday, andthis early mass was to be a funeral one. The man for whom the bell wastolled last night was soon brought in, the coffin swathed in a commonsheet. It was borne up the nave towards the catafalque, the rough carpentryof which showed how poor the parish was. Following closely was an old andbent woman with her head wrapped in a black shawl. She had hardly gone afew steps, when her grief burst out into the most dismal wailing I had everheard, and throughout the service her melancholy cries made other womencover their faces, and tears start from the eyes of hard-featured, weather-beaten men. 

[Illustration: A MOORLAND WIDOW. ]

Most of the women present wore the very ugly headgear which is the mostcommon of all in Auvergne and the Corrèze, namely, a white cap covered bya straw bonnet something of the coal-scuttle pattern. There were manycommunicants at this six o'clock mass, and what struck me as being thereverse of what one might suppose the right order of things, was that thewomen advanced in life wore white veils as they knelt at the altar rails, while those worn by the young, whose troubles were still to come, wereblack. These veils were carried in the hand during the earlier part of therite. Throughout a very wide region of Southern France the custom prevails. The church belonged to different ages. Upon the exterior of the Romanesqueapse were uncouth carvings in relief of strange animal figures. They weremore like lions than any other beasts, but their outlines were such aschildren might have drawn. 

I returned to the inn. The baker had come back, and was preparing to heathis oven with dry broom. I learned that he had not only to bake the breadthat he sold, but also the coarser rye loaves which were brought in bythose who had their own flour, but no oven. Three francs was the charge formy dinner, bed, and breakfast. The score settled and civilities exchanged, I walked out of Messeix, expecting to strike the valley of the Dordogne notvery far to the south. The landscape was again that of the moorland. Oneach side of the long, dusty line called a road spread the brown turf, spangled with the pea-flowers of the broom or stained purple with heather. There were no trees, but two wooden crosses standing against the gray skylooked as high as lofty pines. I met little bands of peasants hurryingto church, and I reached the village of Savennes just before the _grandmesse_. Many people were sitting or standing outside the church--evensitting on the cemetery wall. When the bell stopped and they entered, literally like a flock of sheep into a fold, all could not find roominside, so the late-comers sat upon the ground in the doorway, or as nearas they could get to it. As the people inside knelt or stood, so did theywho had been left, not out in the cold, but in the heat, for the sun hadbroken through the mist, and the weather was sultry. As I walked round thechurch I found women sitting with open books and rosaries in their handsnear the apse, amidst the yarrow and mulleins of forgotten grave mounds. They were following the service by the open window. I lingered about thecemetery reading the quaint inscriptions and noting the poor emblems uponwooden crosses not yet decayed, picking here and there a wild flower, andwatching the butterflies and bees until the old priest, who was singing themass in a voice broken by time, having called upon his people to 'lift uptheir hearts, ' they answered: '_Habemus ad Dominum_. '

I had a simple lunch at a small inn in this village, where I was watchedwith much curiosity by an old man in a blouse with a stiff shirt-collarrising to his ears, and a nightcap with tassel upon his head. The widow whokept the inn had a son who offered to walk with me as far as some chapelin the gorge of the Chavannon. We were not long in reaching the gorge, theview of which from the edge of the plateau was superbly savage. Descendinga very rugged path through the forest that covered the sides of the deepfissure, save where the stark rock refused to be clothed, we came to asmall chapel, centuries old, under a natural wall of gneiss, but deep inthe shade of overhanging boughs. It was dedicated to St. John the Baptist, and on St. John's Day mass was said in it, and the spot was the scene of apilgrimage. Outside was a half-decayed moss-green wooden platform on whichthe priest stood while he preached to the assembled pilgrims. The youngman left me, and I went on alone into the more sombre depths of the gorge, where I reached the single line of railway that runs here through some ofthe wildest scenery in France. I kept on the edge of it, where walking, although very rough, was easier than on the steep side of the split thathad here taken place in the earth's crust. Upon the narrow stony strip ofcomparatively level ground the sun's rays fell with concentrated ardour, and along it was a brilliant bloom of late summer flowers--of camomile, St. John's wort, purple loosestrife, hemp-agrimony and lamium. At almost everystep there was a rustle of a lizard or a snake. The melancholy cry of thehawk was the only sound of bird-life. Near rocks of dazzling mica-schistwas a miserable hut with a patch of buckwheat reaching to the stream. A manstanding amidst the white flowers of the late-sown crop said, in answer tomy questioning, that I could not possibly reach the village of Port-Dieuwithout walking upon the line and through the tunnels. 

When I had left him about fifty yards behind, his curiosity proved morethan he could bear in silence; so he called out to me, in the bad Frenchthat is spoken hereabouts by those who use it only as the language ofstrangers: '_Quel métier que vous faites?_'

I waved my hand in reply and left him to his conjectures. 

On I went, now over the glittering stones, now wading through the pinkflowers of saponaria, then in a mimic forest of tall angelica by thewater's edge, until I realized that the peasant's information wassound--that it was impossible to walk through this gorge except upon therailway. 

Presently the rocks rose in front of me and the line disappeared into thedarkness of a tunnel. I did not like the idea of entering this black hole, for I had brought no candle with me, but the prospect of climbing the rockswas still more forbidding. It proved to be a short and straight tunnel withdaylight shining at the farther end. After this came another short one, butthe third was much longer and had a curve; consequently I was soon in totaldarkness. The only danger to be feared was a passing train, so I felt withmy stick for the wires between the rock and the metals, and crept along bythem. From being broiled by the sun ten minutes before I was now shiveringfrom the cold. I longed to see again the flowers basking under the warmsky, and to hear the grasshoppers' happy song. By-and-by I saw the blessedlight flashing at the end of the black bore. When I came out again into thesunshine, I was following, not the Chavannon, but the Dordogne. 

The gorge widened into a valley, where there were scattered cottages, cows, sheep, and goats. Here I found a fair road on the western side of theriver, in the department of the Corrèze, and being now free of mind, Iloitered on the way, picking strawberries and watching the lizards. Itwas dark when, descending again to the level of the Dordogne, I sought alodging in the little village of Port-Dieu. I stopped at a cottage inn, where an old man soon set to work at the wood-fire and cooked me a dinnerof eggs and bacon and fried potatoes. He was a rough cook, but one veryanxious to please. The room where I passed the night had a long table init, and benches. There was no blanket on the bed, only a sheet and a heavypatchwork quilt. Ah, yes, there was something else, carefully laid upon thequilt. This was a linen bag without an opening, which, when spread out, tapered towards the ends. Had I not known something about the old-fashionednightcap, I should have puzzled a long time before discovering what I wasexpected to do with this object. The matter is simple to those who knowthat the cap is formed by turning one of the ends in. There were mosquitoesin the room, but they sang me to sleep, and if they amused themselves at myexpense afterwards, I was quite unconscious of it. 

The murmur of the rushing Dordogne mingled not unpleasantly with theimpressions of dreams as I awoke. I got up and opened the small worm-eatenwindow-frame. High thatched roofs, not many yards in front, were coveredwith moss, which the morning rays, striking obliquely, painted the heavenlygreen of Beatrice's mantle. Down the narrow road goats were passing, followed by a sunburnt girl with a barge-like wooden shoe at the end ofeach of her bare brown legs. The pure, life-giving air that entered by thewindow made the blood glow with a better warmth than that of sparklingwine. I soon went outside to see something of the place which I had enteredin the darkness. 

I found that the village was built partly in the bottom of the gorge andpartly on one of its craggy sides. Closely hemmed in by rocks and highhills overgrown with forest was a bright and fertile little valley, withabundance of pear and walnut trees, luxuriant cottage-gardens, and littlefields by the flashing torrent, where shocks of lately-cut buckwheat stoodwith their heads together waiting for the warm September hours to ripentheir black grain. 

Many of the houses were half hidden in leafy bowers. I threaded my waybetween these towards some ivy-draped fragments of an ancient priory upon amass of rock much overgrown with brambles glistening with blackberriesand briars decked with coral-red hips. Before descending to the road andbeginning the day's journey I indulged for a little while the musing moodof the solitary wanderer in the grassy burying-ground on the edge of thecliff. 

I started for Bort ere the intensely blue sky began to pale before theincreasing brilliancy of the sun. The road ran along the bottom of the deepvalley, where there was change of scene with every curve of the Dordogne. Afield of maize showed how different was the climate here from that of thebleak plateau above the deep rift in the rocks. I stopped beside a littlerunnel that came down from the wooded heights to pick some flowers ofyellow balsam, and while there my eye fell upon a splendid green lizardbasking in the sun. Here was another proof of the warm temperature of thevalley, notwithstanding its altitude. As I went on I skirted long fields ofbuckwheat upon the slope, but reaching only a little way upwards. The whitewaxen flowers had turned, or were turning, rusty; but what a variety ofbeautiful colour was on the stems and leaves! Greens and yellows passedinto carmine, purple, and burnt sienna. A field of ripening buckwheat has acharm of warm colour that gladdens the eye, especially when the morning orevening sunshine is upon it. But this glow of many tints was a sure signof approaching autumn; so, too, were the reddened stalks of persicaria, filling the dry ditches by the wayside. 

The valley narrowed, and upon its rocky sides was many a patch of purpleheather--little gardens for the wild bees, but not for man. Neither peasantnor local Nimrod ever sets his foot there. Still higher, the outlines ofthe topmost crags were drawn hard against the sky, for there was no vapourin the air. Verily, the ground seemed quite alive with brown lizardsdarting along at my approach and raising little clouds of dust, whilstblue-winged grasshoppers--which, perhaps, would be more correctly describedas locusts--crossed and recrossed the road in one flight. In the midst ofsuch beautiful scenery, and with such happy creatures for companions, Ifelt no wish to hurry. Moreover, the blackberries sometimes tempted me toloiter. If they are unwholesome, as French peasants often maintain, Iought to have been dead long ago. Strange that this prejudice should beso general in France with regard to the fruit of so harmless a tribe. Butthese same peasants gather the leaves of the bramble to make a decoctionfor sore throat. I passed a cottage that had a vine-trellis, the first Ihad seen on this side of the Auvergne mountains, and it was half surroundedby a forest of beans in full flower on very high sticks. In a sunny spacewas a row of thatched beehives. 

After walking some eight miles, I was not unwilling to take advantage ofa village inn. Here I had a meal of bacon and eggs, haricots, cheese andwalnuts, with some rather rough Limousin wine. I soon became aware thatthere was something amiss in the rustic auberge, and catching a dim glimpseof a figure lying in a bed in a small room adjoining, I asked the youngwoman who waited upon me if anybody was ill there. 'Yes, ' she replieddolefully. Then I learnt from her that her father, struck with apoplexy, was lying in a state that was hopeless. There is no escaping themournfulness of life. When our minds are least clouded the shadow of deathsuddenly stands between us and the sunshine. I was in no mood to linger atthe table. 

What a relief to be out again in the sunshine and the light air, to seethe Dordogne flashing through meadows where women were haymaking with barefeet!

It was early in the afternoon when I entered the small but active town ofBort. The burg is only interesting by its exceedingly picturesque situationon the right bank of the Dordogne, under a very high hill, capped by abasaltic table, which is flanked towards the town, or rather a little tothe south of it, by a long row of stupendous columns of basalt, known asthe _Orgues de Bort_, from their resemblance at a distance to organ-pipes. The basalt here is of a reddish yellow. The table, with its igneouscrystallizations, lies upon the metamorphic rock. 

I decided to climb to the summit of the prodigious organ-pipes, and to lookat the world from that remarkable point of view. For the greater part ofthe distance the way lay up a tiresome winding road on the side of thehill. A woman, who was tying buckwheat into sheaves, said the distance was'three small quarters of an hour. ' It would have been simpler arithmetic tohave said 'half an hour, ' but the peasant thinks it safer not to bemore explicit than he or she can help. Experience has taught me that'three-quarters of an hour, ' whether they are called little or not, mean anhour or more, and that 'five quarters of an hour' mean an hour and a half, or even two hours. I passed a team of bullocks descending from the moorwith loads of dry broom for the bakers, headed by a little old man in agreat felt hat, with a long goad in his hand, with which he tickled up theyoked beasts occasionally, not because they needed it, but from force ofhabit. This goad, by-the-bye, is a slender stick about six feet long, witha short nail at one end, so fastened that the point is turned outwards. A bullock is not goaded from behind, but from the front between theshoulder-blades, and it generally suffices for the animal to see a man infront of him with a stick. Instead of drawing back, as might be supposed, he steps forward at his best pace. Cows and bulls are harnessed, to thewain and plough as well as oxen; they have all to work for their living. English cattle are allowed to grow fat in idleness, and their troubles donot begin until the time comes for them to be eaten. It is otherwise inFrance. 

On the banks were fragrant, mauve-coloured pinks, with ragged petals; butat the foot of the _Orgues_ was a rocky waste, where little grew besidesthe sombre holly and fetid hellebore. 

The view from the top of the cliff made me fully realize the wildness, thesterility, the desolation of nature in this region. Beyond the valley farbeneath me where the Dordogne lay, a glittering thread, was the departmentof the Cantal. The whole southern and eastern prospect was broken up byinnumerable savage, heath-covered or rocky hills, with little green valleysor dense woods filling the hollows, the southern horizon being closed bythe wavy blue line of the Cantal mountains. To the north-east the sky-linewas marked by the Mont-Dore range, with the highest peak of Auvergne, thePuy de Sancy, clearly visible against the lighter blue of the cloudlessair. The feeling that prevailed throughout this wide expanse of country wassolemn sternness. 

I returned to Bort, and as there were still about two hours of light left, I crossed the river and went in search of the cascades, two or threemiles from the town, formed by the Rue in its wild impatience to meet theDordogne. When I was skirting the buckwheat fields of the valley in thecalm open country, there was a sweet and tender glow of evening sunshineupon the purple-tinted sheaves standing with their heads together. TheTitan-strewn rocks felt it likewise with all their heather and broom. Therewas no husbandman in the plain, no song of the solitary goat-girl, no creakof the plough, no twitter even of a bird. It was not yet the hour whenVirgil says every field is silent, but the repose of nature had commenced. 

The dusk was falling when I reached a silk-mill by the side of the Rue, and passed up the deep gorge full of shadows, led by the sound of roaringwaters. A narrow path winding under high rocks of porphyritic gneissbrought me to the cascade called the Saut de la Saule, where the river, divided into two branches by a vast block, leaps fifteen or twenty feetinto a deep basin to whirl and boil with fury, then dashes onward down thestony channel, to leap again into the air and fall into another basin. 

[Illustration: THE VALLEY OF THE RUE. ]

I reached a rock in the channel by means of a tree that had been laidbetween it and the bank, and stood in the midst of the seething, brokentorrent, from which arose that saddening odour which water in wildcommotion gives forth when daylight is dying and the darkened trees standlike mourning plumes. On either hand the forest-covered sides of the ravineand their savage crags seemed to reach higher as they grew darker. Wherewas I? There was a tree hard by that looked very like the infernal elmbeneath whose leaves the vain dreams cluster; but it was probably an oak. 

ACROSS THE MOORS OF THE CORRÈZE. 

The night being passed at Bort, the next morning I continued my journey bythe Dordogne. Again the sky was cloudless. I kept on the right bank of theriver--the Limousin side, leaving the Cantal to some future day, that maynever come. A little beyond the spot where the Dordogne and the Rue metand embraced uproariously, the path entered a narrow lane bordered by tallhedges chiefly of hazel and briar overclimbed by wild clematis--well termedthe traveller's joy, for it is a beautiful plant that reminds many awanderer of his far-away home. 

[Illustration: A WOMAN OF THE CORRÈZE. ]

Then I passed under precipitous naked rocks, with the river on the otherhand, skirted by low bushes of twiggy willow that looked like tamarisk froma distance. The sun was now hot, and the ground was again all astir withlizards. Looking upon the path just in front of me, I brought myself to asudden stop. Had I advanced a step or two more I could hardly have failedto tread upon a serpent that lay dozing in the sun just in my way. I wasglad that I did not do so, for I recognised it, by its olive skin withreddish patches, as the dreaded _aspic_, or red viper. There it laystretched out its full length, about a foot and a half, either asleep orenjoying the morning sun so much that it was in no humour to move. I donot kill snakes indiscriminately, like the peasants whenever they get thechance, but this one being dangerous, I resolved that it should nevertake another sun-bath. After being roused by a blow, the creature did notattempt to run, but did battle bravely, fiercely striking at the stick. 

The path I had been following with so much confidence dwindled away and waslost. Again the gorge became a deep rift in the rocks, which left no marginon which one could walk. The only way to follow the windings of the streamwould have been to wade or swim. Once more I had to own myself beatenby natural obstacles. The Dordogne is a river that cannot be followedthroughout its savage wildernesses, except perhaps in a light flat-bottomedboat, and then not without serious difficulties. Anglers might havesplendid sport here until they broke their necks, for the trout aboundwhere the shadow of a man seldom or never falls. In the neighbourhood oftowns and large villages the fishing is often spoilt by the casting-net. 

Having realized the situation, I turned my back to the stream and commencedclimbing the steep side of the gorge, choosing a spot where it was wellwooded, for the sake of the foothold. For some distance the ground wasgreen with moss and wood-sorrel; but the tug-of-war came when the vastbanks of loose stones--hot, bare, and shale-like--were reached. On gainingthe plateau, I threw myself down upon the heather and looked at the scenebelow. The mingling of rock, forest, and stream was superbly desolate. Eventhe naked steeps of slate-coloured broken stone had an impressive grandeurof their own. 

Leaving the Dordogne with the intention of cutting off a wide bend andmeeting it again the next day or the day after, I struck across thehalf-cultivated open country, hoping soon to find a village; for I hadspent much time in the gorge and made very little progress, while the sunhad moved nearly up to the centre of his arc. The rays fell fiercely, and there was no shade upon the plateau. There was a road, but it wasabominable. Only tramps understand the luxury of-walking upon a good road. 

I came to a hamlet that looked very miserable. The daily toil had scatteredthe men afield, and only a few women were to be seen. Not one of them worea stocking, nor even a wooden shoe. Some to whom I spoke did not understandme; those who understood told me that there was no inn in the place--thatthere was no one who could give me a meal. One of them must have thoughtthat I was begging my way, or was exceedingly hard up, for she said: 'Ah!mon pauvre ami, vous êtes dans un malheureux pays. '

Continuing, I came to a village which was not shown on my map. Here Ilearnt there was a single auberge, which was also the tobacco shop andgrocery of the place. It was kept by an old man who lived alone. Thisinn was a cottage without any sign over it. I tried the door, but it waslocked, and nobody responded to the noise I made. It took me half an hourto find the solitary at the farther end of the village. He returned withme, and, opening the door, we both entered the only room of the cottage. Itwas shop, bedroom, and kitchen. There was a bed against the wall, and nearthe window was a small stock of tobacco, snuff, and groceries all mixed up. My host's back was much bent and his face deeply furrowed. He wore a shirtwith a high collar, and a blue waistcoat. He was an honest, kindly man, and seemed to take pleasure in doing what he could for me apart from thethought of gaining by it. 

In the way of food he had only eggs, bread, cheese, and butter. It wasdecided that he should fry some eggs. He lighted some sticks upon thehearth, and there was soon a good blaze; then he laid his great frying-panupon it, resting the long handle upon a chair. While the butter wasmelting, he opened a trap-door in the floor and went down a ladder into hiscellar. Presently he reappeared with a litre of wine, and having setthis before me, he proceeded to crack the eggs and empty them into thefrying-pan. As a cook he had no pretensions, but he knew how to fry eggs. When my meal was ready, and he had placed everything before me upon thebare board, he sat at a little distance eating a dry old crust with a pieceof goat cheese. This was his lunch. I insisted upon his sharing the winewith me, and this little attention made him thoroughly confiding andcheery. 

He was left a widower, he told me, with four children, at the age ofthirty-eight, and he would not take a second wife because, his fatherhaving done so, he remembered the trials and tribulations of his ownchildhood which came of his having 'a mother who was not a mother. ' He saidto himself, 'My children shall not run the risk of going through what Iwent through. ' He toiled on alone, brought up his family himself, addedto his bit of land in course of years, and acquired other property. Hischildren were now all settled in life, and he had given them everything hehad except the cottage in which he lived. I was struck by the strong virtueof this illiterate peasant, who had evidently no notion of his own value, and who would not have told the simple story of his life passed amidst themoors of the Corrèze had I not drawn it from him. 

[Illustration: A PEASANT OF THE MOORS. ]

As I watched the old man, prematurely bent by labour, eating his hardcrust, cheerful and contented, after giving to others the fruit of his manyyears of toil, I thought, 'If man were nothing but an animal, such a lifewould be not only absurd, but impossible. ' Another glass of wine made myhost and cook still more talkative. He told me that not long ago he hadwalked from this village to Tulle, distant about thirty-five miles, tosee a soldier son who was to pass through the place with his regiment. Hestarted at three in the morning and arrived at five in the afternoon, butwas only able to exchange a few words with his son. They could not even'break a crust' together. The old man then turned his face towards hisvillage, and walked the whole night. 

'I hope your son would walk as far to see you, ' I said, with a littlescepticism in my mind. 

This is what he replied, almost word for word:

'Ah! children do not do for their parents what their parents do for them. The commandment says, 'Honour your father and your mother'--not honour yourchildren. Nevertheless, it is the parents who deny themselves the most. Assoon as your children are married they generally forget you. 

Perhaps if I had married again I should be happier now. All the same, Iam contented. I can keep myself. When I am no longer able to take care ofmyself, my children must do something for me. '

I confess that I was sorry when the time came for me to leave this old man, knowing well that I should never see again his rugged face and his kindeyes twinkling under their shaggy brows. Perhaps he, too, had some suchregret, for we had had a long talk, and he may have tired out all his otherlisteners, especially those of his own family. When a man has grown oldand is near the end, it would often be better for him to go out into thewilderness and talk to the rocks and trees than to repeat the stories ofhis life upon his own hearth-stone. Before I left the peasant fetched abottle, which he only brought out on rare occasions, and insisted upon mydrinking a parting glass with him. 

I passed through another hamlet where there was a high wooden cross. Therewere walnut-trees, and men were knocking down the nuts. The women here worewide-brimmed black straw hats over white caps. I soon left these figuresbehind, and was alone in a birch-wood, where there were many yellow leavesbetween me and the blue sky. Then I met the road to Neuvic, and followingit came to the Artaud, a tributary of the Dordogne, threading its waythrough deep ravines, amidst wild rocks, dark woods, and bracken-coveredsteeps. The road crossed the ravine upon a bridge of three arches. 

The scene was one to raise the mind above common things. The stream rushedmadly down the rocky chasm with a mighty roar, now losing itself in theleafy vaults of overhanging trees, now reappearing like a torrent of firewhere the glorious lustre of the September sun struck it and mingled withit. 

As I ascended the opposite hill a still deeper ravine came into view, wooded down to the water and all in dark shadow, except a rocky ridgefacing the sinking sun and bathed in warm light. 

When the top of the hill had been reached, an old man, who wore a large andvery weather-beaten felt hat, was sitting on the step of a wayside crosswith a flock of geese feeding around him. Next I passed a bare-footed_cantonnier_ breaking stones, and he told me that if I madehaste I might reach Neuvic before dark. On the outskirts of avillage--Roche-le-Peyroux--a wandering tinker and his boy were at workby the side of the road with fire and bellows, and I felt a trampish orromantic desire to stay with them awhile in the cheerful glow; but thinkingof the coming night, I smothered the impulse. 

Upon the moor which I was now traversing was a very old stone cross, uponwhich the figure of the Saviour was rudely carved in relief. The form wasso uncouth as to be scarcely human. The head was half as wide again as thespace across the shoulders, and the hands were nearly as large as the head. How many centuries ago did Christian piety raise this rough image of itshope upon the moors amidst the purple heather and the yellow broom?

The road crossed another stream not far from the spot where it fell intothe Dordogne. There was a wooded quietude here, with an odour of freshgrass and water that enticed me to linger; but the evening light in thetops of the trees and the twittering of the birds settling amongst theleaves for the night spurred me on. I had walked many miles since themorning, but had made very little way according to the map, so full ofdeception is this wild Limousin country to the wanderer who does not knowit. I had still some eight miles to walk before reaching Neuvic. 

There was a little mill at the bottom of the grassy valley, but it seemeddeserted by all living creatures save a dog. This rather large and shaggyanimal seized the rare opportunity that was now offered him for a littleexcitement. Not satisfied with barking at me furiously from his own ground, he followed me about a mile up the hill I had now to climb, but withoutventuring very near. At length I thought I had had enough of his company, so at the next bend in the road I came to a stand beside a heap of stonesthat a _cantonnier_ had neatly piled up in geometrical pattern. There Iwaited, and the animal came on gaily, little expecting to find himselfsuddenly at close quarters with me. Just as he turned the corner he raiseda howl that said he was both surprised and shocked. Skipping with greatagility, he avoided the next stone, and the expression of his face told methat he was already feeling very home-sick. He turned tail as quick as hecould, and used very bad dog-language as the stones followed him down thehill. As a rule, dogs lose all their courage when they are out of sight oftheir own homes, unless someone whom they know well is near at hand to givethem confidence in themselves. 

I am again upon the moor. There is a deep silence over the heather, for thelast bees have left the pink and purple bells. But there is still a wanglow in the air, which gives a sad beauty to the quiet, mournful land. Aboy is returning with some cattle after spending the day upon the heath, and he sings as he thinks of his poor home, the blazing sticks on thehearth, the soup, the buckwheat cake, or the potatoes. Through a mask ofsilver birches I see a solemn ruddy light as of a funeral-torch in the farwestern sky. The breath of evening is made sweeter by the odour wafted fromsome distant fresh-cut grass or broom that has been drying in the Septembersun. A field-cricket, waking up, breaks the silence with its shrill crythat is quickly taken up by others near at hand and far away in the dusk. The light and colour of the day are now gone, but there is one beautifulstar flashing in front of me like a lamp of the sanctuary when the vaultedminster is filled with shadow. 

The rest of the walk to Neuvic was by night. The first auberge I entered inthis small town of some three thousand inhabitants was a little too rougheven for me. The family were at dinner, or at supper, as they would say, eating upon the bare board, without plates, potatoes boiled in their skins. I do not doubt there were hollows cut in the table to serve instead ofplates, for this primitive contrivance still lingers in the wildest partsof the Limousin. In answer to my inquiry as to bed accommodation, I wastold that I should have to sleep in the same room with others, probably thewhole family. I had sufficient taste for civilization left to decline theproposed arrangement, and went in search of another inn. 

Happily there was one, and of a better sort. It was thoroughly rustic, butthere was not the squalor I had just encountered. In the kitchen, pavedwith small pebbles, two months' accumulation of used linen had been presseddown in an old wine-cask, and boiling water was now being poured upon itthrough a cloth covered with a layer of wood ashes. In these rural placesthe washing-day is usually once in two or three months. This simplifiesmatters, but it needs a considerable stock of linen, which, by-the-bye, peasants generally possess. The wash-house odour that arose from the_lessive_ was not grateful, but I tried to accommodate myself to it. On thefloor was a baby swaddled up, and tightly fitted into a small wooden cradleon huge rockers--a cradle that might have served for scores of babies, and been none the worse for wear. Although the fire on the hearth lookedtempting, the proximity of the wine-cask and the linen that was beingpurified with potash made me glad to hear that my meal would be served inanother room. 

Considering the region, the dinner was not a bad one. I had soup, veal, eggs, and a fair wine. I had also a companion, but would rather have beenwithout him. He was a young man, whose appearance gained by the contrast ofa dusty wayfarer's, and he gave himself airs accordingly. I set him down asa petty functionary of the place, and a _pensionnaire_ of the auberge. All the time I was with him his mind was exceedingly restless as to myintentions and business in those parts, and such explanations as I gavehim to appease his insatiable curiosity and awkwardly-veiled suspicionevidently left him unsatisfied. 

The next morning the hostess brought out her police register for me toenter my name, nationality, age, profession, destination, etc. I had nodoubt that my acquaintance of the night before had reminded her of thislittle formality in order that he might afterwards see what I had written. All innkeepers in France are liable to a fine if they do not make everytraveller who passes the night with them leave this record of himself forinspection, but the formality is much more often omitted than observed. Ihave not been able to overcome my English dislike of the practice, whichis annoying and useless, like much more that belongs to the Frenchadministrative system. 

By daylight I found Neuvic to be a cheerful, pleasant little town, witha venerable-looking old church, apparently of the twelfth century. It isentered by a cavernous portal under a very massive low tower, but theinterior shows little of interest. What struck me, however, as somethingquite uncommon was a small altar in the centre of the nave just below thesanctuary. Upon it was an image of the Virgin, which a boy told me had beenfound in a neighbouring wood about a century ago. 

On leaving Neuvic I noticed a woman carrying to the baker's a large dishof edible _boleti_, known to the French as _cépes_. This excellent fungusduring the late summer and autumn is a very important article of food inFrance wherever there are extensive chestnut-woods. The orange mushroom isalso much eaten in the same regions, for it likewise loves the chestnutforest; but it may be mistaken by those who do not know the signs forits relative, the crimson-capped fly-agaric, one of the most deadly ofcryptogams. 

After seeing the dish of _cépes_, I was not surprised to find manychestnut-trees along the road that I now took to St. Pantaléon. The countrywas less barren than that which I had passed over the day before. Althoughthere was much heather, broom and furze, trees and pasture broke themonotony of the moorland. Here was the better Limousin landscape--everyknoll and mamelon covered with heather and other moor-plants, woods andmeadows in the dells and dips. The numerous clumps of silver birches, andthe gorse arrayed in its new flowers of bright gold, added to the charm ofthe sunlit scene. 

To me the weather was all the more delightful by being very warm, for I hadrun away from winter on the Auvergne mountains. The whirring noise of thegrasshoppers as they flew across the road, and the tremulous sheen oftheir wings, coloured like blooming lavender, brought back to me the bestrecollections of other wayfaring days in the warm South, when all thesethings were new, and the sight feasted upon them with the eagerness of beesthat suck the first flowers of spring. 

I passed a little field of buckwheat that had been cut some days and hadfully ripened. A woman was threshing out the grain with a flail upon aspread canvas, surrounded by a circle of purple-tinted cones, the sheavesleaning together. Now the wide level moor returned, but Nature was notquite the same here as she had been before. The vast expanse was dottedover with dark little juniper bushes. These were covered with berries whichnobody seemed to think worth the picking. Rock-cist flourished, starringthe turf all over with its yellow discs. This moor was an absolute desert. 

Long I walked without seeing another human being. At length I met a womancarrying a distaff, and tried to get into conversation with her, but it wasimpossible; she could not speak a word of French, and I knew nothing of herLimousin patois. 

By steadfastly following the road, I came to the village of St. Pantaléon, on the brow of a hill overlooking the Luxège, and stopped at a wayside inn. It was a poor auberge; but there was an air of reaching toward some idealof superior life and softened manners that made itself felt in smallways not to be described with any certainty, but none the less real. Theinnkeeper, who was also a peasant-farmer, possessed the doubtful blessingof a mind that rose above what the logic of his existence, sternly boundto a plot of grudging soil and the petty needs of still poorer neighbours, demanded of it. He was blessed or afflicted with that hunger of knowledgeand refinement which lifts and casts down, rejoices and saddens. He knewthat such ambition with regard to himself was vain, that it was his destinyto live out his days on the edge of a moor in the Corrèze, and that it washis duty to thank Heaven that he was sheltered and had sufficient food, fuel, and clothing for himself and his family: all this he knew, and heaccepted his lot bravely. But the fire was only damped down; it glowedin its hidden heart, and strove for a vent. It was not lighted without apurpose. The peasant had a son, to whom the flame had been passed on; forhe aimed at the priesthood. This has ever been a refuge of ambitious mindsthat cannot rise by any other means above the dullness of the peasant'slife, which is the more endurable the more the man is able to place himselfupon the animal level of his plodding ox. The son was being educated in aseminary, but he was now home for the holidays. Presently he appeared. Hewas a youth of about nineteen, wearing a blouse like any other peasant. There was certainly nothing in his appearance to indicate that hewas destined for the cure of souls. The proud father said: 'He is inphilosophy. ' The young man had a twinkle in his eye that might have beenphilosophical. Neither of them had a suspicion of the vanity concealed inthe high-sounding phrase. 

But I am forgetting to say anything about what was more important to methan aught else at that time. I had to eat and drink in order to look atnature with an admiring eye, note the interwoven aims and motives andtroubled duties of human life; to be 'in philosophy' after my own humblefashion. My meal was chiefly of fried eggs and ham, the latter nearly ashard as leather. I ate in a small room where there was a bed with a redcurtain. No knife was given me, for in these out-of-the-way inns you areexpected to carry your knife in your pocket, which a century ago was thecase in most of the French hostelries. In the remotely rural districts theways of life have changed very slightly in a hundred years. But, ifthe knife was overlooked, the white napkin and small tablecloth wereremembered. While talking with the _aubergiste_ over the coffee--there wasreally some coffee here that was not made either from acorns or beans--hetold me, as an example of the low rate of wages in the district, that aroad--mender, who worked in all weathers, was paid forty francs a month. In the whole commune there were only two or three persons who had wine intheir houses. He lent me his two sons--the _séminariste_ and his youngbrother--to walk with me as far as the Luxège, and put me on the path to LaPage, at which village I proposed to pass the night. 

As we left, a grand expanse of chestnut forest came into view, followingthe hills that bordered the curved line of the Luxège. The little river, like all the tributaries of the upper Dordogne, runs at the bottom of adeep gorge. Standing upon the brink of it, I perceived that I was aboutto enter another sylvan solitude of enchanting beauty. The dense forestdescended the abrupt escarpments to the channel and hid the stream, andover the leafy masses was that play of sunshine, shadow, and thin vapourwhich I had so often watched in a dreamily joyous mood lying at the foot ofsome pine in the Vosges. 

About half-way down the gorge was a ruinous Romanesque chapel upon a rock, the polygonal apse being on the very edge of a precipice. At each exteriorangle of the imperfect polygon was a column with a cubiform capital. Theinterior was all dilapidated; the floor of the sanctuary had fallen in, butthe altar-stone--a block of granite--remained in its place. This chapelbelonged to a priory. Little is left of the adjoining monastery except somesubterranean vaults and the gaping oven of the ruined bakery; all ferny, mossy, given up to the faun and the dryad. The upper masonry was carriedaway years ago to build a chapel upon the hill. A bit of green slope, wherethe sunbeams wantoned with yellow mulleins, wild carrot, and bracken, wasthe cemetery, as a few stone crosses almost buried in the soil plainlytold. These crosses doubtless mark the graves of nameless priors. And thedust of the humble monk and serving brother, where is that? Every plantdraws from it something that it needs to fulfil its purpose. It is as goodfor the nightshade as for the violet; flowers that are rank and deadly, andothers that are sweet and innocent, strive for the right of clasping withtheir hungry roots the dust of men. 

The innkeeper's sons left me by an abandoned mill on the other side of thestream, which was crossed by a rough wooden bridge. Ascending the oppositehill by a narrow path in the shadow of chestnuts and beeches, and fringedwith gorse and heather, I passed another deserted house, the roof of whichhad fallen in. The gorge was getting very shadowy when I reached thetableland above it. I saw the small town of Laplau in the plain away tothe left, but my path did not lie through it, for I preferred the wildercountry towards La Page. When I passed a little lake in a hollow, halfsurrounded by firs, the slanting rays were diving into its liquidstillness, over which the motionless trees bent gazing at their likeness. 

When the sun left me I was upon a hilly waste, amid darkening bushesof holly and juniper, tall bracken, heather, and gorse. The spirit ofdesolation threw out broad wings under the fading sky; but from afartowards the west, whither I was going, came through the dusk the shine andtwinkle of many fires that had been lighted by the peasants upon theirpatches of reclaimed desert. They flashed to me the sentiment of the autumnfields, of hopeful husbandry, of laying up for the winter, and preparationfor harvests that would be gathered under next year's sun. 

Tired and hungry, I reached La Page in the darkness. The village lookedvery poor and dreary; but I had been told that it contained a 'good hotel, 'and I set about looking for it. It turned out to be a rather large butexceedingly rough auberge. On opening the door I saw a great kitchen withpebbled floor, lighted only by the glow of embers on the hearth. The figureof a woman standing in the chimney opening was lit up by the glare. Iwalked towards her, and asked her if she could give me lodging. Afterscanning me very acutely for some seconds, she replied, 'Yes. ' She waspuzzled, if not startled, by the apparition in front of her; but havingthrown down my pack and taken a seat in the chimney-corner like a familiarof the house, I talked to her about the comfort of being in such a placeafter a long walk in so wild a district as hers, and succeeded in makingher quite genial. She was the mayor's wife, but she was not too proud tocook for me after lighting a flickering oil-lamp. While I was waiting formy meal peasants came in, and had theirs at the bare tables, of which therewere several in the great kitchen. Their soup was ladled out from theimmense black pot that hung over the fire, and the noise they made asthey fell to it was very grating to the nerves. But the wanderer in thechimney-corner had no business to be there, unless he was prepared toaccept all that was customary without wincing. My own dinner commenced withsome of this soup, which was like hot dishwater with slices of bread throwninto it. The bit of boiled veal that followed was an improvement, althoughanything but a captivating dish. Goat-cheese, hard and salt, and with aflavour that left no doubt as to the source from which it came, made up thefrugal fare. I returned to the chimney-corner and smoked in silence, nowpeering up the sooty cavern where the wind moaned, and now watching theclear-obscure effects of the dimly-lighted room. Presently a trap stoppedoutside, and in walked the aubergiste, accompanied by a sprightly littleman who I afterwards learnt was a pedlar. 

Monsieur le maire was not exactly a polished gentleman; he took no noticeof me after the first searching glance. He made an unpleasant impression, but this wore off when I found that he was a well-meaning man, who had notcultivated fine manners. Why should he have cultivated what would have beenof little or no use to him? These rural functionaries are just like thepeople with whom they live. The young _séminariste_ told me an amusingstory of a mayor of St. Pantaléon, who had had a very narrow escape ofbeing caught by gendarmes when upon a poaching expedition. '_Tout le mondeest braconnier ici_, ' added my informant with a sincerity that was verypleasing. Of course, he was a poacher himself when reposing from histheological and philosophical studies. I thought none the worse of him forthat. After all, poaching in France generally means nothing more immoralthan neglecting to take out a gun license, and to respect the President'sdecrees with regard to the months that are open and those that are not. 

On my way to bed I saw in a corner of the staircase a spinning-wheel of thepattern known throughout Europe. I was told that it had not been usedfor many years. The distaff and spindle which are to be seen on Egyptianmonuments are still employed by thousands of French, peasant-women, but thewheel invented in the sixteenth century is rarely used now, unless it be byMartha in the opera. 

The next morning I made friends with the pedlar, who was about to startupon my road, and who offered to give me a lift in his trap as far as LaRoche Canillac. Meanwhile, he had unpacked all his samples of cloth with aview to doing a little business with the mayor. This personage, however, was not allowed to have much voice in the matter; it was his spouse whorepresented his interests in the bargaining battle that was now waged withdeafening din and much apparent ferocity for three-quarters of an hour. Thelittle pedlar was used to this kind of thing, and was quite prepared forthe fray. When the lady offered him, after much depreciatory fingering ofthe chosen material, two-thirds of what he asked for the stuff that was tobe made into a pair of winter trousers for the mayor, he spun round andjumped like a peg-top just escaped from the string. Then he raged andswore, said he was being mocked at, dabbed his hat on his head, and made apretence of gathering up his samples and rushing off. The mayor watched thescene with a quiet smirk on his face: he knew that he would somehow get thetrousers. I have no doubt that he did have them, but I walked out insteadof waiting to see the end of the battle. When I returned, the haggling wasover, the hostess and the pedlar were on the most affable terms, and therewas not a sign of the recent storm. 

Presently the pedlar, myself, and the innkeeper's son--a young man who hadreceived his education elsewhere, and had learnt much that did not chimein with his present surroundings--were in a light cart, drawn by a livelyhorse, speeding along the road over the moors. Here and there, near thevillage, were small fields of buckwheat in the midst of the heather andbracken. My companions explained that each commune was surrounded by aconsiderable extent of moorland that belonged to it, and that any native ofthe commune had the right of selecting a piece, which became his absoluteproperty after he had cleared it and brought it under cultivation; thusanyone could have what land he wanted in reason for nothing. Quite anArcadian state of things this, were not the conditions of nature such as tochill the ambition to acquire such freeholds. Three years of back-breakinglabour are needed before the land is fit to be put to some profitablepurpose. And then what does it yield? Buckwheat, and perhaps potatoes. Although the peasants have the faculty of extending their landed propertyin the manner described, the consideration of means generally stands in theway. They cannot afford to work and wait three years. Their existence istruly wretched, and if it were not for the luxuriant chestnut-woods, whichcover the sides of the narrow valleys or gorges with which the barrenplateau is deeply seamed every few miles, the population of the regionwould be more scanty than it is, for the chestnut goes far to sustain thepeople through the worst months of the year. 

The plough used upon these moors, on the _causses_ of the Quercy, andin some other districts where the barrenness of the soil has kept theinhabitants for centuries imprisoned within the circle of their oldroutine, is one of the simplest that the world has known. It differs butslightly from the one figured in the most ancient of Egyptian hieroglyphs, and is really the same as that which was used in Gaul under the Romans. Indeed, it has not the improvements that the Romans introduced. Two polesforming an obtuse angle is the rough shape of it. The wedge-like share isa continuation of the pole that is held by the ploughman. Often on the_causses_, where loose stones are inseparably mixed with the soil, theentire plough is of wood. 

[Illustration: PLOUGHING THE MOOR. ]

We passed through the village of Marcillac, near the head of one of thevalleys. The soil was much more fertile here, and a maize field was a signthat the climate was warmer. There were, moreover, pleasant gardens withfruit-trees and flowers. Oleanders were blooming outside some of thehouses. But we had no sooner risen upon the plateau again than the moorreturned, and for seven or eight miles it continued unbroken. The groundwas slightly undulating, and amongst the gorse and heather were scatteredinnumerable juniper bushes. 

On approaching La Roche Canillac the road descended into a very deep valleyby so many turns and windings that I was thankful to be in the pedlar'scart, especially as the mid-day sun smote with torrid strength. But thescenery was of exquisite beauty, and this valley will remain in my memoryas one of the most charming I have ever seen. Luxuriant woods, flashingwater, savage rocks, emerald-green patches of meadow, little mills by theriverside--I should add nothing to the picture by saying more. Upon therocky hillside was the burg of five hundred inhabitants. My companionstook me to an old auberge whose exterior was not promising, but which was, nevertheless, well supplied with food, and had a good cellar. The mealserved there was the best that had fallen to my lot for several days. Thesun had lost all the ardour of mid-day when I took leave of the pedlarand the mayor's son. I went away thinking that I might travel far withoutfinding two more kindly, honest fellows. 

[Illustration: A GORGE IN THE CORRÈZE. ]

I had hoped to reach Argentat by the Dordogne that night, but I had stayedtoo long at the inn for the plan to be practicable; so I set off down thegorge of the tributary with the intention of taking my luck at a villagecalled St. Bazile. I was soon in the shade of the chestnut forest, whereboars were said to be plentiful. As time went on, the scenery becamemore solemn and awe-inspiring. Pines that looked very gloomy in the lateafternoon mingled with the chestnuts, while black rocks, faintly flushedwith heather towards the sky, reared their jagged outlines above the sombrefoliage. All the while the water in the gorge moaned or roared. It wasgrowing very dusk when the walls on either hand rose like the sides of apit. 

I was beginning to ask myself in no cheerful mood whether the map had notdeceived me as to the whereabouts of St. Bazile, when, to my relief, Iheard a church bell ringing not very far down the stream. It was theangelus. How often has this clear, solemn, heart-touching, and consolingsound been to me what a familiar beacon is to the doubting mariner! Onlywanderers in desolate places know the sentiment that it carries through theevening air. More welcome than ever before did it seem in this black gorge. I pushed on, and presently the gloomy walls widened out. Turning a bendof the torrent, I stood in a glow of ruddy light that streamed from theyawning mouth of an open-air oven that had recently been filled with drybroom and kindled for the night's baking. Here was a fresh delight, forthere is nothing more cheering, more full of homely sentiment in the dusk, than the view of such a blazing oven. 

This, then, was the village of St. Bazile de la Roche, to give its fullname. It could scarcely have boasted a hundred houses. There was onemiserable little inn, kept by a widow. There I had to pass the night, unless I preferred a cave or a mossy bed under a tree. The poor womanmanaged to find a piece of veal, which she cooked for me. It seemed to bemy lot now to eat no meat but veal. As I sat down to this dish and a bottleof wine, two men at another table were eating boiled potatoes, withoutplates, and drinking water. The contrast made me uncomfortable. There issome reason in the selfishness that avoids the sights and sounds and allsuggestions of other people's poverty and pain; but those who take suchbase care of themselves never know human life. I could not offer thesemen wine without running the risk of a refusal, but it was different withregard to a little hump-backed postman who came in to gossip. Half a litreof wine that, at my wish, was set before him made him exceedingly cheerful. He told me that he walked about twenty miles a day on the hillsides andin the ravines, and I suppose his pay was the same as that of other ruralpostmen in France--from £28 to £32 a year. The inhabitants of St. Bazile, he said, were all very poor, their chief food being potatoes and chestnuts. Before the vines a little further down the valley were destroyed by thephylloxera and mildew, the people were much better off. Then there wasplenty of wine in the cellars, but now St. Bazile was a village ofwater-drinkers. He spoke of the neighbouring parish of Servières, where, at the annual pilgrimage, women go barefoot from one rock to the other onwhich the chapel stands. 

Before placing myself between the canvas-like sheets, I opened the latticewindow of my meagrely-furnished room. The only distinguishable voice of thenight was that of the stream quarrelling with its rocky bed just below. Before me was the high black wall of hill and forest, above the ragged lineof which flashed the swarming stars. 

The angelus sounded again at four in the morning. Before seven I was out inthe open air. I saw the curé go up into the tower of his small church, and ring the bell for his own mass. He was probably too poor to pay asacristan. A little later he was in the pulpit catechising the children, and preaching to the older parishioners between whiles. A boy and then agirl would stand up, and in answer to questions put to them would recite inan unintelligible gabble the catechism they had learnt. If one of them lostthe thread and suddenly lapsed into a speechless confusion of ideas, thecuré pointed the finger of reprobation at the unfortunate little wretch, and made him or her--especially him--feel the enormity of having a badmemory. While waving his arm in a moment of rhetorical excitement, he lethis book fall upon an old woman's head. '_Voilà ce que c'est de fairedes gestes!_' said he with a smile that was almost a discreet grin. Thechildren were delighted, and everybody laughed, including the poor oldsoul, who had seated herself under the pulpit so that she might hear well. 

It was evident that the people of St. Bazile quite understood their curé, and that he was just the one for them. He was a strong man, over sixtyyears of age, and he spoke with a rich southern accent. Under hissacerdotal earnestness there was a sense of humour ever ready to take alittle revenge for a life of sacrifice. There are many such priests inFrance. 

I had no sooner walked out of this village, on my way to Argentat, than Ibecame aware that the Girondin climate was beginning to make itself felt. The influence of the plains was overcoming that of the highlands. The warmrocky slopes on each side of the valley were covered with vines--alas! deador dying. There was no hope for them. On the level of the river were fieldsof maize, now ripening, and irrigated meadows intensely green. There werebeehives, fifteen or twenty together on the sunny slopes, and as I went on, the signs of human industry and ease increasing, I saw petunias climbingover cottage doors. There was a steep descent to Argentat. The town lay ina wide valley by the Dordogne, in the midst of maize and buckwheat fieldsand green meadows, the surrounding hillsides being covered here withchestnut woods, and there with vines. I met a woman returning from marketwith melons in her basket. Truly I had come into a different climate. Atthe small town, made pretty by the number of its vine trellises, I lunched. The inn where I stopped is not worth describing; but it gave me a dish ofgudgeons caught in the Dordogne that deserved to be remembered. 

I did not remain long at Argentat, for I was determined to reach Beaulieuthat night. A little out of the town some girls whom I passed on the roadlooked very suspiciously at me out of the corners of their eyes, andreminded me that another whom I had met that morning higher up the valleytook to her heels at the sight of me. An old woman who had lived longenough to overcome such timidity, asked me if I was a _marchand_, by whichshe meant pedlar--the old question to which I have grown weary of replying. About a mile from the town I found the Dordogne again. It had grown toquite a fine river since I last saw it in the ravines below Bort. Many aneager affluent had rushed into it, both on the Corrèze and the Cantal side. Here most of the grass was dried up, and the freshness of the highlands wasgone. Still the valley was shut in by steep cliffs. Brambles climbed aboutthe rocks, where the broom also flourished, although tangled withits parasite, the dodder. Looking up the crags, I recognised a wildfig-tree--the first I had seen on this southward journey. 

The valley became again so narrow that the road was cut into the escarpedside of the cliff, for the river ran close under it. A woman with bare legsand bare chest--really half naked--trudged by with a heavy bundle ofmaize upon her head, followed by a couple of red-haired children, theirperfectly-shaped little legs browned by the sun and powdered with dust. Howbeautiful are the limbs of these peasant children, however disfigured bytoil and the inherited physical blight of hardship their mother's form maybe! With each fresh generation, Nature seems to make an effort to go backto her ideal type; but destiny is strong. Old and new causes workingtogether are often more than a match for that most marvellous force in allanimal and vegetable life--the love of symmetry. 

Resting upon a bed of peppermint, blue with flowers, under an old wall, whose stones were half hidden by celandine and roving briony; loiteringdreamily upon a wide waste of sunlit pebbles, watching the flashing rapidsof the river where it awoke from its calm sleep to battle with the rockswhich had resisted incalculable ages of washing, the hours glided by sostealthily that it was evening when I reached a village which was stilleight miles or more from Beaulieu. 

Turning into an inn, I fell into conversation with a postman, who made methe offer of his company during the remainder of the journey. I readilyassented, and gave him a glass of absinthe--his favourite drink--beforeleaving. He did not need it, for, as he confessed, he had been clinkingglasses with unusual zeal that day. He was a very droll fellow, a strikingtype of the Southerner, whom it was difficult to look at with a seriousface, and whom no one with any sense of humour could really dislike, notwithstanding his immense vanity and his immeasurable impudence. He had athick black beard, a long, sharp nose, dark eyes full of mischievous mirth, and cheeks the colour of red wine. He wore a stiff new blouse with a redcollar--the badge of his office--and a straw hat like a beehive. The wholeof the way to Beaulieu his tongue was not still a minute. He told mestories of his bravery and his love adventures with a most amusing accentand intonation. The Rabelaisian expressions, which give such a peculiarflavour to the conversation of the 'people' in Southern France, rolled offhis tongue with a sonority that could hardly have been excelled at Nimesor Tarascon. His swagger, his gestures, and his elocutionary power wereamazing. He would stop walking, and, placing his stick--which he calledhis _trique_--under his arm, would speak in a tragic stage-whisper; then, clutching his _trique_ and flourishing it over his head, he would burst outinto a roar of laughter that made the dogs bark in the scattered farms formiles around. Once, when we were passing under high rocks, he shouted withsuch a terrible voice that he brought some loose stones rattling down uponthe road so close to us that my head, as well as his own, nearly paid thepenalty for thus exasperating the peaceful night. This was either theeffect of vibration or of the sudden movement of some bird or othercreature that he had startled far above us. 

Among other things of which this amusing man talked to me was a visit ofarchaeologists, among whom were a number of Englishmen, to Beaulieu. 

'If you had only seen them, ' he said, 'outside the church, all with theirnoses lifted in the air! _Grand Dieu!_ What noses!'

Long before we reached Beaulieu I had had more than enough of the wildspirits of my comic postman. On entering the town he insisted upontaking me to a hotel which he said he could recommend to me with as muchconfidence as if I were his brother. Then he left me; but I had not seenthe last of him. He presently returned, while I was enjoying the luxuryof a quiet and well-served little dinner. Seating himself in front of mewithout waiting for an invitation, he helped himself with his fingers toa dish of baked _cépes_, which I in consequence relinquished, but with acomplete absence of goodwill. There was no getting rid of him, short oftelling him plainly to go, and this I could not do after having acceptedhis companionship on the road. He devoured all the mushrooms, expressinghis astonishment between whiles that I did not like them. '_J'aime bienles champignons, _' he kept on repeating. '_Ça me va le soir. Ce n'est paslourd. _' When the dessert was brought in, he picked out the only ripepeach in the dish, and having poured another glass of wine down his reallyterrible throat, he declared that it had given him great pleasure to makemy acquaintance, and left me with the hope that I should sleep well, and would not forget the Beaulieu postman. I assured him, with perfectsincerity, that I should never forget him. 

When daylight returned I found Beaulieu a pleasant little town lyingunder hills covered with chestnut woods, and at a short distance from theDordogne. Its name, however, was probably given to it on account of thefertility of the soil in this bit of valley, where the cliffs that enclosethe Dordogne on each side fall back, and, by allowing a rich alluvium tosettle in the plain, give the husbandmen a chance of growing something moreprofitable than buckwheat. 

Beaulieu was once the seat of a powerful Benedictine abbey. The originalmonastery was founded in 858 by Charles le Chauve, who placed it underhis protection. Although the territory was included in the viscounty ofTurenne, the Viscount Raymond II. , before he went crusading, made overhis suzerain rights with regard to the abbey and its dependencies to theabbots, who thus became temporal lords. There is nothing left of themonastery; but much of the abbey church, which dates from the twelfth andthirteenth centuries, has been fortunately preserved. The interior is notremarkable, but the large and elaborate bas-relief of the Last Judgmentwhich fills the tympanum of the portal is considered the most preciousexample of mediaeval sculpture in the Bas-Limousin. The face of theSaviour, expressive of something above all human passions and motives, shows a really God-like combination of serenity and severity. The fantasticspirit of the age is well set forth in the tortured forms of the horridreptiles and fabulous beasts carved in relief upon the massive lintel, andfilling also the broad border at the base of the tympanum. The samespirit finds even stronger expression in the demon figure, so grotesquelylong-drawn out, carved upon the scalloped pillar that supports the lintel. The abbey was pillaged by the Huguenots, who lit a fire in the choir, whichdestroyed much of the woodwork. Notwithstanding the religious wars andthe revolutionary convulsions of the eighteenth century, the church haspreserved some of its ancient treasure, of which the most precious objectis a silver statue of the Virgin of very curious workmanship, dating fromthe twelfth century. 

[Illustration: TURENNE. ]

IN THE VISCOUNTY OF TURENNE. 

What gives us the zest to wander until the hour comes when we must fain becontent to sit in the porch, thankful if the evening sun shines warmly, isthe fascination of the unknown. As children, did we not long to get atthe horizon's verge, to touch the painted clouds of the morning or of thesunset--ay, and to grasp with our outstretched hands that reached such alittle way the blood-red glory of the sun itself? The garden, with itsglowing tulips and its roses haunted by gilded beetles, became too smallto satisfy the mind of infancy fresh from the infinite. Surely, I thought, when I was again in the open country beyond Beaulieu, I must have carriedsomething of my childhood on with me, for me to go wandering over these hothills exposing myself to sunstroke, weariness, and thirst for the sake ofthe unknown. 

The road at first led up vine-covered slopes towards the west, where thewaysides were blue with the flowers of the wild chicory. A priest astrideupon a rough old cob passed me, his hitched-up _soutane_ showing hisgaitered legs. The French rural priests are generally rubicund, but thisone was cadaverous. He would have looked like Death on horseback, swathedin a black mantle, but for the dangling gaitered legs, which spoilt thesolemn effect. A very curious figure did he cut upon his shaggy, amblingsteed. On the top of the hill was a village, in the midst of which stood alittle old Gothic church with a gable-belfry, and hard by was a half-timberhouse, its porch aglow with climbing petunias. 

Beyond this village was a deep valley, the sides of which were covered withchestnut-trees. On ascending the opposite hill, I took a by-path through asteep wood, thinking to cut off a long turn of the hot and dusty road. Itled me into difficulties and bewilderment. The path disappeared, but I wenton. After climbing rocks densely overgrown with brambles, which left theirdaggers in my skin, I reached the top of the hill, and saw before me adesert of disintegrated rock or drift dotted over with low juniper bushes. Although it was the middle of September, the sun blazed above me with theardour of July, and the rays were thrown back by the bare stones, on whichthere was not a trace of moss, nor even lichen. These arid rocky places, socharacteristic of Southern France, have a poetry of their own that to meis ever enticing. I love the stony wastes and their dazzling sun-glitter. There I find something that approaches companionship in the pricklyjuniper, the narcotic hellebore, and the acrid spurge. And these plantslikewise love the places where the world has remained unchanged by man. Theheat, however, was too great for me to linger upon this shadeless hill, where every stone was warm, and the reflected glare was almost as blindingas that of the sun itself, which seemed so near. 

Having crossed another valley, after much casting about, I found thehighroad again. The altitude was considerable here, so that the viewembraced a wide expanse of the Corrèze and the department of the Lot, whichI was approaching. The scene was everything that an English landscape isnot. No soft verdure, no hedgerows setting memory astir with pictures ofthe flowering may and the pink, clambering dog-rose gemmed with dew; nolustrous meadow crossed by shadows thrown by ancient dreaming elms; noflash from the briskly-flowing brook: no, nothing of this, but in its placea parched and rugged land of hills or knolls, stony, wasteful, where forcountless ages the juniper, the broom, the gorse, and the heather havedisputed the sovereignty, the intervening valleys, timidly cultivated, producing little else but rye and buckwheat, and the deep gorges sombrewith overhanging trees. 

This road was so tedious, so hot and dusty, that, after walking a few milesupon it, I lost patience altogether with what seemed to be its unreasonablewindings, and again made an effort to strike across country by means ofby-paths, in order to reach the spot where, according to the map andcompass, I thought Vayrac ought to be. I came to a seventeenth centurycountry-house, large enough to be termed a château, but now the dwelling ofsome peasant-farmer. It was a dilapidated, apparently owl-haunted building, with a dovecote tower over grown with ivy, and was half surrounded by awall, whose tottering, ornamental pinnacles told a story of comparativegrandeur that had come to grief in this remote spot. The farmer had beenwinnowing his corn outside, and the narrow lane was ankle-deep with chaff. The only human being that I could find here was a wild-looking girl, with abush of hair on her head, who made me understand, half in French, half inpatois, that I should never reach Vayrac by the way I was going. She sentme off in another direction. I walked on, I know not how many miles, without coming to any village or wayside auberge, over a shadeless plain inthe department of the Lot. There was no water; consequently not a bird wasto be seen or heard. But there were myriads of flies, and too many hornetsfor my comfort, for some of them followed me with impertinent curiosity. 

I confess that I do not like hornets. When I see them, they remind me ofthe story of a donkey told me by a man in these parts. He in his youthsaw an unlucky ass that, quietly browsing, unconscious of indiscretion, disturbed a hornets' nest. Suddenly the animal showed symptoms of unusualexcitement, which became rapidly more violent, until, after some amazingantics, first on his front-legs and then on his hind-legs, he rolled overon his back, and kicked violently at the sky. His master knew what hadhappened, but stood lamenting afar off, not daring to go to the rescue. Ina short time the poor donkey ceased kicking, and swelled up in a mannerhorrible to behold. 

All nature now appeared to be baking. Even the blackberries, which I ateby the handful to slake my raging thirst, were warm. A long, straight roadthat I thought would never end brought me at length to Vayrac, where therewas a good inn. Oh, the luxury of rest at last in a shaded room, with thecompanionship of a jug of frothing beer just brought up from the coolcellar!

 * * * * *

Months passed before I continued from this point my journey on foot. Thespring had come, and the face of nature was wondrously changed. Over thevalley that I had seen before so parched had spread the soft verdure ofyoung grass; hedges of quince were all abloom, and at their roots thestitchwort mingled its white starry flowers with the matchless blue of theGermander speedwell, so dear to English eyes. The roadsides were brightwith daisies and the gold of the ill-appreciated dandelion. 

A lane from Vayrac led up to the escarped sides of the Puy d'Issolu--theUxellodunum of the Cadurci, according to Napoleon III. And others who havemade Caesar's battlefields in Gaul their study. It was April, and from nearand afar came the warbling of nightingales. They moved amongst the newleaves of almost every shrub and tree. A very abrupt ascent throughthickets brought me to the tableland, where the turf was flashed withsplendid flowers of the purple orchids. From the waste land the sombrejunipers rose like scattered cypresses in a cemetery. 

If this was not the site of Uxellodunum, we may pretty safely believe it tohave been that of some important _oppidum_ of the Gauls. A circumvallationthere could never have been in a strict sense, for where the plateau restsupon high calcareous walls there was no need of a fortification. Butelsewhere, where the position was accessible from the valley, it wasprotected by a strong wall. On the northern side this rampart can befollowed for a considerable distance without a break. In one spot the soilwhich has collected about it has been dug away, leaving the masonry bare. It is not composed of loose stones of various sizes, like that of theCeltic city at Murcens, but of small flat stones neatly laid together, withlayers of mortar between; a circumstance that sets one conjecturing anddoubting. The wall appears to have been six or eight feet thick. The lineof it now only rises very slightly above the edge of the plateau. 

I met a peasant who owned the highest part of the tableland, and whomanaged to grow crops upon it. Near his cottage he pointed out the remainsof an ancient structure, which he called the fort. The masonry was of thesame character as that of the wall. Near to it were fragments of ancientpottery and tiles, which he had dug out of the ground. The tiles werevery heavy and flat, with turned-up edges, so that they could hang one toanother. There were holes, too, for the nails which held them to the roof. Thrown on one side were human bones, which had from time to time beenturned up by the plough. The peasant told me that his father, while diggingrather deeply, had found a skeleton wearing a bracelet and part of ahelmet. A visitor to the Puy d'Issolu, many years ago, was allowed to takethese remains away, together with a quantity of iron arrow-heads, on hispromise to come back and pay 600 francs for them. He never came back. 

The view from the Puy takes in an immense expanse of the solemn Limousincountry. To the south is the stone-strewn Quercy, while to the north andeast is the still wilder Corrèze. On the west lie the forests of BlackPérigord. Looking to the east, I saw the mountains of Auvergne, theMont-Dore range rising beyond the Corrèze against the blue sky, as white asthe sugar towers and pinnacles upon a bride-cake. Here it was warm, likeJune weather in England; there winter still reigned upon the snowy hills. Standing against the north-western horizon were the high towers of the vastfeudal fortress of the Viscounts of Turenne. It was there that Madame deCondé, escaping from Mazarin, planned the rising of Guyenne in 1648. Icould only distinguish the towers, but I knew that a little below them wasthe small mediaeval town of Turenne, which grew up under the protection ofthe Viscounts, who for centuries were virtually the sovereign princes ofthis region. No lover of the picturesque would waste his time by goingthere. 

Descending from the tableland on the southern side, where the rocks form asteep little gorge, I came to the stream from which the besieged Cadurciare supposed to have drawn their water-supply, until it was cut off byCaesar. Looking at the spot, it is easy to understand how it all happened. The natural fortress, selected with so much judgment by the Cadurci, wasalmost unassailable. To help them, they had the cover of the wood thatstill fills the gorge, but which was probably much denser then than it isnow. From his tower of ten stages, which commanded the fountain, Caesarcontinually harassed with darts, thrown by the _tormenta_, those who cameto the spring; and he, moreover, tells us that he caused a gallery to betunnelled to the fountainhead, and thus drew off the water, to the utterastonishment and despair of the Cadurci, who perceived in this disaster theintervention of the gods. A tunnel such as he describes exists, and thestream flows through it. At a point some distance higher, the sound ofgurgling water can be distinctly heard beneath the stones; and it was hereprobably where the stream originally broke out, and where the inhabitantsof the _oppidum_ came with their vessels. Napoleon III. Had thesubterranean gallery cleared, and its artificial character was proved bythe discovery that massive beams of wood, of which there were some remains, had been used to prevent the soil from falling in upon the workers. It hasnow been nearly filled up again by the calcareous deposit of the water. The river mentioned by Caesar as the one that flowed in the valley beneathUxellodunum [Footnote: 'Flumen infimam vallam lividebat quae totumpoene montem cingebat, in quo positum erat praeruptum undique oppidumUxellodunum. '--'De Bello Gallico, ' Lib. VIII. ] is a small tributary of theDordogne, called the Tourmente. This is assuming the Puy d'Issolu to havebeen Uxellodunum. The most convincing material proof that the two placesare the same was furnished by the discovery of the tunnel; but some strongcorroborative evidence is to be found in local names. The word _puy_affords no clue; for it simply means a high place. In the dialect of theViscounty of Turenne the Puy d'Issolu is pronounced _Lo Pê dê Cholu_. Inthe word Issolu or Cholu, we may have something of the Celtic word, whichwas Latinized by Caesar after his custom; but this verbal similarity wouldnot in itself go far to prove the identity of the height near Vayrac withthe position defended by Drappes and Lucterius. Lying in the Corrèze atno great distance from the Dordogne is the town of Ussel--a name thatapproaches much more nearly the sound of Uxellodunum. But an educatednative of Vayrac, whom I chanced to meet months after my visit to the Puyd'Issolu, furnished me with some local testimony which appears to beof value in connection with a subject that has given rise to so muchcontroversy. The stream where it issues near the base of the rocky heighthas been known in the neighbourhood from time immemorial as 'Lo founConino'--Conino's Fountain. Conino is a natural Romance corruption ofCaninius, the name of Caesar's lieutenant who in the first instancedirected the siege of Uxellodunum. The French name for the stream at thebottom of the valley already mentioned is derived from the Romance one, LoTourmento. Now, as Caesar made so much use of _tormenta_ as engines of war, to prevent the besieged Cadurci from drawing water, something may easilyhave occurred to associate the stream with one of these machines. It is tobe observed, however, that there are other streams in France to which thename Tourmente has been given, and of which the explanation is much moresimple. 

[Illustration: A PEASANT OF THE CAUSSE. ]

How solemnly still seemed this spectre-haunted spot in the quiet evening!There was the groaning murmur of the stream flowing down its subterraneanpassage, and there was the low and fitful warble of a nightingale; but thiswas all. Who, passing by here without foreknowledge, would suppose that onthis bit of desert the great struggle between Rome and Gaul was broughtto a close? What a wonderful thing is a book, that it should preserve ageafter age, with undiminished reality, all the torment, anguish, and passionof a siege, and give a human interest to rocks and streams, which withoutsuch aid would tell us nothing of the horrid tumult that raged over andaround them! Now I can see the half-naked Gauls rolling down their barrelsof flaming pitch upon the Roman engineers, and hear that great clamourof the besiegers and the besieged of which Caesar speaks. Above were theCeltic heroes defending their last rock with the obstinacy of despair, andready to accept death in any form but that of thirst; and here were theveteran legionaries exposing themselves day after day to the burning pitch, the stones, and the arrows of the defenders, with that disciplined courageand unwavering resolve to conquer which made Rome the mistress of theworld. But the most terrible scene must have been that in which the Gaulishwarriors, after their surrender, had their hands cut off. What frightfulbusiness was that, and what a heap of hands must have been buriedsomewhere, either upon the table-land or in the valley! A deep-ploughingpeasant may long since have come upon an extraordinary collection of littlebones, and been much puzzled by them. And poor Drappes, who, after hiscapture, refused to eat, and died from starvation; he must have been buriedsomewhere near. But Nature says nothing about all these things; she coversup the traces of human ferocity with her new leaves and moss, and smilesthere as tenderly as upon children's graves. 

I passed the night at St. Denis, a modern place brought into existence bythe line to Toulouse. At the auberge the evening was enlivened by dancing. Two maids of the inn found partners in a couple of rustic youths, and ayoung soldier _en congé_ provided the music by whistling, or imitating thehurdy-gurdy with his mouth. For it was the _bourrée_ that was danced. 

The next morning I was on the road to Martel, with nightingales andblackcaps singing all around from blossoming quince and hawthorn and copsesfilled with a gold-green glimmer, until I reached the bare upland country. Upon the barren _causse_, besides the short turf, the gray ribs of rock, and scattered stones, little was to be seen but dark little junipers, tallbroom, not yet in flower, hellebore, with bright tufts of new leaves andevil-looking green blossoms edged with dull purple, and the numberlessgilded umbels of the spurge, which in springtime lend such beauty to theSouthern desert. In the dips and little dingles there were stunted oakswith the brown foliage, that had been beaten by the winter winds in vain, still clinging to them, but which every breath of western breeze nowscattered, because the buds were swelling and the unborn leaves were askingto come forth. At wide distances above the undulating, sterile land afarmhouse would appear, with high-pitched tiled roof, and a pigeon-houserising like a tower at one end. The stranger marvels to see suchsubstantially-built houses in the midst of such sterility; but he findsthe explanation when he has time to consider that there are so many stoneslying about that, where it is possible to plough, the peasant heaps them upin his field, or makes walls that are little wanted. Having reached the topof a knoll, I saw beneath me many old tiled roofs whose lines ran at allangles, and above these rose the massive walls of a half-fortified church, and various towers or fragments of towers. I was looking at Martel. 

According to legend and local history, Charles Martel, after defeating theSaracens near this spot, caused a church to be built on a piece of fertileland a few miles from the battlefield, and dedicated it to St. Maur. A towngrew around church and monastery, and was named Martel in honour of thefounder. In the early days of the Crusades, when princes and baronsrivalled one another in virtuous zeal, a Viscount of Turenne decreed thatinhabitants of Martel who were convicted of sinning against the marriagetie should be dragged naked through the town. The charter that containsthis enactment treats of villeinage also, and orders that whoever has a manfor sale within the limits of the viscounty shall fix the price, and shallnot change it afterwards. 

The marriage of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry Plantagenet brought theEnglish to Martel in the twelfth century; but it does not appear that theyobtained or cared to keep anything like a permanent grip on the place untilthe fourteenth century. Inasmuch, however, as Henry Short-Mantle, therebellious son of Henry II. , met with no resistance at Martel when he camethither, after pillaging the sanctuary of Roc-Amadour in 1183, it may beconcluded that English influence was already established there. In themarket place is a house a portion of which was once included in a buildingthat has now nearly disappeared, but which is known to every inhabitant asthe 'palace of Henry II. ' On the first floor, communicating with a spiralstaircase, is a room paved with small pebbles. On one side is a broadchimney-place, just such as we see now all through Guyenne, even in thetowns. According to the tradition preserved by the family to whom the housebelongs, it was in one of the chimney-corners of this room that PrinceHenry sat on the evening of the day that he left Roc-Amadour. It isuncertain, however, whether the Prince went to Martel immediately after thesacrilege, or after a pilgrimage that he made to the sanctuary to atone forhis crime, when he was suffering from the disease that killed him. Thereis a local legend that he was followed by two monks, who contrived to putpoison into his goblet; but whether he was poisoned or died of dysentery atMartel, as the chroniclers maintain, is a detail of small importance. Thathe did die here, and very repentantly, on a bed of ashes, and held up bythe Bishop of Cahors, is a historical fact. 

An indubitable testimony of the English occupation of Martel is theheraldic leopard of the Plantagenets. I found it carved in stone amongthe ruins of King Henry's palace, and hard by I saw it again upon a rustyfireplate that had been thrown into a corner. There is not a native ofMartel who is not ready to talk of _le leopard anglais_. 

The English were never loved by the Martellois. The people of this districtare strong in their attachments, and perhaps even stronger in theiranimosities and prejudices. Without doubt the English did not treat themwith marked tenderness; but there was very little human kindness in theMiddle Ages, and the French, or the races which now compose France, leftnothing to be invented in the arts of cruelty and oppression in the warsthat they waged among themselves before they learnt, or were forced tolearn, that it was to their interest to hold together and form onenation. Moreover, the greater number of the so-called English who kept aconsiderable part of Aquitaine in continual terror for three centuries werenatives of the soil. 

All the men of Martel who could carry arms joined the forces of King John, who was defeated by the Black Prince at Poitiers. The consuls of Martel hadto pay heavy ransoms for their fellow-townsmen who fell into the handsof the English. Notwithstanding the disaster at Poitiers, the Martelloisclosed their gates and prepared for a siege, after having obtained fromthe Viscount a company of crossbow-men to help them in the defence. But anEnglish garrison was soon established at Montvallent, only a few miles off, and this fact seems to have demoralized the Martellois, who, after enduringa few assaults, surrendered the town. The longest period of unbrokenEnglish possession of Martel appears to have occurred after this surrender. It is probable that the Sénéchaussée, which now exists under the name ofthe Hôtel de Ville, was commenced about this time, although the King ofEngland must have been represented in the town by his seneschal longbefore. By the treaty passed between Henry III. And Reymond VI. Of Turennein 1223, it was stipulated that the Viscount should pay homage to Henry, but that the English officers should exercise no jurisdiction in theviscounty, except in the town of Martel, where the King could hold hisassizes with the consent of the Viscount. It was, moreover, provided thatin the event of resistance on the part of his fiefs, the Viscount couldapply to the English seneschal at Martel for armed assistance. The burgherswere in the enjoyment of their political franchises from the year 1256. They had town councillors, who elected four consuls every four years, whorepresented the borough in the États Vicomtains--an assembly composed ofthe principal landholders and dignitaries of the viscounty. The more theytasted freedom the more the burghers felt disposed to quarrel with theViscount. In 1355 they sent a deputation to the Pope at Avignon begginghim to ask their lord if it was his wish that the town should retain itsprivileges. The minutes of the municipal meeting, at which this decisionwas come to, are in existence, and they show how the Romance language waswritten at Martel in those days:

 'Item fo ordenat que Moss. Aymar de Bessa et P. Karti ano a Vinho far reverensa al papa per nom de la vila eque Phi recomendo la vila. E quelh fasso supplicacio quelh plassa far am los vescomte se bot que nos garde nostres previleges. '

This ancient town has suffered grievously from that spirit of demolitionwhich was so active during the first half of the present century, butwhich in France has been somewhat checked by the Commission of HistoricMonuments. There are people who can remember when the town was surroundedby two walls; now only a few remnants of the fortifications remain. Thechurch is exceedingly interesting. There are details indicating a veryearly origin--they may possibly have come down from the foundation; but thestructure in the main belongs to the twelfth and fifteenth centuries. Theeast end--the oldest portion--has more the character of a stronghold thanof a church. It has no apse, and the terminating wall, which is carried farabove the roof, has a row of machicolations, and the massive buttresses bywhich it is flanked are really towers pierced with loopholes. At the footof the wall is a deep pool of water, which serves as the horse-pond for thetown; but it may originally have been part of a moat. 

In the tympanum of the twelfth-century portal is one of those bas-reliefsrepresenting the Last Judgment upon which the artistic ambition of theearly Gothic period appears to have been chiefly directed in this region. 

The fourteenth-century Sénéchaussée, with its embattled belfry, its littleturrets or bartizans hanging high at the angles of the wall, its dim oldcourt, with a deep well in the centre, speaks with a ghostly voice ofancient Martel. This building, after the English left, was the residence ofthe seneschals of the Viscounts of Turenne down to the Revolution. In twoof the rooms are chimney-pieces very artistically carved in oak. 

Notwithstanding all the demolition that has gone on, bits of picturesqueantiquity meet the eye everywhere in the old English town. Now it is ahalf-ruinous watch-tower, now the Gothic doorway of a thirteenth-centuryhouse, now a gateway that has lost its tower, but whose wounds are coveredwith yellow wallflowers in spring; now a turret running up an entire front, with little windows looking out upon the quiet street, or some high-pitchedroof curving inward under the weight of years and tiles. 

The inn where I put up was like a hostelry of romance. Entering by a broadarchway, I passed along a passage vaulted and groined, where corbel-headsgrimaced from dim corners; climbed a staircase broad enough for a palace, and, having reached the landing, saw a great room with hearth and chimneyto match, massive old furniture, pots and pans of highly-polished copper, and a hostess stout and cheery, who welcomed me as though I were an oldfriend, and not a wanderer to whom food and shelter were to be exchangedfor money. This good woman had evidently no faith in new fashions; shedressed as she did thirty years ago, and every dish that she cooked for mewas kept warm by a pewter brazier filled with embers from the hearth. One of these dishes was a goose's liver half roasted, half stewed, andsprinkled with capers. 

While at Martel I was arrested as a spy by an old _garde champêtre_, who, seeing me taking notes of the church, wished to know who gave me permissionto 'make a plan of the town. ' I did not reply to him with the politenessthat he evidently considered himself entitled to. It is probable that Ishould have chosen my words with more circumspection had I guessed what animportant person he was; but as he wore a blouse, and was squatting upona heap of stones which he had been pulling about, I underestimated hisdignity. That he united the functions of _cantonnier_ and _garde_ did notoccur to me. He sprang to his feet, put on his official badge, and, seizingme by the arm, shouted: 'I arrest you!' Then, when I took the liberty ofremoving his hand, he called out: '_Au secours!_'

But those to whom he appealed were women, who preferred to let him managehis own business, and who, moreover, were too much amused to interfere. When he had calmed down a little I walked with him to the deputy-mayor, whose office was over a little shop. After hearing me and examining mypapers, this gentleman was satisfied that I was not a very dangerousperson, and he told me that I had better forget the incident. 

The fierce old man could not understand why I was released. He evenprotested: '_Il dit qu'il est un anglais; mais il le dit!_'

The deputy-mayor tried to calm him by observing that I had a right to be anEnglishman. The _garde_ then walked out, looking very hot and puzzled. Fromhis childhood he had heard of the English as the worst tyrants thatthe region had known. Was not the country strewn with the ruins of thefortresses they had built? To his mind they were more dangerous enemiesthan the Germans, who never came near Martel. I bear no grudge against theold man. He believed that he was doing his duty in arresting me, and if Ihad made more allowance for his age and prejudices the unpleasantness mighthave been avoided. To him the old struggle with the English was almost asfresh as if it had taken place in his father's time. 

People who remain in the same place all their days, and who never read, live much more in the past than others, and remember injuries done to theirremote ancestors as if they, the latest descendants, were still sufferingfrom them, I remember asking a woman in an inn not far from Martel how anold gateway and other mediaeval buildings close by had been brought to sucha sad state of ruin. 

'It was you, ' she exclaimed, 'who did that--_vous autres anglais!_'

And she looked so resentful for a few moments that I wished I had let thesleeping dog lie. 

IN UPPER PÉRIGORD. 

Leaving Martel, I crossed the valley of the Dordogne, and passed on toother valleys southward and eastward, as recounted in the story of mywanderings by 'Southern Waters. ' Many months went by, and then one summerday found me wayfaring again by the Dordogne towards the sea. A littlebelow the point where I had crossed in search of the Ouysse I came to thesmall town of Souillac. This place, although fortified in the Middle Ages, played a much less important part in the wars of the Quercy than theneighbouring burgs of Martel and Gourdon. Its interest lies mainly in itstwelfth-century church, and here chiefly in a very remarkable bas-relief ofthe Last Judgment. This astonishing work of art is to be found not whereone would expect it to be, namely, in the tympanum of the portal, but inthe interior, against a wall at the west end, over a Gothic arch, whosetransition from the preceding style is marked by a billet-moulding. Thesculpture is in a high degree typical of the uncouth vigour of the period. The two pillars supporting the arch are so carved as to represent figuresof the damned going down into hell. The artist might have been inspired byDante had he not lived before the poet who collected and fixed upon thesombre canvas of his verse all the woeful visions of eternal punishmentthat haunted the mediaeval mind. A man and woman are descending to theabyss, he holding her by the hair, and she clasping him by the waist, thefaces of both terribly expressive of horror that is new, and utter despair. The meaning is plain, enough: each was the cause of the other's doom, andthe sentence of the Judge in the panel above has united them in hell forall eternity. On the opposite pillar are another couple, also clasping oneanother; but their faces express the blank and passionless misery of adoom foreknown. Monk or layman, he who designed the composition felt thenecessity of giving this tragic warning to his fellow-beings. Centurieslater an English poet expressed the same idea in verse:

 'The woman's cause is man's! they rise or sink Together, dwarfed or god-like, bond or free. '

One of the less conspicuous figures is going down head foremost in thecompany of an animal that looks very like a pig. This beast having beendamned by ecclesiastical sculptors in France as early as the twelfthcentury, and probably earlier, it is not surprising that a polite peasant, when he mentions it by name, often excuses himself for his supposed breachof good manners by adding: '_Sauf votre respect_. '

Nearing a village not far from Souillac, and wondering the while what hadbecome of the picturesque, I saw, as if by enchantment, a few yards away, alittle old church covered with ivy, and surrounded by tombstones that werestained with the dead colours of last winter's lichen; one leaning thisway, another that, but all going down into the grassy graves. A few chairsand a single bench told that the people who came here to pray were not manynor rich. Most of the flagstones were broken, and the altar was almostsimple enough to please a Calvinist. It was the simplicity, not ofintention, but of poverty. Are such churches--lost amidst the pensivetrees, or bathed by the tender evening light upon the vine-cladhillside--doubly hallowed, or is it the poetry of old memories and idealpictures stored away behind a multitude of newer impressions that moves uslike the wind-blown strains of half-forgotten melodies as we pass them inour wanderings?

Evening found me by the Dordogne, that flowed calmly in a salmon-colouredlight, thrown down by a wasteful stony hill, itself lit up by a reflectedglow of the sinking sun. The meadows through which the little path ran weredotted all over with golden spots of lotus, and near the water the pale, pure yellow of the evening primrose shone against the darkening willows. The voices of unseen peasants, labouring somewhere in the fields so longas the daylight lasted, were carried up the valley by the breeze, justloosened from its leash; but the sound was only a little louder than thewhispering of the poplars. 

The gloaming lingered until I reached the village of Cazoulès. At the innwhere I decided to pass the night I fell among bicyclists--quite a crowd ofthem--all young, frantic with the excitement of some break-neck run, andnoisy enough to shock the dog's sense of decorum, for he slunk off withhis tail between his legs. Having slaked their thirst, the jovial bandof enthusiasts sprang upon their steel horses and dashed off into thedarkness, where their voices were quickly lost. 

While waiting for dinner, I found nothing so amusing as listening to a highdispute between the hostess and a travelling butcher, with whom she hadlong had dealings, but whom she had lately deserted because she had foundanother who sold cheaper. The butcher called his rival a 'dirty sparrow, 'but at length proposed to yield the sou on each pound of meat by means ofwhich the 'sparrow' had scored his victory. In future all his meat was tobe sold at eleven sous, and on these terms he was restored to favour. Thus, by playing one man off against the other, the artful woman was able to savequite a pile of sous every week on her general expenses. The Frenchwoman ofordinary intelligence, whether she belongs to the north or the south, theeast or the west, may be safely trusted to beat any man of her own race atbargaining. 

For a rural inn this one at Cazoulès was good and substantial, but itprovided a little too much irritation at night to be consistent withpeaceful slumber and happy dreams. This was not, perhaps, the fault of theinn, but of the Dordogne Valley. As soon as the day broke another enemyentered the field. The flies then awoke, refreshed but hungry, anddetermined to make the most of a good opportunity. The house-flies of theNorth, when compared to those of the South, seem to have been well broughtup, and trained to live with human beings on terms of civility, if not offriendship. The flies of Southern France must be descended from those thatwere sent to worry Pharaoh, and when one has lived with them during themonths of August and September, one can quite believe that their ancestorsexasperated the Egyptian king to the point of promising anything so thatthey might be taken from him. 

It was not until I had walked away from Cazoulès that I realized where Iwas. I had left the Quercy while wandering through those meadows as the sunwas sinking, and had entered Périgord--once famous for troubadours, andnow for truffles. Nobody can live there today by making verses, and therepresentative of the jongleur, who once sang from castle to castle to theaccompaniment of the mediaeval fiddle, and who was so heartily welcomed atall the baronial feasts and merrymakings, is now a wandering beggar, whogathers crusts from the peasants by his rude minstrelsy, that changesfrom the pious to the obscene, or from the obscene to the pious, as thecharacter and taste of the audience may decide. Many persons, however, contrive to prosper by hunting for truffles in the exhilarating companyof pigs. It is not in this fertile valley that they find them, but on thehillsides and stony table-lands, where the oak flourishes, but never growstall. 

I passed almost at the foot of one of those darkly-wooded, precipitoushills or cliffs which now approach the water's edge and now recede fora mile or more in this part of the valley; widening or diminishing thecultivated land accordingly as the rocky sides of the fissure resisted thewashing and mining of the ancient waters. 

On the top of the cliff stood a high round tower--the keep of a smallfeudal stronghold. It is called the Tour de Mareuil. Its position leaveslittle doubt that in old times its owners, like so many other nobles whoseruined castles crown the heights on both sides of the Dordogne, levied tollupon the boats that came up or went down the river. Navigation must havebeen always difficult on account of the strong current and the numerousrapids and shallows; but the stream was a means of communication betweenBordeaux, Périgord, and the Haut-Quercy that was not to be despised, and probably some care was taken to keep the channel open. According totradition, the English made frequent use of it. The tolls were an importantsource of income to the nobles whose fortresses overlooked the river. Asharp look-out was always kept from the towers for approaching boats. 

I was on my way to the castle where Fénelon first saw the light, and inorder to reach it I had to cross the river. An old flat-bottomed boat, built for conveying men, asses, and other animals from one side to theother, lay off the bank, and two girls, who were in charge of a flock ofgeese as well as of the ferry, were willing to take me across. While theelder ferried, the younger examined me carefully at close quarters, and apparently with much interest. Presently she asked me if I soldwriting-paper. After landing, I soon reached the village of St. Mondane. Here I halted at an inn in the shadow of old walnut-trees. A few yards off, under one of the great trees, was a high wooden crucifix, around which sometwenty or thirty geese were standing or lying down, all in a digestive orcontemplative mood, and through the openings between the boles and thebranches were seen the sunlit meadows sloping to the low willows and theflashing river. 

From St. Mondane a charming road or lane between very high banks that arealmost cliffs leads upward to the Château de la Motte-Fénelon, where, in1651, was born François de Salignac de la Motte, known to the world asFénelon. Having reached the top of the hill, I soon came in view of apicturesque mass of masonry with round towers capped with pointed roofs, and with Gothic gables hanging lightly in the air over dormer windows; thewhole rising out of a dense grove of trees in the midst of a quiet sunnylandscape. When quite near I found that the grove was a sombre little woodof ever-green oaks. The same wood, if not the actual oaks, may have beenthere in Fénelon's time, for the ilex is one of the commonest trees inPérigord on the hills about the Dordogne. As a boy, while climbing here, he may have torn his hose into tatters, notwithstanding his precociousknowledge of Greek. The future churchman may even have robbed a jay's neston this very spot. What quietude and what deep shadow! Not a leaf stirred;only a fiery shaft of sunshine forced its way here and there through thedark roof of unchanging green to the brown soil and the rampart's mossywall. 

Although the present castle was raised when feudalism was nothing more thana tradition and a sentiment, the outworks, consisting of two walls, theinner one standing on ground considerably higher than the other, were ofexceptional strength, and as they were originally, so they remain at thepresent day. I passed through the outer and then the inner gateway, and, inmy search for a human being, accident led me to the kitchen, which was verylarge and entirely paved with pebbles. Here I found the cook, who, I hadbeen told, was the only person in authority at that time. Surrounded byfour great walls, on which hung utensils that were rarely handled exceptfor the periodical scouring, she looked as solemn as a cloistered nun. Sheconsented, however, to show me the interior of the castle, with a patheticreadiness which said that the appearance of an occasional visitor kept herfrom sinking into hopeless melancholy. 

[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE FÉNELON. ]

The most interesting room is the one in which Fénelon slept. Here is to beseen his four-post bedstead, each of the posts a slender twisted column, the silk hangings and fringe looking very worn and faded after beingexposed to the light of over two hundred years. Adjoining this room is the_salle à manger_, the immense hearth, with seats at the ingle corners, being covered by an elliptical arch. Most of the furniture here andelsewhere is of massive oak, carved in the style of the seventeenth andeighteenth centuries. The family into whose possession this castle haspassed, although distinct from that of Salignac de la Motte, which has nowno representative, reverently preserves all that associates the spot withthe memory of the illustrious author of 'Télémaque. '

From the top of one of the machicolated towers I saw a vast expanse ofcountry, singularly grand, but very solemn. From each side of the DordogneValley rose and stretched away into the distance a seemingly endlesssuccession of hills, broken up by narrow gorges and glens. Over all, ornearly all these hills lay a dark and scarcely varying mantle of forest. This tract of country is well named Périgord Noir. It is one of the fewdistricts of France which still draw a sum from the Government yearly inthe form of prize money for the wolves that are killed there. 

I returned to St. Mondane and continued my journey westward by the valley, which brought me every day a little nearer to the sea--still so far away. As I had no need to hurry, I sat awhile in the late afternoon upon a lowmossy wall, in the deep shade of a dripping, whispering rock, from whichhung delicate green tresses of the maiden's-hair fern. Above, the rock waslost in a steep wilderness of trees and dense undergrowth, which met theradiant sky somewhere where the eye could not follow. The bell-like tinkleof water out of sight was the only sound until I heard a patter-patter ofwebbed feet coming along the road. A flock of geese were moving homeward, followed by a woman, whose feet were as bare as theirs, and whose eyes werefixed upon her distaff and spindle. She would not have noticed me had notthe birds, true to their ancient reputation, given the alarm. 

A little later I had left the shadow of the wooded rocks and was on themargin of the river, which spread out broadly here between its shelvingbanks of pebbly shingle. Then, to reach by the shortest way the villagewhere I intended to pass the night, I had to turn once more from the waterand cross some wooded hills. Here the jays mocked at the solemnity of theevergreen oaks, and the dark forest echoed as with the laughter of fiends. 

Groléjac was the curious name of the village I was seeking, and which I atlength found partly on a hill and partly in the valley of the Dordogne. Chance taking me to a house that bore the sign of an inn, although itwas at the back of a farm-yard, I thought I might as well stop there asanywhere else. 

I am waiting for dinner-seldom a cheerful way of killing time. I do not, however, expose myself to the risk of being irritated by the sight of mywilling but mechanical hostess scraping the white ashes from the embers, parcelling out these into little heaps of fire upon the hearth, throwingsalt into the swinging pot with a hand the colour of which may bedistressing to the imagination, then tasting the soup: all this, and muchmore, I leave her to accomplish in the gathering darkness of the kitchen, and, sparing her the pain of lighting lamp or candle while there is stilla gleam of day, I wander out beyond the houses of the village to a quietwoodside, there to watch the coming of night, which, whether it beaccompanied by wailing winds and storm-rack brimming with tears, or by thatgrand serenity which grows in beauty as the light fails, is always like thecoming of death. 

In the clear obscure, the brown and yellow rocks of bare limestone, atthe foot of which is the small inn, seem to be drawing nearer. All theirdetails become luminously distinct as the air grows darker, while thecaverns gape like the black mouths of some stealthily approaching, monstrous, many-headed form. Two men are still working in a field oftobacco, and they go on until lights flash forth from all the houses in thevalley. Then they slowly move off into the dusk with their ox and waggon. 

All about the fields, where the night crickets are now chirruping and theflying beetles are droning, there is a general movement of life towards thevillage--of men carrying their mattocks on their shoulder or walking infront of the ox that has done his long day's ploughing, of women andchildren, geese, turkeys, and sheep. 

[Illustration: RETURNING FROM THE FIELDS. ]

I wonder if the wooden cross beside the tobacco-field was put there tomark the spot where somebody died, in accordance with an old and beautifulcustom still much practised in these rural districts of France; but thethought of the laid table at the auberge changes the train of ideas, so, following in the wake of the last goose, I, too, take refuge from the nightin the now animated village. 

Sitting alone at a great table in a room large enough for a marriage feast, ill-lighted by an oil-lamp, whose flame appears to be afflicted with St. Vitus's dance--a room quite free from ornament, with furniture respondingexclusively to the purposes of resting, eating, and drinking, withcurtainless windows looking out upon the moonless night that is beginningto sigh and moan at the approach of a storm--my dinner is not a verycheerful one. Not that I am necessarily unhappy when I take a solitarymeal. In this matter all depends upon the mood, and the mood frequentlydepends upon influences too subtle to be analyzed. The dinner was as goodas I had a right to expect it to be. A dish on which the hostess hadevidently striven to use her best art was of orange mushrooms in a sauceof verjuice; but the substantial one was a roast fowl--an unfortunate birdthat was just going to roost with an easy mind, when my coming upset thearrangements of the inn and the poultry house. One fowl, at all events, hadhad good reason to think it was an ill wind that blew me into the village. 

It is a bad custom in rural France to kill fowls just when they are wantedfor the spit. Not only is it unpleasant to think that a creature is notallowed time to cool before it begins to turn in front of the fire, but theart of cooking is placed at a disadvantage by the practice. It is of nouse, however, trying to convince the people of their error, even when theykill poultry for themselves and can choose their time: they will never dothings otherwise than in the way to which they have been accustomed. TheFrench are stubbornly conservative in everything except politics. 

As I felt the need of talking to-night, I fetched the farming innkeeperfrom his kitchen and persuaded him to drink some of his own cognac. This hedid without wincing, but he soon returned the compliment by bringing out ofa cupboard a bottle of clear greenish liquor, which he said was _eau de viede figues_. It was something new to me. I had tasted alcohol distilled froma considerable variety of the earth's fruits, but never from figs before. It retained a strong flavour of its origin, and might have been correctlydescribed as fire-water, for it was almost pure spirit. 

I drew this man into conversation upon the peasant's life. All that hesaid was only confirmation of the opinion I had already formed from othertestimony respecting the occupation of Adam when he had to struggle withnature outside of the terrestrial paradise. Let a man own as much soil ashe can till with his hands, let him have an ox, too, to help him: he canonly live at the price of almost incessant labour and rigorous frugality. This is the normal condition of the peasant-proprietor's existence. 

'The peasant who works seriously, ' said the farmer, 'does not sleep morethan four hours a night during the summer months. He goes to bed at ten, and gets up at two. This would not hurt him if he were better fed, but heeats little besides his soup, and drinks bad _piquette_. '

The man went back to his kitchen, and then to his bed close by; the flameof the lamp became sick unto death, for it now wanted oil, and the housegrew so quiet that the squeaking of the rats and the pattering of theirfeet could be heard from places that seemed far away. But for the rumblingof the thunder, the only sound from the mysterious world outside would havebeen the scream, now like the cry of a cat, now like a puppy's bark, ofan owl flying with muffled wings up and down the valley. Very different, however, was this little owl's cry from the madman's shout of the greateagle owl, which I had often heard in the rocky vale of the Alzon. Ithrew open the window of my bedroom and looked out upon the night. Itwas illumined, not by moon nor by stars, but by lightning flashes, whichfollowed one another with such rapidity that there was no darkness. Thequivering flame threw an awful brightness into the great woods upon thetops of the hills. 

A few hours later I was wandering through these woods, which were nowfilled with another light that dried the dripping leaves. 

Some miles of forest, then cultivated slopes, and at length the Dordogneagain. I was growing rather weary of searching for the mediaeval town ofDomme, when I recognised it by its old ramparts upon the summit of a highbare hill, which looked very forbidding indeed where it changed to rock, whose naked escarpments seemed to float as inaccessible as a cloud in theblue air far above the valley. As I climbed the shadeless stony hill in themid-day sun-glare, I thought that if the soldiers of five or six centuriesago used strong language as they toiled up here in their heavy armour, itwas excusable. I was wellnigh repenting of my resolution to reach Domme, when, by a turn of the road, I found myself not many yards in front of afortified gateway of the fourteenth century, with a drumtower on each sideconnected by a curtain with the ramparts. At first glance nothing seemed tobe wanting. The towers, however, were ruinous in the upper part, and thebattlements had disappeared. 

With the help of a local pork-butcher, who kept the key, I was able toenter the towers of this gateway. In each was a guard-room of considerablesize, and the men-at-arms while on duty there evidently found that in timeof peace the hours lagged, for some of them had carved upon the wall withtheir knives or daggers crucifixes and representations of the Virgin andChild, all closely imitated from church sculpture, painting or windowdecoration of the Gothic period. Many names are cut in Gothic character onthe same walls; a further proof that the vanity of man has ever sprouted inmuch the same way as now. The antiquary, because he has his own prejudices, perceives an abyss between the act of the Cockney tourist of to-day whocarves his name upon an old tower or a menhir, and that of a man who fivecenturies ago, for no better reason than the other, left upon a guard-roomwall a similar record of his passage. The man of the present is a vulgardefacer of interesting monuments, whereas he of the past added to theirinterest, and prepared a pleasant little surprise for the archaeologist whomight walk that way a few centuries later. 

Enough of the fortifications of Domme remains to show what a very strongplace it was in the Middle Ages. Much of the wall where the town was notnaturally defended by the high naked rock, forming a frightful precipicethat no besiegers would have attempted to scale, has been well preserved. Standing upon some bastion of this rampart, with the deep valley far belowhim and the sky above him, the wanderer may allow his fancy almost toconvince him that he is really standing upon some 'castle in the air. 'Of the many rock-perched towns of the South, this is one of the mostremarkable; although, with the exception of the fortifications, littleremains of archaeological interest. 

According to the chronicles of Jean Tarde, a canon of the neighbouringtown of Sarlat, who wrote at the end of the sixteenth and beginning of theseventeenth century, Domme was first taken by the English in 1346, butnot without the help of '_quelques traistres_. ' From this stronghold theyharassed the surrounding country, 'while the armies of one and the otherparty were in Normandy and Picardy, and that battle of Cressi (Crecy) wasfought to the disadvantage of the party of France. Towards the end of theyear a truce was accorded, but it was in no way observed in Périgord by theEnglish. '

The correct date of the capture of Domme appears to have been 1347. The menwho treasonably delivered up the place were afterwards hanged by the Frenchparty when they regained possession of the stronghold. In 1369 the Englishagain invested the rock, this time under the command of Robert Knolles. (Tarde, who spelt all English names as he had heard them pronounced in thecountry, writes Robert Canole. ) The place was then so well defended, andsuccess appeared so far off to the partisans of Edward III. , that the siegewas raised in despair at the end of a month; and the annalist goes on tosay that the English then marched into the Quercy and took Roc-Amadour. Domme, however, fell into the English power again; but in 1415 it was oncemore in the hands of the French. Then we read that the seneschal sentthe crier into the public place to proclaim '_de par le Roy_' that everyinhabitant of Domme was forbidden to leave the town with the intention ofliving elsewhere, under the penalty of having any property that he mightpossess in the town confiscated. The motive of this ordinance is explainedas follows: 'The wars had already rendered the country so desolate, that atDomme, where the ordinary number of inhabitants who were heads of familieswas a thousand, there were now no more than a hundred and twenty. Thepeople who had left had abandoned everything, and gone to Spain orelsewhere. '

From the bare and windy hill I went down again into the quiet valley, where, when a few more miles were left behind, I came to La Roque-Gageac, a village at the foot of high-reaching rocks of fantastic outline, not farfrom the Dordogne. Many houses long ago seem to have climbed far up thewarm limestone under the shelter of cornice and canopy, fashioned by thesculptor Time, braving all the storms of centuries, and the danger of beinghurled in fragments towards the valley by some falling crag. 

In an open space, forming a little square, a man and a woman were holdingdown a pig, one at each end of a board, where the animal had been stretchedout against its inclination, while a third person had the knife ready foraction. And the spot chosen for the execution was immediately in front ofa very old and interesting shrine, with gabled roof, surmounted by a rudeGothic crucifix. I caught a glimpse of the pale statue and the flowersbefore it; but only a glimpse, for the struggles of the doomed pig, and themomentary expectation of seeing the red stream gush forth, made me turnaway. One sees much that is anything but poetical in the romantic land ofthe troubadours. 

Near this strikingly-picturesque village is a cave such as one might readof in a story of fanciful adventure. It is in a rock beside the Dordogne, where, the river rests in a deep pool. The entrance is under water, and itcan only be reached with safety by a good diver when, the sun shining at acertain hour, and the light striking in a particular way, the passage intothe cavern is lit up. A boy had made the dive successfully not long beforemy visit to this place, but he found so much to interest him in the cavewhile it was lighted a little by the borrowed gleam from the water, that helingered there until, the sun moving on his course, the angle of refractionsuddenly changed. The child had not the courage to take a plunge into thedark gulf, where there was no beacon to guide him, and where he might havestruck against the rock. He therefore remained the rest of the day and allnight in the cavern. When the sun again lit up the passage leading from hisprison, the boy plunged, and a few seconds afterwards he was sitting on theriver-bank drying himself in the sun. 

 * * * * *

I have entered upon the tenancy of a small house beside the Dordogne atBeynac, a village a few miles below La Roque, partly crouching beneath avery high rock, and partly built upon its terraces or ledges up to theinner wall of a feudal castle that was much modified and refashioned inlater ages under the pressure of two forces--time, that ruins, and theeternal striving of each generation to attain its own ideal of comfort andelegance. But the grand old keep still rears its rectangular mass behindand far above the later masonry, and when the evening sun shines upon it, the stones, no longer gray, wear again their bright colour of six or sevencenturies ago. Presently, as the glow moves higher, the battlements andmachicolations take a golden clearness that marks every detail against theblue depth of sky whose fire is fading and preparing to change into thecalm splendour that mingles with the dusk. Between the base of the rock andthe river is just space enough for a road, which is dazzlingly white now, and well powdered with dust; but in winter it not infrequently disappearsunder water. 

[Illustration: BEYNAC. ]

On the opposite shore, above a shelving beach of yellow pebbles and abroken line of osiers, stretch meadows that are intensely green in spring, and would be quickly so again if rain were to fall; but now they are verybrown, and the long-tailed sheep that wander over them, tinkling theirbells, like to keep near the Dordogne, where they can moisten their mouthsfrom time to time, and thus help themselves to imagine that they are eatinggrass. Beyond the reach of meadow, almost at the foot of high wooded hillswhich mark the boundary of the valley on that side, is a modern château;but the architect found his model for it in the past, when castles weremore picturesque than comfortable. When the amber-tinted towers are seenthrough the haze of a summer morning against the background of wooded hill, one thinks that in just such a castle as this Tasso or Spenser would haveput an enchantress, whose wiles, combined with the indolent influence ofthe valley, few pilgrim knights taking the eastward way to Roc-Amadourwould have been able to resist. 

I found the valley so hot in the steady blaze of summer that, havingreached Beynac, I felt no inclination to go any farther. I thought I wouldstop there until cooler weather came, and live meanwhile principally in theDordogne. Several families from different parts of Périgord had alreadycome here to spend a mildly exciting and not too costly river season; andthere they were, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, splashing in theblue tepid water, with their clothes laid carefully in little heaps uponthe pebbly beach or upon the brown grass by the osiers. Despising theshelter which in more fashionable watering-places is thought indispensable, they lazily undressed and dressed in the open air with an appreciation ofsunshine and regardlessness of apparel that was almost lizard-like in itsfreedom from conventional restraint. 

I was charmed by the spectacle as I meditated upon the opposite bank. Themore I meditated the better I liked the idea of tarrying in a spot whereArcadian simplicity of life was so unaffectedly cultivated. I resolved thatI, too, would take a house at Beynac if there was one to be had, and that Iwould have what I figuratively termed my 'caravan' brought up here. At theauberge--the only one in the place--I learnt that there was but a singlehouse still vacant, and that it was not a very beautiful one. A youngfisherman started off barefoot to fetch the owner from his village, fourmiles away. The country had to be scoured for him, so that it was longbefore he showed himself. 

While waiting, I went out and amused the fish in the Dordogne by pointinga borrowed rod at them, and tempting them with the fattest house-flies Icould find; but as soon as they saw the bait they all turned their tailsto it. My angling was a complete failure. And yet there were multitudes offish swimming on the surface; the water seemed alive with them. I concludedthat they were observing a solemn fast. 

At length the fisherman returned, looking very hot and dusty, and of coursethirsty. He was accompanied by a hard-baked man of about sixty--a peasant, apparently, but one who had put on his best clothes in view of an importantbargain that was to be made. He had cunning little eyes, and a mouth thatseemed to have acquired from many ancestors, and from the habits of alifetime, a concentrated expression of rustic chicanery which told me thatno business was to be done with him without a fight. 

He led the way to his house, which was on the road just above the river. Icame to terms with him for a month, after the expected fight; but itwas not until he had gone away that I began to realize that I had notdistinguished myself by my wisdom in this transaction. Even the villagers, who are not dainty in the matter of lodging, described the house as a_baraque_. It gave me the same impression when I saw the inside of it; butI closed my eyes to its drawbacks, because I had taken a fancy to Beynac, and this was the only furnished dwelling to be obtained there. I thoughtall the little drawbacks belonging to it, such as the rustic hearth to cookupon, pots with holes in them, rusty frying-pans, deficiency of crockery, and more than a sufficiency of fleas, would be overcome somehow, as theyhad been elsewhere during my peregrinations in out-of-the-way districts, where the traveller who nurses his dignity, and has a proper regard for thecomforts of life, never thinks of stopping. But things did not settle downthis time quite so quickly as I had expected. 

After the arrival of the 'caravan' I took to fishing--always with the samerod borrowed of the blacksmith-innkeeper--with a zeal that I had not knownsince I was a boy. I found that things settled down better when I was outof the way. But there was something that settled down only too rapidly. This was the kitchen floor. There was a bare rock forming the back wall ofthe house, and down it a runnel of water gently trickled. In the wet seasonit lost all modesty, made a lake that rose above the boards, and tried tofind an exit by the back of the chimney. This explained why the fire neededtwo days' coaxing and blowing before it would burn, notwithstanding thatour servant had been reared in the knowledge of such chimney-places andtheir humours. It also explained why somebody's foot went through the floorin a fresh place two or three times a day. At the end of the first weekone had to stride or jump over half a dozen chasms to get from one side toanother. About the same time four or five of the lower stairs gave way fromrottenness, so that it needed no little agility to reach the bedrooms. The old man had to come and mend his house, and because he had a guiltyconscience he brought a basket of figs with him; but, instead of owningthat the wood was rotten, he insinuated that it had been maliciously dancedupon. 

But the heat was the worst tribulation. The house, with all its windowswithout _persiennes_--a detail I had quite overlooked--faced the south, sothat during the hottest hours of the day the sun was full upon it, and theheat was over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. It was the mostscorching August that had been known even in the South of France for years. The recollection of those burning hours in that shanty will be ever green. 

Nevertheless, the time spent at Beynac left some pleasant memories. Thedays were fiery, and, when the south wind blew, almost suffocating; butwhen the sun went down into the west there usually came a beneficentchange. During the few minutes that the golden circle lay seemingly uponthe edge of the world, a boat crossing the river appeared to glide overunfathomable depths of splendour; then gradually over the fields of maizeand tobacco, and where the yellow stubble of the corn long since reaped hadbeen left, there spread the deep-toned lustre of evening. As the brown duskfilled the valley, and under the sombre walnut-trees the wayside crossbecame like the spectre of one, shrill voices of old women were heardcalling the geese and turkeys that still lingered in the fields. 

The geese were often left to come home by themselves, after spending theday along the banks of the river. They belonged to various people, but, being eminently sociable birds, they started off together in flocks offifty or more. Although there must have been causes of jealousy and rivalryamong them, they never seemed to quarrel. They knew when it was time to gohome by the failing light, and in the dusk I often met them marching alongthe road like a regiment of soldiers. As they reached houses to which someof them belonged, detachments would fall out and the others would goon. Every bird would return to the place which had for it the sweetassociations of its gosling innocence. 

It is now night--the calm summer night without a moon, but spangled withstars. Among those which the Dordogne reflects and holds as if they wereits own, is the planet Mars, which gleams readily in the midst of a swarmof lesser yellow lights. The river here is broad and still; there is notripple enough to make a beam tremble. If the stars in the water flash, itis because the rays are flashed from above. Just below the village thereare rapids, and a faint murmur comes up from them, but it is borne under bythe shrilling of the crickets that have climbed into the osiers and poplarsall along by the water's edge. Now and again there is a great splash in themiddle of the stream, which makes one think that a fish large enough toswallow some unsuspecting Jonah of Périgord must be there in a playfulmood; but this is merely the effect upon the imagination of a sudden noisebreaking in upon the monotonous sounds of the night which are so much likesilence. 

Lured by the freshness of the air and the serene glory of the starlit sky, I wander off down the valley to a spot where the river, all in turmoil, washes and wears away the flanks of rocks rising sheer from its bed like awall. Looking back, I can see very distinctly the dark mass of the castleand the church by its side high above me against the sky, and every minuteor so the lightning-flash from a storm far away in the west brightens thesombre masonry and the rock beneath. 

Centuries ago in this light, the rock, the fortress, and its church musthave looked much the same as now. An Englishman, who had campaigned withthe Black Prince, standing where I am--the road was probably a mule trackthen---would have seen against the sky the picture that sets me dreaming ofthe past. But the quietude of the summer night might have been disturbedby sounds that are not heard now. It is unlikely that so large a castle, containing so many men-at-arms and officials as must have been deemednecessary to its safety and dignity, would at this early hour have beenwrapped in silence more complete than that of the valley. There wouldsurely have been some people breathing the cool air on the platform of thekeep besides the watchman, some soldiers pacing the _chemin de ronde_, although peaceful days may have returned to the unlucky land of Guyenne;and the clamour of strong voices would have come down to the river. But nowthe castle is quiet as its rock which was beaten by the waves of a vanishedsea, and those who still live in it are like the keepers of a cemetery. That _donjon_, whose dark form seems to stand amidst the stars, only servesto mark one of the many tombs of feudalism which rise above the smiling butcapricious Dordogne like menhirs--monuments of older illusions--along theocean-scalloped coast of Brittany. 

Animated as Beynac became late in the afternoon, when the little society, composed of extraneous particles, met in costumes that were airy, fantastic, elementary, anything but ceremonious, to exchange civilities inthe water, life on the whole was so mildly exciting that when one day asmall caravan, drawn by a donkey and preceded by a young man half hidden bya great straw hat and wildly beating a drum, entered the place, there was agreat and tumultuous movement of the population. Everybody wanted to knowwhat the donkey and the young man proposed to do at Beynac. On the caravanhad been painted '_Théâtre de la Gaîté_, ' which threw light upon the objectof the intruders. The donkey drew up in front of the inn, and the excitedcrowd waited with ill-contained impatience to see the company of playersdescend from the battered travelling trunk on wheels. At length a prettylittle girl of about twelve, with large and lustrous brown eyes, came outof the box. She was the company. She was in the charge of her mother, who superintended the artistic arrangements, as well as the culinary andfinancial, but did not venture upon the stage. The young man looked afterthe donkey and the drum, and filled up his time by catching fish for thecompany and her mother. The stable of the auberge was hired for evening useas a _salle de spectacle_, and at one end a very diminutive stage was setup by means of rough planks and old pieces of carpet. 

Everybody who could afford to spend a penny or twopence upon vanity andworldliness went to see the performance. It was quite a fashionablegathering. The best society were by common consent allowed to take the bestseats--very hard benches--the less ambitious crowded behind, with mindsfully made up not to allow themselves to be carried by enthusiasm beyondthe expenditure of two sous when the plate went round; while favouredchildren, who were not expected to pay anything, because they had nothing, climbed into the mangers, and packed themselves as close together as aphidson a rose-stalk. The stable had been carefully cleansed, but the horseyodour that belonged to it could not be swept out. This, with the badventilation, and a temperature almost equal to the hatching of eggs withouthens, was a drawback; but the audience was in no humour to be critical. Asmall handbell was rung, two pieces of old carpet were drawn back, and thelittle girl made her bow to the audience in a costume as near to that ofMignon as she and her mother could make it. She sang:

 'Connais-tu le pays òu fleurit l'oranger?'

and other airs from the opera in a small, bird-like voice, unaccompaniedby any music. For three hours the child sang, acted, and danced in thesuffocating stable, lighted by two petroleum lamps. The next day I sawMignon sitting on one of the shafts of the caravan and gnawing the'drumstick' of a fowl. The child-actress was the prop of her mother and thedonkey; her talent also kept the youth, who began to agitate the nerves ofBeynac with his diabolical _rataplan_ hours before each performance. 

One morning, soon after sunrise, the donkey, which had begun to think thatthis time it had really been pensioned off, was put into the shafts, andthe caravan gradually disappeared upon the white road. Then the villagebecame quite dull again; but it was roused from its torpor by the annualfête. This was the chief event of the year. The peasants came in from thescattered villages and from the isolated farms lying in the midst of thechestnut woods. All the women coifed themselves with their bestkerchiefs, the heads of most of the young girls being resplendent withbrilliant-coloured silk. This coiffure resembles that of the Bordelaise, but it is not so small, nor is it folded so coquettishly. There was muchlove-making--sometimes exquisitely comic by its rustic naïveté--andthere was a good deal of dancing to the maddening music of two screaminghurdy-gurdies. 

At Beynac I made the acquaintance of a French-man who, after angling forriches--a sport at which he lost much bait and caught nothing--turned allhis attention to the fish in the Dordogne. He resolved that he would runno more risk by casting his bread upon the wider waters, but that he wouldmake the most of what remained to him by withdrawing to some riversidenook, where his love of the unconventional, and his taste for a free lifein the open air, could expand, emancipated from all servitude to society, including the necessity of keeping up what is called 'an appearance. '

What, to my mind, helps greatly to make France such a pleasant country tolive in is the large amount of social liberty that one enjoys there. Exceptin great towns, and in those places which are thronged at certain seasonsby cosmopolitan crowds, people can live as simply as they please, and theycan wear anything, however cheap or even shabby, without risk of beingdiminished on this account in the opinion of others. They are liked ordisliked, respected or despised, as their conduct and dealings become knownand judged. 

The Otter--this nickname had been given to my new acquaintance by those whowere jealous of his fishing skill--when he was out in his boat never woreanything finer than corduroy trousers, a short blue jacket of the cottonmaterial from which blouses are made, a straw-hat, and _espadrilles_, into which he put his bare feet. No heavier clothing is consistent withhappiness in such a climate as that of the Dordogne Valley during thesummer months. When, by gliding over the transparent water, which revealedthe pebbles at the bottom almost in the deepest places, and the shoals offish as they passed up and down the stream, the temptation to plunge becameirresistible, the blue jacket and the other garments were thrown off in afew seconds, and the fish were startled by the descent of a black head andbeard, followed by the rest of that human form which Carlyle has comparedto a forked radish. 

Sometimes the Otter made nocturnal expeditions far up the channels of thelittle streams that fall into the Dordogne. Then he was after crayfish. The ordinary method of catching these crustaceae, namely, with a piece ofnetting covering a small wire hoop, and baited with meat, had little charmfor him. There was another much more in keeping with his passion formovement. He would walk up the beds of the streams quite heedless of thewater, holding in one hand a lantern, and having the other free to make agrab at every crayfish he might see scuttling out of harm's way over thestones or sand. As he went slowly up the narrow valleys, the gleam ofhis lantern through the osiers, the tall loose-strife and hemp-agrimonystartled the owls, the hedgehogs and the weasles; but not the sound ofwater wailing in the darkness, nor the cries of disturbed animals, northe weird blackness of overhanging trees that hid the stars, troubled hisnerves. On he went, through water-meadows, at the bottom of gloomy littlegorges, and by the fringe of the forest, until he had wandered miles awayfrom Beynac. We very nearly met one night, both being out with the sameobject in view. I, however, had very little of his zeal for the sport, andwas less interested by the crayfish than by the fantastic indistinctnessof trees and shrubs and flowers, which, in the light of the stars and thelantern, seemed to belong to a world with which I was but vaguely familiar, although I had travelled all over it in dreams. 

Sometimes I used to go out fishing with the Otter on the Dordogne. Whenthe casting-net was left at home (it was of little use when the water wasclear) chub-fishing with the flying-line was generally the chosen formof sport. Here I may say that my companion, who could turn his handto anything, made his own rods from hazel-sticks. Where the water wassufficiently deep, the boat was rowed and steered with a single-bladedpaddle, but where it was shallow much better progress could be made bypolling. These are the two methods invariably used by the fishermen andferrymen of the Dordogne, and it is astonishing with what success they canget a boat up the rapids without having recourse to the towing-line. 

When we went chub-fishing, we took the boat a mile or so up-stream, andthen let it drift down with the current near a bank that was fringed withwillows and acacias. Although we needed only six inches of water, the depthwas sometimes miscalculated, and we went aground on a bank of pebbles. Thenthe Otter, whose bare feet were always ready for such emergencies, steppedout into the sparkling current, and hauled or pushed the boat over theobstacle. What with rapids and banks of pebbles, the excitement of boatingon the Dordogne above Lalinde never flags. It looked very easy to throw aline with a worm on it towards the shore, and then draw it back, but thechub showed such little eagerness to be caught by me that I generallypreferred to steer and watch my companion pulling them out as he stood inthe prow, his face nearly hidden under the thatch of his straw hat. Whenthe fish were in a biting humour, he had one on his hook every time hethrew the line. 

There are few trout in this part of the Dordogne, but in tributary streams, like the charming little Céou, they are plentiful. Carp are abundant, butthey are very difficult to take with the line, and even with the net, except in time of flood, when they get washed out of their holes, and thewater being no longer clear, their very sharp eyes are of little useto them. Then a lucky throw will sometimes bring out two or three carpweighing several pounds each. The fish commonly caught are mullet, perch, barbel, gudgeon, bream, and chub. As a food-supplying river, the Dordogneis one of the most valuable in France, and, owing to the rapid current andthe purity of the water, the fish is of excellent quality. 

The fixed belief of all the riverside people in this and other valleys isthat fish should be cooked alive. You enter an inn and ask for a _friture_of gudgeon. In a few minutes you see the victims, which have been pulledout of a tank with a small net on the end of a stick, jumping on thekitchen table, and they are still jumping when they go into the boilinggrease. I am not among those who have grown callous to such sights, commonas they are in France. To see fish scraped, opened, and cooked while stillalive gives me disgust for it when it afterwards appears on the table. Ican imagine somebody saying: 'Why look at what goes on in the kitchen?'That somebody does not quite understand what rural France is. In a countryinn we invariably pass through the kitchen to reach the room set apart forguests, and it has often fallen to my lot to seek rest, shelter, and foodin a poor auberge, where the kitchen is also the common room of the familyand outsiders. 

A Beynac character that left on my memory a lasting impression was oldSuzette. Suzette might have been any age between fifty and seventy. She hadno beauty, but she must have had a little vanity left, for when I showedher a photograph I had taken of her, she put her hard old hands together, swayed her head from shoulder to shoulder, and actually wept. She could notspeak much French, but she said as well as she could that she did not knowthat she had grown so ugly. I have noticed, however, that my photographshave a tendency to draw tears or angry expressions from most of those onwhom I operate, which I can only account for by the reason that thesepeople have not the pleasure of paying for their portraits. What isdone for nothing is seldom appreciated. Suzette, not wishing to hurt myfeelings, soon wiped out her eyes with her largest knuckle, and, havingcomposed her countenance, thanked me for having photographed her. Shehad had a rough life, but as she had known little else but hardship andprivation, she was contented with what Providence considered enough forher. This was now a two-roomed cottage to live in, and for food a bunch ofgrapes, a peach or a pear to eat with her bread in the fruit season, a fewwalnuts to go with it in autumn or winter, chestnuts to boil or roast, anda piece of fat bacon hanging to a beam, from which she cut only just enoughat a time to disguise the water which, when thickened with bread, a handfulof haricots, and some scraps of other vegetables, made her daily soup. Shewas a widow now, but although whenever she spoke of her dead husband herhead began to wag and the tears to start from her eyes, she had less careand worry and pain as a lonely woman than when she was bearing childrenand working harder than any pack-mule to bring them up. Her husband was afisherman of the Dordogne, and she sold his fish in the Sarlat market, someeight miles distant from where they lived by the river. In order to beearly in the market, she had to start at about two in the morning, and theroad, which was uphill all the way, ran between woods where the wolves, descending from the vaster forests of Black Périgord, often howled inwinter. She told me it frequently happened when she reached the market thather arms and hands were so benumbed with the cold that she could not takethe basket of fish from her head. As a widow, she had lived for a whilewith a married son, but the young woman soon turned the old one out. PoorSuzette told the story without bitterness; she recognised the law of naturein this expulsion of the mother when she was of no further use to herchildren, and accepted thankfully the ten francs a month which her sonallowed her. She managed to live by fetching and carrying for anyone whowould give her two or three sous for an hour's trudging. She used to takemy letters to post at the nearest railway-station, and no one who merelynoted how nimbly her bare feet moved along the hot, dusty road would havesupposed that she had left her youth so far behind her. Battered andpinched and harassed as she had been by destiny, she still believed in theworking out of eternal justice, and one day before sunrise she started offon a pilgrimage to a distant sanctuary, and did not return until after manyhours. With all this she was gay, and could tell a lively story with plentyof Southern salt. She was a good bit of human nature, worth studying. 

Sarlat, where old Suzette went to sell her husband's fish, was a veryimportant stronghold of Black Périgord in the Middle Ages, and the chiefplace in that Sarladais which the English kings of Norman and Angévindescent found such a tough bone to pick. The way to it from Beynac leads upsteep valleys and gorges, covered with dense forest. Here wolves are to beseen occasionally in winter, but the wolf country begins a little to thenorth of Sarlat, and stretches towards the Limousin. The town appears to becomposed of one long street, and to be dismally uninteresting. There is, however, an old Sarlat that lies a little off the main artery, and which alazy visitor who does not like the trouble of asking questions might easilymiss. There are few scenes more original and picturesque in France thanthat presented by the ruinous old church, half open to the weather, andthe ancient houses that form a framework round it. Under the lofty Gothicvaulting are wooden shops and shanties, and, looking up, you see the smokefrom bakers' ovens hanging about the ribs of the great arches, which it hasblackened. 

Of the old houses, one of the most remarkable is that which was theresidence of the philosophical writer, Etienne de la Boëtie, the friendof Montaigne, It is an interesting example of the French Renaissance, theexterior being richly ornamented with carvings. 

A very rough, bad time had the men of Sarlat during the long years thatthey were fighting intermittently for their lives and property with thelawless bands of so-called English, who had turned so many rocks intofastnesses, and who issued from their fortified caverns, that they madealmost impregnable, to prey upon the unfortunate people who strove to liveby husbandry. These hardened ruffians and freebooters had no respect fortreaties, and inasmuch as peace never lasted long, and the English kingsof that epoch always liked to feel that they were ready for anything thatmight happen in France, the companies of brigand soldiers who preferred toserve under the leopards rather than under the golden lilies were left todo pretty much what they pleased in the wilder parts of Guyenne. 

After the treaty that followed the battle of Poitiers they continued theirdepredations, heedless of the orders communicated to them by the Englishcommissioners. They carried their raids up to the walls of Sarlat, even atthe time of vintage, although this season was much respected in the MiddleAges by violent men, from a motive that was perhaps not disinterested. Theyseized the bullocks that were harnessed to the waggons, and bore them offto their strongholds. It is but fair to add, however, that the Sarladaisdid not formally submit to English authority until 1361--five years afterthe battle of Poitiers. Then Chandos went to Sarlat and received thesubmission of the burghers. Soon afterwards Edward III confirmed all theprivileges they had been enjoying under the kings of France. But they didnot remain quiet long. Persuaded by Talleyrand and other nobles, theyrebelled in 1369, and the town became again French. Speaking of this event, Tarde observes:

'And behold how and when the salamander [Footnote: This reptile was bornein the arms of Sarlat. ] was again placed under the three fleurs-de-lys, having carried the leopards in chief only eight years two months and ahalf. '

The people of Sarlat often boast that their town never submitted to theEnglish. In this matter, however, they are in error. 

September came, and I was still at Beynac, although I had found anotherhouse. The fruit season was then at its height. Peaches were sold at threesous the dozen, a good melon cost about the same sum, and figs were to behad almost for nothing. On these terms quite a mountain of fruit could beplaced upon the table for half a franc. There was often no necessity to runinto this extravagance, for the people at Beynac are good-natured, and theywould frequently send a basket of their earliest grapes or other fruit. Although the present might have been made by a woman with bare feet, herfeelings would have been hurt had money been offered in return. 

One day rather late in the month, having grown ashamed of inactivity, Icarried my knapsack down to the river and put it into the Otter's smallestboat, which he called the _périssoire_, although it was not really a canoe. He was the chief builder of it, and as a contrivance for bringing hometo man the solemn truth that life hangs to a thread or floats upon aplank--perhaps the worst state of the two--it certainly did him infinitecredit. It was a flatbottomed outrigged deal boat, very long, and so narrowthat to look over one's shoulder in it was a manoeuvre of extreme delicacy, especially where the rapids caused the water to be in wild commotion. I wastold that it would go down stream like an arrow, and so it did. There wasno need to row hard, for the current took the fragile skiff along with itso fast that the trees on the banks sped by as if they were runningraces, and every few minutes brought a change of landscape. It was verydelightful; only one sensation of movement could have been better--that offlying. 

The water was as blue as the sky above, and over the valley, the woodedhills, and naked rocks lay the sunshine of early autumn, tender in itsstrength, mingling a balm with its burning. I seemed to be floating swiftlybut gently down some lovely but treacherous river of enchanted land. Andwhere is the river that lends itself better to this illusion thanthe Dordogne--ever charming, changing, and luring like a capricious, fascinating, and rather wicked woman? Now it flows without a sound bythe forest, where the imagination places the fairy people and the sylvandeities; now it roars in the shadow of the castle-crowned and savage rock, over which the solitary hawk circles and repeats its melancholy cry; now itseems to sleep like a blue lake in the midst of a broad, fair valley, wherein the sunny fields the flocks feed drowsily. 

The depth of the water was as variable as the strength of the current. Sometimes I saw the stony bed seven or ten feet below, and then quitesuddenly the boat would get into rushing water that sparkled with crystalclearness over a bank of pebbles, and I expected momentarily to hear agrating noise and to feel myself aground; but the little boat went over theshallows like a leaf. I passed a bank large enough to be called an island. The water had not covered it for months, and it was all thickly overgrownwith persicaria, which the late summer had stained a carmine red, so thatthe island was all aflame. The swallows that dipped their wings in thewater, the kingfishers that flew along the banks or perched on the willowstumps, and the graceful wagtails, were for some miles my only rivercompanions--excepting, of course, the fish, with which a treacherouscurrent or a sunken rock might have placed me at any moment on terms ofstill closer intimacy. 

But time flew like the boat, and I soon came in sight of a charming littlevillage whose houses with peaked roofs seemed to have been piled oneupon another. Here upon stones in the water I recognised the human formsupported by two bare legs, and in the posture as of a person about to takea dive, which is not perhaps very graceful, but is one that certainly lendscharacter to the riverside scenery of France. Two or three women wererinsing their linen. 

On nearing St. Cyprien the current became swifter and the turmoil of therapids so great that I prepared my mind here to being swamped by the waves. The question whether I would abandon or try to rescue my knapsack after thewreck was distressing. The risk being over, it was with a sigh of reliefthat I beached the boat, now half full of water, at the nearest spot to thesmall town. Having moored it and given the sculls in charge of a man whosehouse was close by, I was soon walking in the warm glow of the Septemberafternoon by cottage gardens where the last flowers of summer wereblooming. 

The small burg of less than three thousand inhabitants which bears the nameof the African saint was probably, like many others, much more important inthe Middle Ages than it is now. In accordance with the building spiritof the past, so strongly pronounced throughout Aquitaine, and obviouslyinspired by a defensive motive, the houses are closely packed together on asteep hillside. A few ancient dwellings, notably one with a long exteriorgallery, show themselves very picturesquely here and there. The town grewup at the foot of an abbey, of which the church still existing exhibits amassive tower that might easily be mistaken at a little distance for anearly feudal keep. The lower part of this tower is Romanesque. The interiorof the church is in the very simple pointed style of the twelfth century, but the interest has suffered much from restoration. What is chieflyremarkable here is the carved oak of the reredoses and pulpit. 

The English in 1422 took the town of St. Cyprien and besieged the abbey, which was a veritable citadel where the inhabitants in the last resortfound shelter. A French force coming, however, to the relief of the people, the English, who were probably not very numerous, deemed it prudent toretire. 

There being still an hour or more of daylight, I continued the ascent ofthe hill above the houses and the solemn old church to find a certainChâteau de Pages, which I knew to be somewhere in the locality. A womanworking her distaff and spindle with that meditative air which the rusticspinners so often have, her bare feet slowly and noiselessly moving overthe rough stones, pointed out to me a little lane that wound up thedeserted hill between briars bedecked with scarlet hips and bits of ancientwall to which ferns and moss and ivy clung, tinged by the waning goldenlight. I passed through vineyards from which the grapes had been gathered, then rose by broom and blackthorn to the level land. 

I looked in vain for the castle. I might have searched for it untildarkness came, but for the help of a boy who was taking home a goat. Atlength I found it lying in a hollow, a sufficient sign that it was nevera stronghold. In feudal times it was probably a small castellated manorbelonging perhaps to a knight who could not afford to build himself a_donjon_ on some eminence and to fortify it with walls; but centuries laterwhat remained of the original structure was patched up and considerablyenlarged. Now, as I saw it in the dusk, it seemed a very ghost-hauntedplace. The building had not fallen into ruin; it was still roofed, andmight easily have been made habitable; but there was no glass in thewindows; all the rooms were silent with that silence so deep and sad of thelong-deserted house which is not sufficiently wrecked by time and decayto have lost the pathos of human associations. The breath of the dyingtwilight stirred the ivy leaves upon the wall of the detached chapel wherenever a person had prayed for many a year, and the goblin bats came outfrom the shadowy places to flutter against the pale sky. Then I felt thatI had lingered long enough on this desolate spot, and the thought of theawaking hearths brightening the little town with the blaze of wood made mehasten through the heather and gorse that had grown up on the grave of manya vine. 

The next morning saw me afloat again. As I was getting away from the shorea man called out to me: 'Your boat is worth nothing! If you try to pass thethird bridge you will go to the bottom!'

He spoke very seriously, and I wished to take further counsel of him; buthaving once got into the current, it carried me off at such a rate thatwhile I was thinking of putting a question I was taken out of speakingdistance. I shot through one of the arches of the first bridge, and soonfound myself in water that was a little rough for my poor skiff. Here werethe rapids again. I had been warned against these before I left the inn. There was no turning back now, and if the commotion of water had been everso great I should have had to take my chance in it. The Otter's advicewhen I came to rapids was to pull as hard as I could in the middle of thecurrent. I followed it, and my shallow boat, which had just been describedas worthless, darted into the midst of the turmoil, and went through itall as swift as a swallow on the wing. The river, however, had risenconsiderably during the night, and the strength of the current having muchincreased in consequence, my belief in the _périssoire's_ worthiness wasnot sufficient to make me run the risk of being swamped at the thirdbridge. I therefore landed at the next one, which was close to the villageof Síorac. It seemed that I had only just started from St. Cyprien, and yetI had travelled about six miles. With the help of a willing man the boatwas carried to the railway-station, which was not far off, and its journeyhome having been paid, I ceased for awhile to be a waterfarer, and becameagain a wayfarer. 

Although there was not much to interest me at Siorac, I stayed there tolunch in a small inn, where an old woman grilled me a chop over the embers, and then set before me a pile of grapes, another of pears, and a third offresh walnuts. The fruit was to me the best part of the meal, for the longhot summer had caused me to look upon meat very much as a necessary evil inthe routine of life. While I was seated at the table, the old woman, whonow dozed over her distaff in the chimneycorner, would start up every fiveminutes or so, as if from the beginning of a nightmare, and rush at theflies, which were ravenously busy upon the grapes and pears that I had setaside for them. She hated them with a hatred so fierce and bitter that Ithought it rather unbecoming at her time of life. 

'_On ne pent rien manger, _' she said, '_sans que ces diables y touchent. _'

This was quite true; but it was not the flies' fault that their parentswere prolific, and that they had been hatched in a climate eminentlyconducive to their vigour and happiness. Their numbers and their voracityshowed that they, too, were compelled by the struggle for life to be activeand enterprising. Unlike some beings of a higher order, they did not takethis trouble sadly; but, then, they were Southern flies. 

Having driven them from the table, the aged woman nodded her head withvindictive satisfaction, and murmured, '_C'est égal; elles vont bientôtcrever_'--unmindful of the fact that she, too, had reached the season oflife when the frost comes suddenly and catches people unawares. 

I returned to the river and crossed the bridge. On one side of it was ahigh statue of the Madonna and Child, with these words on the pedestal:'_Protectrice du pont, priez pour nous. _. ' The inscription further statedthat the statue was raised in remembrance of the flood of 1866. That wasin the time of the Empire; nowadays the Government despises all heavenlyassistance in the department of roads and bridges, and religious statuesare no longer erected in such places. Just before reaching a villagecalled Coux, I was confronted by a very large army of geese, and while theforemost row advanced to the attack with outstretched necks and bills laidnear the ground, the others cheered them on. For a minute or so matterslooked very serious; then goose and gander courage failed completely, untilthe army worked round to my rear, when the screams of defiance arose again. 

Poor wretches! their high spirits were not going to last long. They wouldsoon have to undergo the cramming process, which a goose detests, for, unlike a pig, it will never of its own will eat more than it needs. In afew weeks the livers of most of them would be made into those excellenttruffled _pâtés de foie gras_, which it is the pride and profit of Périgordto send far and wide. 

A grand old elm, such as one does not often see in France, stood in frontof the village church--a Transition building with a Romanesque portal. Beyond this place the land became marshy, and considerable tracts of it hadbeen planted with Jerusalem artichokes, each of which had now its yellowhead that tells its relationship to the sunflower. These artichokes aremuch grown by damp woodsides, and on other land of little value, in thevalleys of Périgord. They are rarely used as food for man, for the French, notwithstanding the wide range of their gastronomy, including as it doessquirrels and tomtits, and even snakes in certain localities, as well asvarious herbs and vegetables seldom or never eaten in England, have notbeen able to acquire a liking for the tubers of the artichoke. The plantis cultivated for feeding cattle, the whole of it doing good service in aregion where there is but little grass. The multitude of golden flowersfloating, as it were, on sombre green waves light up the autumnal landscapewith a new flame when the skies turn gray. 

A solitary man whom I found working a loom in a cottage by the side of theriver kept a ferryboat, and with his help I crossed again to the otherbank. Wandering on with a somewhat vague purpose, I soon found myself--nowunder a gray sky--on a marshy flat, which a backwater of the Dordogne hadalmost made an island. Here there were many low shrubs of dwarf eldercovered with berries; pools, and wide ditches, where the dark waterscarcely moved, all fringed with tall reeds; while here and there was thegleam of a white flower upon the erect stem of a marsh-mallow. But whatgave to this spot a strange and almost weird character was the number ofgreat hoary willows, thirty or forty feet high, with gnarled and twistedboles, scattered over the dark green grass. It was a melancholy grove offantastic dream-haunted willows, such as belongs to the South and theVirgilian muse:

'Umbrarum hic locus est, somni noctisque soporae. '

And the sad solitude, in which there was not a sound of moving leaf orsinging bird, seemed to be peopled by the ghosts of men who were waitingand weeping out their hundred years on the Stygian shore. 

Hoary willows, dark alders, and then the road. This led me to Le Buisson--aplace possessed of the blue devils, and which exists merely out ofcompliment to the railway-junction here. Having made arrangements forreturning to the inn, I wandered out again to look at the river in the grayevening, and at the bridge where it was predicted that I should go tothe bottom if I remained in the little boat. I crossed fields from whichtobacco and maize had lately been carried, and reached the bridge of evilprophecy. The river certainly seemed to be doing its best to sweep away thepiers, and when it escaped from the arches it raised its voice to a roar;but it seemed to me that on one side the _périssoire_ would have gonethrough gaily without being swamped. The cry of troubled water in the duskfascinated me. I lingered, and yet felt the strong impulse to hurry back tothe society of men, out of the sound of the angry river, whose slaty wavesflashed out strange gleams. What is it in the gloom and horror of naturethat so draws us and yet warns us to flee? The day was ending stormily. Thepoplars wailed, and bent under the lash of the rising wind; dark masses ofcloud stood still in the sky, whilst others, torn and scattered below them, rushed hither and thither madly. Every few minutes the faint gleam oflightning, still far off, brought to the black woods along the hills amomentary return of radiance, as though it were the fitful flashing of theday's dying lamp. 

The roaring and wailing of the turbid flood now seemed to be repeating incruel mockery the despairing cries of all the drowning people who were everthe prey of the water-fiends that draw downward in whirlpools to depthswhere twilight passes into darkness, and take the form of the long wavingweeds that look so innocent, but whose grasp is deadly, or guide thecurrent that utters never a sound as it seizes its victim and bears himinto an unfathomed gulf under the pitiless rock. A voice within me cried'Home!' but home had I none anywhere of the staple sort: mine was like ahome on wheels. 

As I returned to the inn across the fields, I saw some scattered peasantfigures moving slowly the same way under the wild sky; men with the oxthat was weary like themselves, women with bundles of forage on theirheads--melancholy forms or phantoms in the dusky air, at one with naturein unconscious sympathy. Then across the dim and dreary plain, where thenarrow path was lost to sight after the first few yards, a railway lampflashed like the large red eye of some unimaginable monster of theprimordial marsh. 

In the morning I was on the road to Cadouin. The air was keen and a littlefrosty, for the hour was early. Men were mowing the last crop of grass, which was powdered with rime. After the meadows came the woods, for theroad went south, and was therefore carried over the hills which rise abovethe valley of the Dordogne. The woods were mainly of chestnut, and, underthe action of the storm, followed by the first frost, many a nut layshining on the road within its gaping prickly shell. After two or threemiles of ascent the road sloped downward, and it was not long before Ientered a very neat and trim little town, which, however, was altogethervillage-like. This was Cadouin, and in the centre stood its venerableRomanesque church. I entered the building, which was silent and very dim;not a soul was there but myself. Presently there was a moan in the tower, which seemed so far away: the clock was striking one of the quarters. Nowthe dim light brightened suddenly, for the sun had risen high enough todart its rays through a window, and to flash upon a column the brilliantcolours of the glass. With the exception of the apse, which is purelyRomanesque, the interior of this church is Gothic of the Transition; butmost of the capitals of the pier-columns have a plain Romanesque outline. There is no clerestory, the light being admitted from small round-headedwindows in the aisle walls. Much of the building dates from the foundationof the abbey of Cadouin, in the early part of the twelfth century; but theexisting cloisters, which are what is most remarkable here, date fromthe fifteenth century, and owe much of their interest to the partialtransformation of their style which they afterwards underwent when thespirit of the Renaissance set in. The Gothic tracery of the arches thatface the quadrangle unites the strength of stone with the delicacy ofpencil drawing. In the late Gothic and Renaissance part, the ceilingsare richly and floridly groined, angelic and other figures forming thetermination of the low-reaching bosses, the groins converging in fan-likeorder towards elaborately-carved canopies against the wall. At one endof this wing is a doorway, the jambs and lintels of which are heavilyover-worked with carvings very typical of the exuberant fancy of the earlyFrench Renaissance. 

[Illustration: CLOISTERS OF THE ABBEY OF CADOUIN. ]

For centuries Cadouin was a famous place of pilgrimage, in consequenceof the claim laid by the abbey to the possession of the Holy Shroud. Thefollowing is the history of the celebrated relic, according to Jean Tarde:

'In the year 1100 Hugh, surnamed the Great, brother of the King of France, and Bishop of Le Puy, in Auvergne, having gone on a voyage beyond the seaswith Godefrey de Bouillon, found means, after the taking of Jerusalem, torecover this holy relic, and, dying in Palestine, he left it in charge of apriest, his chaplain. The priest falling ill on board ship, and perceivingthat his end was drawing near, gave the shroud into the hands of a clerk, anative of Périgord. He, after the death of his master, took a small barrel, in the middle of which he placed a partition. In one half he put the sacredsheet, and his drink in the other. In this manner he carried the relic backto his native land, and placed it in a church near Cadouin, of which he hadcharge. Fearing that someone might steal his treasure, he left it in thebarrel, which he put away in a chest near the altar, showing it only to afew of the monks of Cadouin. But one day, while he was absent, fire brokeout and gained the whole village. All that was in the church was consumed, excepting the chest that contained the barrel. The monks of Cadouin, informed of the fire, hastened to the spot, and, having broken open thechest, took away the barrel, and carried it to their own church. The clerk, on his return, asked for what had been taken from him; but the monks saidthat, inasmuch as they had risked their lives in saving it from the flames, it belonged to them. The difference was arranged in this wise: the clerkwas received as a religious, and the keeping of the relic was entrusted tohim during his lifetime. He himself thought it safer there than in a ruralchurch. '

In 1392, when the country was distracted by the dynastic wars between thecrowns of France and England, the Holy Shroud was taken for safety toToulouse. Subsequently, the people of Périgord wished to have it replacedat Cadouin, and the Abbot and Chapter of St. Etienne at Toulouse resisting, much litigation ensued. In 1455 some monks of Cadouin took it away bystealth, and brought it back to their abbey. Tarde mentions, among othercircumstances which tended to increase the importance of the abbey ofCadouin, '_les bienfaietz d'une reyne d'Angleterre_'. 

Had it not been for other plans, I should have continued my journeysouthward from Cadouin as far as the Château de Biron, one of the mostinstructive relics of the past in Périgord, and have taken on my wayModières, one of the English _bastides_ which Edward I. Farmed for tenyears; but I made my way back to the Dordogne, with the intention ofascending the valley of its tributary the Vézère. I did not, however, return to Buisson, but took the road to Ales, which lies a little lowerdown the stream. 

While I was recrossing the hills the sun warmed the world again, and ledback the trembling summer which had been scared by the early morning'sfrost. The half-benumbed butterflies opened and shut their wings many timesupon the bramble leaves before they could bring themselves to believe thatthat pinch of winter was only a joke. It seemed a cruel jest while thebloom of honeysuckle was upon the hedges. 

[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE BIRON: THE LODGE. ]

At Ales--a mere group of houses round a little old church with a broadsquat tower--I lunched in a very wretched inn. If a pig had not been killedat an early hour that morning I should have been obliged to be satisfiedwith vegetable and egg diet; and the knowledge that the pig had met withsuch bad luck only a few hours before did not dispose me in favour of thevarious dishes prepared from the external and internal parts of him. The_aubergiste_ was an old boatman of the Dordogne, who had steered many acargo of wine floating with him down-stream in time of partial flood; butthat was before the phylloxera had played havoc with the vines. Now he hadto get along as well as he could by combining husbandry, pig-rearing, andinnkeeping. 

On reaching the river again, I perceived that the annual descent of theAuvergnats had commenced. All the people who live by the higher waters ofthe Dordogne, whether they belong to the Puy de Dôme, the Cantal, or theCorrèze, are called Auvergnats in Périgord, or, rather, such of them ascome down the stream with their small barges laden with wood, when theautumnal rains have commenced, and there is sufficient water in the riverfor their purpose. Sometimes, in their anxiety to turn their wood intomoney, they start a little too early, and being misled by an increase ofthe current which is not maintained, they go aground after a few days'navigation. I have seen one of these boats stuck fast on a bank almost inmid-stream, with the rapids nearly breaking over it with a roar that couldbe heard a mile away. The wood is cut in the forests, which stretch almostwithout a break for many a league on both sides of the Upper Dordogne, andis seasoned, dressed, and shaped for barrel-making before it is put afloat. The boats, which are some thirty or forty feet long, are necessarilyflat-bottomed, and are so roughly built that there are usually gapingspaces between the planks, which are caked with moss. They are good enoughfor the voyage, which is their first and last. The men return, butnever the boats. These are sold as firewood at Libourne, when they havedischarged their cargoes. Where the water is deep and comparatively quietthe speed is increased by rowing with very long oars; but where the currentis strong the boat has only to be steered. This, however, is work thatneeds thorough knowledge of the river. 

The autumn is a merry time for these Auvergnats. They look forward to itduring the long months that they are working in the woods. The annualvoyage to the Bordelais gives them an opportunity of again seeing the oldfriends whom they have been meeting for years at the waterside inns wherethey frequently put up at night, because the descent of the Dordogne in thedark is rather too exciting. They always say that they will start againin the morning at sunrise, but it often happens that the sun is very highindeed before they are afloat. After all, an Auvergnat is a man no lessthan another, and because he lives on next to nothing eleven months in theyear is perhaps a reason why he should feel that he has earned the rightto let his sentiments expand, and to light the lamp of conviviality in hisbreast during the remaining two or three weeks that he may be away fromhome. 

There is this, however, to be said: whatever money he may possess, he trusts himself with very little when he goes off on his annualriver-voyage, and when he has sold his wood he is anxious to get out ofdanger as quickly as possible. 

I had to return some distance up-stream before I was able to cross toLimeuil. This is one of the most picturesque villages on the banks of theDordogne. It is built on the side of an isolated rock, close to the pointwhere the Vézère falls into the broader river. Before crossing the bridgeI lingered awhile gazing at all those high-gabled roofs with red andlichen-stained tiles rising from the blue water towards the blue sky; vinetrellises mingling their sunny green with the red of the roofs. Where nohouses clung, the yellow rock was splashed with the now crimson sumach. 

Then I climbed the long street over the rock and cobble stones betweenwalls half green with pellitory, houses with high gables and rough woodenbalconies where geraniums shone in the shadow, and from which the trailingplants hung low in that supreme luxuriance which is the beginning of theirdeath. A few old women sat at their doors spinning, and geese, in smallcompanies of three or four, waddled out of the way; but there was no soundof any kind--Limeuil was as silent as a cemetery. And yet there were cafés, which gave the place a false air of liveliness. Some tourists, attracted bythe caverns in the valley of the Vézère, had possibly wandered as far asLimeuil; but where were the inhabitants now? Had there been an epidemic, and were the old women, whose heads were bent towards their knees whilethey clutched their distaffs, the few survivors?

Taking the road to Bugues, I passed a small church with an open belfrywith a tiled roof supported by wooden pillars. It stood in a grove of tallcypresses and weeping willows, and the gravestones lay scattered roundabout. The waning sunshine seemed to fall more tenderly here than upon theopen fields where the ruddy pumpkins flamed. It was nearly dark when Ireached the little town of Bugues. 

[Illustration: TRUFFLE-HUNTERS. ]

IN THE VALLEY OF THE VÉZÈRE. 

The spring has come again, and I am now at Les Eyzies, in the valley of theVézère: a paradise of exceptional richness to the scientific bone and flintgrubber on account of the very marked predilection shown for it by the menof the Stone Age, polished and unpolished. It is about five in the morning, and the woods along the cliffs are just beginning to catch the pale fire ofthe rising sun. Just outside my open window are about twenty chickens inthe charge of two mother hens, and as they have not been long awake, theydo their utmost to make a noise in the world like other creatures that areempty. As soon as the neighbour's door is open they enter in a body, andmarch towards the kitchen. A female voice is heard to address somethingsharply to them in patois; there is a scuffle in the passage, and all thechickens scream together as they rush before the broom into the road. Thisis how the village day opens. 

I am waiting for a man who has undertaken to show me some caverns in theneighbouring rocks. Meanwhile, another comes along, and makes mysterioussigns to me from the road. He is barefoot and ragged, and does not look asif he had a taste for regular work, but rather as if he belonged to thesomewhat numerous class who live by expedients, and have representatives inall ranks of society. He has a small sack in his hand, to which he pointswhile he addresses me in patois. I tell him to come in. The sack containscrayfish, and now I know the reason of his mysterious air, for allfishing is prohibited at this time, and he is running the gauntlet of the_garde-pêche_, who lives close by. The poor ragamuffin has been out allnight, wading in the streams, and his wife, who looks, if possible, moreeager and hungry than himself, is waiting near, keeping watch. He offershis crayfish for three sous the dozen, and I buy them of him withoutfeeling that respect for the law and the spawning season which I know Iought to have. But I have suffered a good deal from bad example. There wasa _Procureur de la République_ not far from here the other day, and thefirst thing he asked for at the hotel was fish. 

Presently the other man--the one I am waiting for--shows himself. He isa lean old soldier of the Empire, with a white moustache, kept short andstiff like a nailbrush. He is still active, and if he has any disease he isin happy ignorance of it; nevertheless, he confides to me that it is inthe legs that he begins to feel his seventy-two years. His face has a verystartling appearance. It is so scratched and torn that it makes me think ofthe man of the nursery-rhyme who jumped into the quickset-hedge; and, asit turns out, this one was just such another, only his movement wasinvoluntary. He tells me how he came to be so disfigured. He was cominghome with some cronies, at a late hour, from one of those Friendly Societymeetings which in France, as in England, move the bottle as well as thesoul, when, owing to an irregularity of the road, for which he was in noway to blame, he took an unintentional dive down a very steep bank, at thebottom of which was a dense forest of brambles. As he was quite unable toextricate himself, his companions, after a consultation, decided to haulhim up by the legs; and it was to this manner of being rescued that heattributed most of the damage done to his ears. 

[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DES EYZIES. ]

We passed under the ruined castle of Les Eyzies, which was never verylarge, because the shelf of rock on which it was built would not haveadmitted of this; but when defended it must have been almost inaccessible. The ruin is very picturesque, with the overleaning rock above, and theclustered roofs below. The village is continued up the marshy valley of theBeüne, which here joins that of the Vézère. In the face of the overleaningrocks are orifices that strike the attention at once by their shape, whichdistinguishes them from natural caverns. They have been all fashioned likecommon doors or windows on the rectangular principle, which proves thatthey are the artificial openings of human dwellings. The men who made theirhomes in the side of the precipice, and who cut the rock to suit theirneeds, must have let themselves down from the top by means of a rope. Towhat age these Troglodytes belonged nobody knows, but it is not doubtedthat they came after the flint-working savages, whose implements are foundin the natural caverns and shelters near the ground. 

We continued up the valley of the Beüne. The banks under the rocks werestarred with primroses, and from the rocks themselves there hung withcotoneaster the large and graceful white blossoms of that limestone-lovingshrub, the amelanchier. In the centre of the valley stretched the marsh, flaming gold with flags and caltha, and dotted with white valerian. Thegreen frogs leapt into the pools and runnels, burying themselves in themud at the shock of a footstep; but the tadpoles sported recklessly in thesunny water, for as yet their legs as well as their troubles were to come. I confess that this long morass by the sparkling Beüne, frequented bythe heron, the snipe, the water-hen, and other creatures that seek thesolitude, interested me more than the caverns which I had set out to see. Inevertheless followed the old man into them, and tried to admire all thathe showed me; but there was not a stalactite six inches long the end ofwhich had not been knocked off with a stick or stone. The anger thatone feels at such mutilation of the water's beautiful work destroys thepleasure that one would otherwise derive from these caves in the limestone. 

A visit, however, to the now celebrated cavern known as the Grotte deMiremont repaid me for the trouble of reaching it. It lies a few miles tothe north of Les Eyzies, in the midst of very wild and barren country. Fromany one of the heights the landscape on every side is seen to be composedof hills covered with dark forest and separated by narrow valleys. Here andthere the white rock stands out from the enveloping woods of oak, ilex, andchestnut, or the arid slope shows its waste of stones, whose nakedness thedry lavender vainly tries to cover with a light mantle of blue-gray tufts. It is these sterile places which yield the best truffles of Périgord. Sometimes trained dogs are used to hunt for the cryptogams, but, as in theQuercy, the pig is much more frequently employed for the purpose. A comicaland ungainly-looking beast this often is: bony and haggard, with a longlimp tail and exaggerated ears. A collar round the neck adds to itsgrotesqueness. 

One has to climb or descend a steep wooded hill to reach the cavern, forthe entrance is on the side of it. The _métayer_ acts as guide, and hisservices are indispensable, for there are few subterranean labyrinths soextensive and so puzzling as this. 

Although the principal gallery is barely a mile in length, there are somany ramifications that one may walk for hours without making a completeexploration of the daedalian corridors, even with the help of the guide. With sufficient string to lay down and candles to light him, a strangermight enter these depths alone and come to no harm; but if he despised thestring and trusted to his memory he would soon have reason to wish that hehad remained on the surface of the earth, where, if he lost himself, therewould be fellow-creatures to help him. Now with the sticky and tenaciousclay trying to pull off his boots at every step, now walking like a monkeyon hands and feet to keep his head from contact with the rock, he wouldgrow weary after an hour or so, and begin to wish to go home, or, at anyrate, to the hotel; but the more his desire to see daylight again tookshape and clearness, the more bewildered he would become, and farther andfarther he would probably wander from the small opening in the side of thehill. Thus he might at length hear the moan of water, and if it did notscare him, he would see by the glimmer of his solitary candle the gleamof a stream rushing madly along, then plunging deeper into the earth, toreappear nobody knows where. This cavern offers little of the beauty ofstalactite and stalagmite; but the roof in many places has a very curiousand fantastic appearance, derived from layers of flints embedded in thesolid limestone, and exposed to view by the disintegration of the rock orthe washing action of water. They can be best likened to the gnarled andbrown roots of old trees, but they take all manner of fanciful forms. 

The little house in which I am living stands almost on the spot where someparticularly precious skeletons, attributed to prehistoric men and women, were dug up about twenty years ago, when the late Mr. Christy was herebusily disturbing the soil that had been allowed to remain unmoved forages. The overleaning rock, which is separated from my temporary home onlyby a few yards, probably afforded shelter to generations of those degradedhuman beings from whom the anthropologist who puts no bridle on hishobby-horse is pleased to claim descent. Near the base is one of thosesymmetrically scooped-out hollows which are such a striking peculiarityof the formation here, and which suggest to the irreverent that acheese-taster of prehistoric dimensions must have been brought to bearupon the rocks when their consistency was about the same as that of freshgruyère. According to one theory, they were washed out by the sea, thatretired from the interior of Aquitaine long before the interesting savageswho made arrow-heads and skin-scrapers out of flints, and needles out ofbone, came to this valley and worked for M. Lartet and Mr. Christy. Otherssay that the sea had nothing to do with the fashioning of these hollows, but that they were made by the breaking and crumbling away of the morefriable parts of the limestone under the action of air, frost, and water. While members of learned societies discuss such questions with upturnednoses, a rock above them will sometimes be unable to keep its owncountenance, but, simulating without flattery one of the human visagesbelow, will wear an expression of humour fiendish enough to startle theleast superstitious of men. 

Upon the lower part of my rock is hanging the wild rose in flower, andabove it is a patch of grass that is already brown, although we are in thefirst week of May; then upon a higher grass-grown steep is a solitary ilex, looking more worthy of a classic reputation than many others of its race. Its trunk appears to rise above the uppermost ridge of bare rock, and theoutspread branches, with the sombre yet glittering foliage, are markedagainst the sky that is blue like the bluebell, as motionless as if theyhad been fixed there by heat, like a painted tree on porcelain. 

On the other side of the house is a small balcony that looks upon the road, the peaceful valley, and the darkly-wooded cliffs just beyond the Vézère. During the brief twilight--the twilight of the South, that lays suddenlyand almost without warning a rosy kiss upon the river and the reedy pool--Isometimes watch from the balcony the barefooted children of the neighboursplaying upon the white road. Poor village children! As soon as a wanderergets to know them, he leaves them never to see them again. Living ina great city is apt to dull the sensibility, and to close men up inthemselves. In a village you become forcibly interested in surroundinghumanity, and enter into the lives and feelings of others. A young womandied yesterday in child-birth, and was buried to-day. Everybody felt as ifthe awful shadow that descended upon the lonely house across the riverhad passed close to him and her, and left a chill in the heart. When theuncovered waggon bearing the deal coffin wrapped in a sheet, and having atthe head an upright cross of flowers and leaves that shook and swayed withthe jolting of this rustic hearse, moved towards the church, nearly thewhole of the population followed. Only the day before another woman wascarried along the same white road towards the little cemetery, but thecoffin then was borne upon the shoulders of four persons of her own sex. Now and again fatigue brought the bearers to a standstill; then they wouldchange shoulders by changing places. And the white coffin, moving up anddown as a waif on the swell of the sea, passed on towards the glowing west, where presently the purple-tinted wings of evening covered it. 

But the peasants are not sentimentalists--far from it. Always practical, they are very quick to perceive the futility of nursing grief, andespecially the unreasonableness of wishing people back in the world whowere no longer able to do their share of its work. A young man came intothe village with a donkey and cart to fetch a coffin for his father who hadjust died. 

'_Apé!_ I dare say he was old, ' was the reflection of our servant--aQuercynoise. If it had been the old father who had come to fetch a coffinfor the young man, she would have found something more sympathetic to saythan that. 

Sometimes at sunset I climb the rugged hill behind the house. Then thestony soil no longer dazzles by its white glitter, but takes a soft tint oforange, or rose, or lilac, according to the stain of the sky, and there isno light in the rocky South that so tenderly touches the soul as this. Herethe spurge drinks of the wine of heaven with golden lips wide open; but thehellebore, which has already lost all its vernal greenness, and is parchedby the drought, ripens its drooping seeds sullenly on the shadowy side ofthe jutting crag, and seems to hate the sun. Higher and yet far below theplateau is a little field where the lately cut grass has been thrown intomounds. Here the light seems to gain a deeper feeling, and the smallvineyard by the side holds it too. It is one of the very few old vineyardswhich, after being stricken nearly unto death by the phylloxera, haverevived, and by some unknown virtue have recovered the sap and spirit oflife. The ancient stocks gnarled and knotted, and as thick as a man's arm, together with the fresh green leaves and the hanging bunches of buds thatpromise wine, wear a colour that cannot be rightly named--a transparent, subtle, vaporous tint of golden pink or purple, which is the gift of thiswarm and wonderful light. A cricket that has climbed up one of the tendershoots strikes a low note, which is like the drowsy chirrup of a roostingbird. It is the first touch of a fiddler in the night's orchestra, andwill soon be taken up by thousands of other crickets, bell-tinkling toads, croaking frogs in the valley, and the solitary owl that hoots from thehills. Below, how the river seems to sleep under the dusky wings ofgathering dreams where the white bridge spans it! Beyond, where theblue-green sky is cut by a broken line of hill and tree, the rocks becomeanimated in the clear-obscure, and the apparently dead matter, rousing fromits apathy, takes awful forms and expressions of life. 

My small boat had been lying on the Vézère several days doing nothing, whenI decided upon a little water-faring up the stream. This canoe had beenknocked together with a few deal boards. It had, as a matter of course, a flat bottom, for a boat with a keel would be quite unsuitable fortravelling long distances on rivers where, if you cannot float in fourinches of water, you must hold yourself in constant readiness to get outand drag or push your craft over the stones. This exercise is very amusingat the age of twenty, but the fun grows feeble as time goes on. My boatwas not made to be rowed, but to be paddled, either with the shortsingle-bladed paddle which is used by the fishermen of the Dordogne, andwhich they call a 'shovel, ' or by the one that is dipped on both sides ofthe canoe alternately. There being rapids about every half-mile on theVézère, and the current in places being very strong, I realized that nopaddler would be able to get up the stream without help, and so I inducedmy landlord to accompany me and to bring a pole. He was a good-temperedman, somewhat adventurous, with plenty of information, and a full-flavouredlocal accent which often gave to what he said a point of humour that wasnot intended. The voyage, therefore, commenced under circumstances thatpromised nothing but pleasantness. It was a perfectly beautiful Mayafternoon, with a fresh north breeze blowing that tempered the ardour ofthe sun. 

The water changed like the moods of a child who has only to choose the formand manner of his pleasure. Now it pictured in its large eye, whose depthseemed to meet eternity, the lights and forms and colours of the sky, therocks, and the trees; now it leapt from the shaded quietude, and, splittinginto two or more currents, separated by willowy islets or banks of pebbles, rushed with an eager and joyous cry a hundred yards or so; then it stoppedto take breath, and moved dreamily on again. Where the water was shallowwas many a broad patch of blooming ranunculus; so that it seemed as if thefairies had been holding a great battle of white flowers upon the river. We glided by the side of meadows where all the waving grass was full ofsunshine. On the bank stood purple torches of dame's violet, and thedog-rose climbing upon the guelder rose was pictured with it in the water. On the opposite bank stood the great rocks which have caused this part ofthe river to be called the Gorge of Hell. Here human beings in perpetualterror of their own kind cut themselves holes in the face of the precipice, and lived where now the jackdaw, the hawk, the owl, and the bat are theonly inhabitants. In the Middle Ages the English companies turned the sideof the rock into a stronghold which was the terror of the surroundingdistrict. 

This fastness was called La Roque de Tayac, because the village of Tayacfaces it on the other side of the river. Although only a few fragments ofthe masonry that was formerly attached to the rock remain, the chambers cutin the solid limestone are strange testimony of the habits and contrivancesof England's lawless partisans in these remote valleys. The lowerexcavations evidently served for stables, as the mangers roughly cut inthe rock testify. The horses or mules were led up and down a steep narrowledge. A perpendicular boring, shaped like a well, connects the lowestchamber with those above, and there can be no doubt that the nethermostpart served the purpose of a well or cistern. By means of a hanging rope aman could easily pull himself up to the higher stages and let himself downin the same manner. In the event of a surprise the rope would, of course, be pulled up. Woe to those who exposed their heads in this cylindricalpassage to the stones which the defenders above had in readiness to hurldown! But the river flowing deeply at the base of the rock, no part of thefortress could have been easy of access. Such was the stronghold whichobtained so evil a reputation throughout a wide district as an almostimpregnable den of bandits and cut-throats. 

We read that the English, who had fortified themselves at the Roque deTayac, having ravaged the country of Sarlat in 1408, the men of Sarlat laidan ambush for them, and, taking them by surprise, cut them in pieces. Butthe next year, their numbers being again largely increased, they resumedtheir forays with the result that the Sarladais marched to the valley ofthe Vézère and regularly besieged the Roque de Tayac. The struggle wasmarked with great ferocity on both sides. The fortress was eventuallycaptured, but the defenders sold their lives dearly, and many of theSarladais, instead of returning to their homes, remained under the pavementof the church across the water. 

Having passed the first rapids easily, we talked, and the conversationturned upon--cockchafers! My companion had been much impressed by thestrange doings of a party of gipsy children whom he had lately passed onthe highroad. One of them had climbed up a tree, the foliage of which hadattracted a multitude of cockchafers, and he was shaking down the insectsfor the others to collect. 

But it was not this that made the teller of the story stop and gaze withastonishment; it was the use to which the cockchafers were put. As theywere picked up they were crammed into the children's mouths and devoured, legs, wings, and all. At first he thought the small gipsies were feastingon cherries. He declared that the sight disgusted him, and spoilt hisappetite for the rest of the day. In this I thought his stomach somewhatinconsistent, for I knew of a little weakness that he had for rawsnails, which, to my mind, are scarcely less revolting as food than livecockchafers. He would take advantage of a rainy day or a shower to catchhis favourite prey upon his fruit-trees and cabbages. Having relieved themof their shells, and given them a rinse in some water, he would swallowthem as people eat oysters. He had a firm belief in their invaluablemedicinal action upon the throat and lungs. His brother, he said, wouldhave died at twenty-three instead of at fifty-three had it not been forsnails. He told me, too, of a man who, from bravado, tried to swallowin his presence, and at a single gulp, one of the big pale-shelledsnails--known in Paris, where they are eaten, after being cooked withbutter and garlic, as _escargots de Bourgogne_--but it stuck in his throat, and a catastrophe would have happened but for the sturdy blow which hiscompanion gave him on the 'chine. ' That a snail-eater should criticisegipsies for eating cockchafers shows what creatures of prejudice we allare. 

After passing the Nine Brothers--a name given to nine rocks of roundedoutline standing by the water like towers of a fortress built bydemi-gods--we had our worst fight with the rapids, and were nearly beaten. It was the last push of the pole from the man behind me, when he had nomore breath in his body, that saved us from being whirled round and carriedback. Before one gets used to it, the sensation of struggling up a riverwhere it descends a rocky channel at a rather steep gradient is a littlebewildering. The flash of the water dazzles, and its rapid movement makesone giddy. There is no excitement, however, so exhilarating as that whichcomes of a hard battle with one of the forces of nature, especially whennature does not get the best of it. This tug-of-war over, we were goingalong smoothly upon rather deep water, when I heard a splash behind me, andon looking round saw my companion in a position that did not afford himmuch opportunity for gesticulation. He was up to his middle in the water, but hitched on to the side of the boat with his heels and hands. He hadgiven a vigorous push with his pole upon a stone that rolled, and he rolledtoo. Now, the boat being very light and narrow, an effort on his partto return to his former position would have filled it with water; so heremained still while I, bringing my weight to bear on the other side, managed to haul him up by the arms. After this experience, he was restlessand apparently uncomfortable, and we had not gone much farther before heexpressed a wish to land on the edge of a field. Here he took off thegarments which he now felt were superfluous, vigorously wrung the water outof them, and spread them in the sun to dry. I left him there fighting withthe flies, whose curiosity and enterprise were naturally excited by suchrare good luck, and went to dream awhile in the shadow of the rock, on thevery edge of which are the ramparts of the ruined castle of La Madeleine. This is the most picturesque bit of the valley of the Vézère; but to feelall the romance of it, and all the poetry of a perfect union of rocks andruin, trees and water, one must glide upon the river, that here is deep andcalm, and is full of that mystery of infinitely-intermingled shadow andreflection which is the hope and the despair of the landscape-painter. Now, in this month of May, the shrubs that clung to the furrowed face of thewhite rock were freshly green, and the low plaint of the nightingale, andthe jocund cry of the more distant cuckoo, broke the sameness of the greatchorus of grasshoppers in the sunny meadows. 

When I returned to my companion, I found that he was clothed again, but notin a contented frame of mind. He accompanied me as far as Tursac, and thenstarted off home on foot. He had had enough of the river. There was stillsufficient daylight for me to continue the voyage to Le Moustier, but, apart from the fact that I could not get up the rapids alone, I was quitewilling to pass the night at Tursac. 

Having chained the boat to a willow, I walked through the meadows towards agroup of houses, in the midst of which stood a church, easily distinguishedby its walls and tower. When I had arranged matters for the night, I passedthrough the doorway of this little church, under whose vault the samehuman story that begins with the christening, receives a new impetus frommarriage, and is brought to an end by the funeral, had been repeated byso many sons after their fathers. The air was heavy with the fragranceof roses from the Lady Chapel, where a little lamp gleamed on the groundbeside the altar. As the sun went down, the roses and leaves began tobrighten with the shine of the lamp, like a garden corner in the earlymoonlight. 

At the inn I met one of those commercial travellers who work about in therural districts of France, driving from village to village with theirsamples, fiercely competing for the favours of the rustic shopkeeper, doingtheir utmost to get before one another, and be the first bee that sucks theflower, taking advantage of one another's errors and accidents, but alwaysgood friends and excellent table companions when they meet. I learnt thatmy new acquaintance was 'in the drapery. ' We were comparing notes of ourexperience in the rough country of the Corrèze, when he, as he rolled upanother cigarette, said:

'I had learnt to put up with a good deal in the Corrèze, but one day I hada surprise which was too much for me. I had dined at one of those aubergesthat you have been speaking of, and then asked for some coffee. It was anold man who made it, and he strained it through--guess what he strained itthrough!'

I guessed it was something not very appropriate, but was too discreet togive it a name. 

'_Eh bien_! It was the heel of an old woollen stocking!'

'And did you drink the coffee?'

'No. I said that I had changed my mind. '

We did not take any coffee that evening. We had something less likely toset the fancy exploring the secrets of the kitchen, where, through the opendoorway, we could see our old peasant hostess seated on her little benchin the ingle and nodding her head over the dying embers of her hearth. Herhusband was induced by the traveller to bring up from the cherished cornerof his cellar a bottle of the old wine of Tursac, made from the patriarchalvines before the pestilential insect drew the life out of them. Thehillsides above the Vézère are growing green again with vineyards, andagain the juice of the grape is beginning to flow abundantly; but yearsmust pass before it will be worthy of being put into the same cellar withthe few bottles of the old wine which have been treasured up here and thereby the grower, but which he thinks it a sacrilege to drink on occasionsless solemn than marriages or christenings in the family. 

'You can often coax the old wine from them, ' said my knowing companion, 'ifyou go the right way to work. '

'And what is the secret?'

'Flattery: there is nothing like it. Flatter the peasant and you will bealmost sure to move him. Say, 'Ah, what a time that was when you had theold wine in your cellars!' He will say, '_Nest-ce pas, monsieur_?' andbrighten up at the thought of it. Then you will continue: 'Yes, indeed, that was a wine worth drinking. There was nothing like it to be foundwithin fifty kilomètres. What a bouquet! What a fine _goút du terroir_!'He will not be able to bear much more of this if he has any of the wine. Unless you are pretty sure that he has some, it is not worth while talkingabout it. Expect him to disappear, and to come back presently with adirty-looking bottle, which he will handle as tenderly as if it were a newbaby. '

Those whose travelling in France is carried out according to thedirections given in guide-books--the writers of which nurse the reader'srespectability with the fondest care--will of course conclude that thebest hotels in the wine districts are those in which the best wine of thecountry is to be had. This is an error. The wine in the larger hotels isalmost invariably the 'wine of commerce'; that is to say, a mixture ofdifferent sorts more or less 'doctored' with sulphate of lime, to overcomea natural aversion to travelling. The hotel-keeper, in order to keep ongood terms with the representatives of the wine-merchants--all mixers--whostop at his house, distributes his custom among them. Those who set valueon a pure _vin du pays_ with a specific flavour belonging to the soil, should look for it in the little out-of-the-way auberge lying amongst thevineyards. There it is probable that some of the old stock is still left, and if the vigneron-innkeeper says it is the old wine, the traveller mayconfidently believe him. I have never known in such cases any attempt atdeception. 

The next morning I reached Le Moustier. Here the valley is broad, but therocks, which are like the footstools of the hills, shut in the landscapeall around. These naked perpendicular masses of limestone, yellow likeochre or as white as chalk, and reflecting the brilliance of the sun, musthave afforded shelter to quite a dense population in the days when manmade his weapons and implements from flints, and is supposed to have livedcontemporaneously with the reindeer. Notwithstanding all the digging andsearching that has gone on of late years on this spot, the soil in theneighbourhood of the once inhabited caverns and shelters is still full ofthe traces of prehistoric man. 

Shortly before my coming, a _savant_--everybody is called a _savant_ herewho goes about with his nose towards the ground--gave a man two francs tobe allowed to dig for a few hours in a corner of his garden. The man waswilling enough to have his ground cleared of stones on these terms. The_savant_ therefore went to work, and when he left in the evening he tookwith him half a sackful of flints and bones. 

In a side valley close to Le Moustier is a line of high vertical oroverleaning rocks. A ledge accessible from the ground runs along the face, and nearly in the centre, and at the back of it, are numerous hollows inthe calcareous stone, some natural, others partly scooped out with the aidof metal implements, whose marks can still be seen. Each of these shelterswas inhabited. Holes and recesses have been cut in the walls to serve forvarious domestic purposes, and on the ground are traces of fireplaces, reservoirs for water, etc. The original inhabitants of these hollows mayhave been savages no more advanced in the arts than those who workedflints, but it is certain that the latest occupiers were much morecivilized. Rows of holes roughly cut in the limestone show where the endsof beams once rested, and the use of these timbers was evidently to supporta roof that covered much of the ledge. It is quite certain that peoplelived here in the Middle Ages, and they might do so now but for thedifficulty of bringing up water. The security which the position affordedcould hardly have been lost sight of in the days when the inhabitants ofGuyenne were in constant dread of being attacked. One must therefore beguarded against wild talk about prehistoric man in connection with theserock dwellings, which in many cases were used as fortresses during thethree hundred years' struggle between the English and French in Aquitaine. 

My waterfaring back to Les Eyzies was far easier than the voyage up-stream. Nevertheless, there was some excitement in it, for when the rapids werereached, the current snatched the boat, as it were, from me, but carried mewith it, by little reefs each marked out as an islet as white as snow, bythe floating flowers of the water ranunculus; but when its strength failed, it left me to drift where, in the dark shadow of rock and tree, the waterrested from its race. Presently the rapids were seen again dancing in thesun, and the boat, gliding on to just where the smooth surface curved andthe current took its leap without a ripple, darted forward like a startledwater-bird. Once a back current whirled my fragile boat completely round. Then I remembered the good advice of the friendly Otter at Beynac withreference to going down these streams, where the water has to be watchedwith some attention if one does not wish to get capsized: '_Tenez-voustoujours dans le plus fort du courant_. '

Again in calm water, I recognised, beyond the still grass and the scatteredflame of the poppies, the high walls of the fortress-like church of Tayac, with the light of the sinking sun upon them. Then a little lower down atthe ford, which was my stopping-place, a pair of bullocks were crossing theriver with a waggon-load of hay; so that the picturesque, the idyllic, andthe sentiment of peace were all blended so perfectly as to make me feelthat the pen was powerless, and that the painter's brush alone could savethe scene from passing away for ever. 

Tayac and Les Eyzies form one very straggling commune, and the church wherethe slain men of Sarlat lie serves for the entire population. This edificeof the eleventh and twelfth centuries deserves a brief description. Thereis much grandeur in its vast, deeply-recessed Romanesque portal, withmarble columns in the jambs and numerous archivolts. Then its high, narrowwindows, and the low, square towers, pierced with loopholes, give to itthat air of the fortress which immediately impresses the beholder. Withoutdoubt it was built like so many other churches of the same stormy anduncertain period, to be used as a place of refuge in case of danger. Theentrance to the principal tower is artfully concealed at the back of achapel at the east end, and can only be reached with a ladder. The verynarrow passage makes two or more right angles before it leads to the footof the spiral staircase--a disposition of great value in defence. 

Having heard of a cavern in the garden of the presbytery which, in thememory of living people, was the refuge of a murderer whom the gendarmeswere afraid to follow underground, because it was believed that he wouldknock them on the head one after the other while they were wrigglingthrough the passage, and then quietly walk out by a back way unknown toanyone but himself, I felt a strong desire to explore this cave of evilrepute. The idea was all the more enticing because I was assured thatnobody had entered it but the murderer. I called upon the curé, and askedhim how he felt at the prospect of a little trip underground in his owngarden. He did not seem to feel very eager for the adventure; but when Iproposed to go alone, he was too polite to let me depart with his bestwishes. He decided to accompany me. When he had put on his oldest_soutane_, we started with a packet of candles and a ball of string. 

Priests' gardens are often very interesting, and the one through whichwe now passed pleased me greatly. It was a long strip, in two or threeterraces, upon the rocky hillside. Many fruit-trees, but chiefly almond, cherry, and peach, were scattered over it. There was also a stragglingvine-trellis, from which there now spread in the June air that sweetfragrance of the freshly-opened flower-buds of which the poet-king Solomonsung. In the highest part was the cavern. We had to crawl in upon our handsand knees, and in some places to lie out almost flat. As my friend the curéinsisted upon going first, I could not help thinking that the back viewof him, as he wormed his way along the low gallery, was not exactlysacerdotal. Sometimes we passed over smooth sand--evidently left by astream that once issued here; at other times over small stones, which werebad for the knees. We kept a keen look-out for the remains of prehistoricmen and beasts, but only found the shells of eggs which a fox had probablystolen from the curé's fowl-house. There were also rabbits' bones, whosepresence there was to be explained in the same way. My companion, however, having once entered his cave, was resolved upon returning another day anddigging conscientiously in the sand, which appeared to be very deep inplaces. He may since have unearthed some pre-historic treasures there. Thecavern was interesting as showing the honeycombing effects of water onlimestone rock, but it did not lead very far into the hill. The belief thatthe murderer escaped by another opening than the one by which he enteredwas founded on fiction. 

After the cave exploration, the curé was so good as to accompany me to amysterious ruin in the neighbourhood, which he believed to be of Englishorigin, because it was always spoken of by the people of the locality asWilliam's Chapel. The English pronunciation of the name William had beenpreserved in the patois. After this, I did not doubt that his suppositionwas correct. Some Englishman was connected with the history of thebuilding; but was it really a chapel? The hill that we had to climb to itwas very high, and, although covered with herbage, almost precipitous. Thebuilding was not on the summit, but on a ledge of rock some distance downthe cliff. The ruin consisted of only a few fragments of wall, built verystrongly of well-shaped stones laid together without mortar. Holes cut inthe rock showed where the ends of beams had rested. The position wasrather one for a fortress than for a chapel; but no doubt Englishmen ofan eccentrically religious turn appeared as early as the thirteenth orfourteenth century, if not earlier. If the people of the valley climbed upto William's Chapel to say their prayers, they must have been very piousindeed. 

The strength of the current in the Vézère had turned me from my first plan, which was to ascend the river as far as Montignac, and take the road thenceto Hautefort, the birthplace of Bertrand de Born, who was put into hell byDante for having encouraged Henry Plantagenet's sons to rebel against theirfather. The sombre Florentine treated the troubadour baron with excessiveharshness, for it is recorded of Bertrand that his repentance for the sinsof his restless and agitated life was so sincere that he ended his days asa monk in the monastery of Cîteaux. [Footnote: 'Mobile, agité, comme sonaventureuse existence qui commenca au donjon d'Hautefort et s'éteintdans le silence du cloitre de Cîteaux. --'_Discours sur les célébrités duPérigord_, ' par L. Sauveroche. ]

Bertrand de Born was an evil counsellor to Henry Court-Mantel, but asingularly attractive figure of the twelfth century was this troubadournoble, whose life in the world was divided between the soothing charm ofthe '_gai sçavoir_' and the excitement of war, and who was equally at hisease whether he was holding the lance or the pen. He had the tenderestfriendship for the young Prince, and mourned his death in the best elegythat appeared at the dawn of modern literature. 

[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE HAUTEFORT. ]

Of the ancient fortress of Bertrand de Born, Viscount of Hautefort, a fewvestiges are left, which may be easily distinguished from the later masonryof the castle with which they are combined. 

[Illustration: A HOUSE AT PÉRIGUEUX. ]

IN THE VALLEY OF THE ISLE. 

It was in the full flame of noon on a hot June day that we arrived at theheadquarters which I had chosen for my second summer in Périgord. It wasa little château, of which I was to occupy a small wing, and also a lowbuilding that was quite detached--all very plain and rustic, as, indeed, most of the really old châteaux that are still inhabited are. At thisburning hour the place seemed as quiet as the ideal retreat of a literaryhermit could be. In the large old-fashioned garden, where magnolias andfirs mingled with all kinds of fruit-trees, and lettuce-beds were fringedwith balsams, golden apricots hung upon the branches that were breakingwith their weight, and seemed to say: 'There is nobody here to eat us. Weare quite tired of waiting to be gathered. '

Suddenly there was a great noise of barking, and three or four dogs thathad smelt or heard strangers rushed through the archway that led to thecourt, which was so much like a farm-yard that no one would know thedifference from the description. 

'Mees! Mees! Black! Black!' cried a voice from within. 

There was nothing in the sound of these words to cause astonishment, formost French dogs that move in good society have English names. If you wereto call out at any respectable gathering of these animals, whether in theNorth or the South, 'Fox, ' 'Stop, ' 'Black, ' 'Mees' (not Miss), the chancesare that they would all try to reply at once. 

After the dogs came bare-footed domestics of both sexes, who stared at uswonderingly, while saluting politely, and evidently not wishing to showtheir curiosity. Then, when we entered the court, we were met by a greatmany fowls, ducks, and turkeys of various ages. Not a few had apparentlyjust jumped out of their shells. Lastly came the master and mistress ofthe house, advancing in the slow and stately style of the times when thedrawbridge would have had to be lowered, but moving in the midst of thepoultry. They were gracious and hospitable, and very soon we settled down, altogether well pleased with our new quarters. 

Here we were surrounded by trees just as Robinson Crusoe was by his grovewhen it had grown tall and thick. Now, the traveller in Southern France wholingers as I am wont to linger in my wanderings, will probably have causeto pine, as I have pined, for trees about his house to shelter him from thefury of the summer sun. There are few houses that are not hovels or ruinsto be found, except where the land is fertile, and wherever it repayslabour the owner loathes a tree that produces nothing but its wood. Thuswe get those wide, burning plains, where so few trees are to be seen savepoplars along the watercourses and walnuts bordering the roads. Even thesebecome rare, as in journeying farther south the last low buttresses of therocky highlands are left behind. 

Here, close to this retreat that I had chosen on the banks of the Isle, some twenty miles below Périgueux, rose, on the opposite side of the river, high cliffs of white limestone with wooded brows. The château was on asmall island formed by a curve of the river under the cliffs, and a shortcanal drawn across the loop to facilitate the navigation of the Isle. 

A very lazy kind of navigation it was. Two or three barges would pass in aday on their way to Périgueux or Bordeaux. They were of considerable size, and were capable of some sea-faring, but their masts were now laid flat, and they were towed along at the rate of two or three yards a minute bya lean and melancholy horse that had ceased to care for cursing, and wasalmost indifferent to beating. As the navigation had been nearly killed bythe railway, the canal was allowed to fill itself with water-plants, whichwere interesting to me, but exceedingly hurtful to the temper of thebargees. They vented their fury upon the engineer, who was absent, and thehorse that was present--unfortunately for the poor brute, for somehow heseemed to be looked upon as a representative of the negligent functionary. 

'You appear to be having a bad time, ' said I one day to a great dark bargeewho was streaming from every pore, as much from bad temper as from theexertion of cracking his whip, and whose haggard horse looked as if hewould soon break off in the middle from the strain of trying to move thebarge, which was stuck in the weeds. 

'A bad time of it! I believe you. _Sacr-r-r-re!_ If I could only send thatpig of an engineer to Nouméa I should be a happy man!'

If wishes could have wafted him, he would have gone farther than NewCaledonia long before. 

One day, far on in the summer, this engineer actually appeared upon thecanal in his steam yacht, and there was great excitement in the country. The peasants left their work in the fields and ran to the banks to gaze athim. He did not go very far before he got stuck in the weeds himself. Thenhe reversed his engine, made back as fast as he could, and was seen nomore. 

But I am going on too fast. I have not yet described the château. Thepicture of it is clearly engraved upon the memory, and a very prettypicture I still think it; more so now, perhaps, than when the reality wasbefore me, for such is the way of the mind. I can see the extinguisherroofs of the small towers through openings in the foliage rising from asunny space enclosed by trees. I can see the garden, with its old dove-cotlike a low round tower, its scattered aviaries, its rambling vines thatclimb the laden fruit-trees, its firs, magnolias, great laurels, itsglowing tomatoes and melons, its lettuces and capsicums and scatteredflowers, all mingled with that carelessness which is art unconscious ofits own grace; its daedalian paths, its statues so quaintly placed inunsuspected corners, its--well, the picture is finished, for now begins theeffort to recall its details. The eye's memory is a judicious painter thatnever overcrowds the canvas. I can see on that side of the building, whichlooks upon a much wilder garden, where peach and plum trees stride overgrassy ground adjoining the filbert-grove that dwindles away into thewooded warren, a broad line of tall nettles in the shade against the wall. Hard by, on the line--so it was said--of the filled-up moat, is a row ofancient quinces, with long crooked arms, green, gray, or black with mossand lichen, stretching down to the tall grass, where in the dewy hours ofearly darkness the glow-worms gleam. 

This little château was never a stronghold to inspire an enemy with muchrespect; it was rather a castellated manor-house, dating from the timeswhen even the residences of the small nobility were fortified. Marred as ithad been by alterations made in the present century without any respect forthe past, it was still very interesting. In one of the towers, said to beof the fourteenth, and certainly not later than the fifteenth, century, wasa chapel on the ground-floor with Gothic vaulting, and which still servedits original purpose. A contemporaneous tower flanking the entrancecontained the old spiral staircase leading to the upper rooms. I oftenlingered upon it in astonishment at the mathematical science shown in itsdesign, and the mechanical perfection of its workmanship. What seemed to bea slender column round which the spiral vaulting turned was not reallyone, for each of the stone steps was so cut as to include a section of thecolumn as a part of its own block. The contrivances by which this staircase_en colimaçon_ was made to hold together, and to hold so well as to havelasted several hundred years, with a promise to continue in the same wayanother century or two, were deftly hidden from the eye of those unversedin such technicalities. In the hollow at the foot of the stairs was whatI took to be a very old and rough christening font, such as I had seen invillage churches. But it was not that; it was called a _pierre à l'huile_. Its purpose a long time ago was to receive the oil taken from the firstpressing of walnuts after the annual gathering. Then the priests came andfetched what they wanted of it to serve for the rites of the Church duringthe year. 

All this summer we lived out of doors, except at night. Even Rosalie, ourservant, did most of her cooking in the open air with the aid of a portablecharcoal stove, which she placed in the shade of some noble plane-treesthat were planted by accident on the day of Prince Louis Napoléon's _coupd'état_. They were already tall and strong when his Will-o'-the-wisp, whichhe had mistaken for a star, sank in the bloody swamp of Sedan. When therising wind announced a storm, the swaying branches shed their dry bark, which was piled upon the hearth indoors, where a cheerful blaze shot up ifby chance the rain fell and the air grew chilly. But very seldom did even ashower come to moisten the parched land and cool the heated air. Thus theplane-trees came to look upon the stove beneath them as a fixture. 

These open-air kitchens are by no means uncommon in Southern France duringthe hot months. I have a pleasant recollection of dining one scentedevening in May with my friend the Otter at Beynac in his gardenterraced upon rocks above the Dordogne. The table was under a spreadingchestnut-tree in full bloom. Not many yards away the swarthy Clodine hadher kitchen beneath an acacia. Strange as it may seem, the hissing ofher frying-pan as she dropped into it the shining fish did not mingleunpoetically with the murmur of lagging bees overhead and the soothingplaint of the river running over its shallows below. Nor, when the purpleflush faded on the water's face, and little points of fire began to showbetween branches laden with the snow of flowers, did the fragrant steamthat arose from Clodine's coffee-pot make a bad marriage with the amorousbreath of all the seen and unseen blossoms. What is there better in lifethan hours such as those?

But now I am by the Isle. The plane-trees are on the edge of a little dell, in the centre of which is a smooth space encircled by many trees, forming adense grove. A rough table has been set up here with the aid of planks andtressels. It is our dining-table, and the centre of the grove is our_salle à manger. _ Wrens and blackcaps hop about the branches of thefilbert-bushes, and when the _métayer's_ lean cat comes sneaking along, followed by a hungry kitten that is only too willing to take lessons incraft and slaughter, the little birds follow them about from branch tobranch, scolding the marauders at a safe distance, and giving the alarm toall the other feathered people in the grove. Here the nightingales warbleday and night until they get their young, when, finding that hunting forworms and grubs to put into other beaks than their own is very prosaicbusiness, they only sing when they have time to fly to some topmost twigand forget that they are married. 

When the sun is near setting, a sound very different from the warble of abird is heard close by. It is some leader of a frog orchestra in the sedgesof the canal giving the first note. It is like a quirk of gluttony justrousing from the torpor of satisfaction. The note is almost immediatelytaken up by other frogs, and the croaking travels along the canal-banks asfire would if there were a gale to help it. But the music only lasts a fewminutes, for the hour is yet too early for the great performance. The frogsare only beginning to feel a little lively. It is when the sun has gonequite down, and the stars begin to twinkle upon the water, that the ballreally opens. Then the gay tumult seems to extinguish every other sound, and to fill the firmament. Oh! they must have a high time of it, theselittle green-backed frogs that make so much noise throughout the warmnights of June. Sometimes I creep into my canoe and paddle by the light ofmoon or stars as noiselessly as I can along the fringe of sedges and flagsand bullrushes, hoping to watch them at their gambols. But the frog is avery sly reptile, and you must stay up very late indeed in order to be amatch for him in craft, unless you dazzle his eyes with the light of atorch or lantern. Then he is a fool in the presence of that which is out ofthe order of his surroundings, and his amazement or curiosity paralyzes hismuscles. It is in this way that those who want the jolly frog just to eathis hind-legs _à la poulette_ or otherwise catch him with the hand, unlessthey have the patience and the cruelty to fish for him with a hook baitedwith a bit of red flannel. 

Now I will speak of my own hermitage, my ideal nook for writing, reading, and doing nothing, which, after much wandering and vain searching, I foundat length here. Yes, I found it at last; and I much fear that I shall neverfind another like it. It lay at the back of the château, beyond the shadednettles and the ancient quinces. My ordinary way to it was through a pieceof waste, which, with unintentional sarcasm, was called the 'Little Park. 'It was overgrown by burdocks, to which it had been abandoned for years--whocould tell how many?--and was rambled over by turkeys, guinea-hens, andother poultry. Then I passed through a little gate, crossed another bit ofwaste that was neither lawn nor field, skirted a patch of buckwheat, andentered a small wood or shrubbery, where plum and filbert trees grew withoaks and beeches, until I came to water. This was the _vivier_ of thechâteau--fishpond, long drawn out like a canal, and fed by a spring, butwhich had been left to itself until it was nearly shaded over by aldersand other trees. At the end farthest from all habitations was a littlestructure built of stones, open on one side, and with small orifices inthe three remaining walls. These could be closed, and yet they were notwindows. Their purpose was much more like that of loopholes in a mediaevalbarbican. They were to enable the man inside to watch the movementsof migratory birds, and to send his shot into the thick of them when, unsuspecting danger, they chanced to come within range. The little buildingwas an _affût_. Near to it was a sort of fixed cage, intended for decoybirds, but it had long been without tenants when I took possession of thisrefuge from all the human noises of the world. The other sounds did notworry me, although they often drew me from my work. The splash of a fishwould take me to the water's edge, where I would watch the small pikeslying like straight roots that jut from the banks under water. The cooingof the little brown turtles in the trees overhead, the movements of a pairof kingfishers that would often settle close by upon an old stump, themagpies and jays, and especially the oriels, would make my thoughtswander amongst the leaves while the ink was drying in the pen. The orielstantalized me, because I could always hear them in the crests of the trees, until, about the middle of August, they went away on their long journeyto the South, but could very rarely catch sight of their gold and blackplumage. Although they will draw near to gardens to steal fruit when theyhave eaten the wild cherries, they are among the most suspicious and waryof birds. 

The oriel is a strange singer. It generally begins by screeching harshly;then follow three or four flute-like notes, which seem to indicate that thebird could be a musician if it would only persevere. But it will not takethe trouble. It goes on repeating its 'Lor-e-oh!' just as its tree-topcompanions, the cicadas, keep up their monotonous creaking. 

From my cabin I could see all the lights, colours, and shadows of the daychange and pass, but the sweetest music of the summer hours was heard whenthe soft sunshine of evening fell in patches on the darkening water, andon the green grass on each side of the brown path strewn with last year'strodden leaves. 

Sometimes a hedgehog would creep across the narrow path, shaded withnut-bushes, oaks, and alders towards the water, and at night--I was oftenthere at night--the glow-worms gleamed all about upon the ground, and therewere mysterious whisperings whose cause I could not trace. Yes, it was anideal literary hermitage, but as perfection is not to be found anywhereon land or water, even this spot had its drawback. There were too manymosquitoes. My friend the owner of the château often said to me, '_Lamoustigue de l'Isle n'est pas mêchante;_' but on this point I could notagree with him. I bore upon me visible signs of its wickedness; but incourse of time I and the '_mostique de I'Isle_' lived quite harmoniouslytogether in the little shanty under the trees. 

Where the weedy and shady avenue leading to the château made an angle withthe highroad, there was often a caravan or tilt-cart stationed for daystogether. Sometimes it was the travelling house of a tinker and his family;in which case the man was generally to be seen working outside upon hispots and pans in the shade of a tree. Sometimes it belonged to a party ofbasket and rustic-chair makers, who gathered the reeds and hazel-sticksthat they needed as they passed through the country. Some were gipsies, andsome were not; but all were baked by the sun almost to the colour of Moors. Having a taste for nomadic life myself, I used to stay and talk to thesepeople from time to time; but none of them interested me so much as thewandering cobbler and his dog, whose acquaintance I had made higher up thecountry amongst the rocks. 

I can still see them both in the shade of the old gateway; the man seatedin the entrance of the little tower, where, at the top of the spiralstaircase, is the village prison; the dog lying with his nose upon his pawsjust within the line drawn by the gateway's shadow across the dazzlingroad. They both came one evening and took up their position here with asmuch assurance as if it had been theirs by right of inheritance. They soonset to work, the man mending boots and shoes, and the dog making himselfdisagreeable to all the male members of the canine population for acouple of miles or so around. Until the cobbler's companion settled downcomfortably, he had several exhilarating fights with local dogs that lookedupon him as an intruder and an impostor. He really was both. He had nogreat courage, but he had grown impudent and daring from the day that hehad first worn a collar armed with spikes. When his enemies had taken a fewbites at this, they came to the conclusion that there was something verywrong in his anatomy. After the first encounter they were not only willingto leave him alone, but were exceedingly anxious to 'cut' him when they methim unexpectedly. They approached the gateway as little as possible; butwhen they were obliged to pass it, they drew their tails under them, showedthe whites of their eyes, and having crept very stealthily to within tenyards or so of the archway where the interloper appeared to be dozing, theymade a valiant rush towards the opening. Notwithstanding these precautions, the cobbler's dog, which had been watching them all the while out of thecorner of one eye, was often too quick for them. 

Man and dog were ludicrously alike both in appearance and character. Thebeast was one of the ugliest of mongrels, and the man might well have beenthe final expression of the admixture of all races, whose types had beentaken by destiny from the lowest grades of society. They were both grizzly, thick-set, and surly. They both seemed to have reached the decline oflife with the same unconquerable loathing of water, except as a means ofquenching thirst. The dog, although some remote bull-dog ancestor hadbequeathed him short hair, had bristles all over his face just like hismaster. They were a couple of cynics, but they believed in one another, andloved one another with an affection that was quite edifying. The dog wishedfor nothing better than to lie hour after hour near his master, hopingalways, however, for an occasional fight to keep him in health and spirits. The cobbler did nothing to make himself liked by the inhabitants, but hecould afford to work more cheaply than others who were 'established, ' andwho had a wife and children to keep; consequently the pile of old boots andshoes that looked quite unmendable rose in front of him, and for three orfour weeks he remained in the same place stitching and tapping. Havinglocked up his things at night in the tower--he had obtained permission tomake this use of it--he disappeared with his dog, and what became of themuntil next day was a mystery. 

I admired the blunt independence and practical philosophy of this homelessman. Although he was disagreeable to others, he was on good terms withhimself, and seemed quite satisfied with his lot. If, when he had named hisprice for mending a pair of shoes, anybody tried to beat him down, he wouldsay, 'Take them and mend them yourself!' His incivility obtained for him areputation for honesty, and his prices were soon accepted without a murmur. He talked to nobody unless he was obliged to do so, and by his morosenesshe came to be respected. I managed to draw him into conversation once byfeigning to be much impressed by the comeliness and amiable nature of hisdog, and he then told me that he had been wandering ever since he was a boyin Languedoc and Guyenne, stopping in a village as long as there waswork to do and then moving on to another. Wherever people wore boots orshoes--if it were only on Sundays--there was always something to be done byworking cheaply. 

The silent cobbler might have kept his open-air shop longer than he did inthe shadow of the mediaeval gateway, if his dog had not quarrelled with thesole representative of police authority for having put on his gala uniform, which included a cocked-hat and a sword. For this want of respect theanimal was imprisoned in the room of the tower, to the great joy of all theother dogs, but to the intense grief of his master, who found it impossibleto turn a deaf ear to the plaintive moans that reached him from above. Andthus it came to pass that they went away together rather suddenly in searchof a gateway somewhere else, the dog earnestly praying, after his fashion, that it might not be one with a tower. 

One June morning, soon after sunrise, twenty-seven mowers came to thechâteau to cut the grass in the great meadow lying between the river underthe cliffs and my moat--I called it mine because it was almost made over tome for the time being, together with the bit of wood and the cabin. Eachmower brought with him his scythe, an implement of husbandry which inFrance is in no danger of being classed with agricultural curiosities ofthe past. Here the reaping and the mowing machine make very little progressin the competition between manual and mechanical labour. In the southernprovinces, few owners of the soil have ever seen such contrivances. Peoplewho cling to the poetic associations of the scythe and the sickle--and whodoes not that has been awakened by their music in his childhood?--must notcry out against the laws which have caused the land of France to be dividedup into such a multitude of small properties, for it is just this thatpreserves the old simplicity of agriculture as effectually as if someidyllic poet with a fierce hatred of all machines were the autocratic rulerof the country. Whether the nation gains or loses by such a state of thingsis a question for political economists to wrangle over; but that theartist, the seeker of the picturesque, the romantic roamer, and thesentimental lover of old custom gain by it can hardly be denied. 

Some of the mowers were men of sixty, others were youths of seventeen oreighteen: all were contented at the prospect of earning nothing, but ofbeing treated with high good cheer. Now, victuals and drink are a greatdeal in this life, but not everything, and these men would not have comeon such terms had they not been moved by a neighbourly spirit. They werethemselves all landowners, or sons of landowners. Had wages been given, twofrancs for the day would have been considered high pay, and the food wouldhave been very rough. No turkeys would have had their throats cut; nocoffee and rum would have been served round. In short, this haymaking daywas treated as an annual festival. 

A goodly sight was the long line of mowers as their scythes swept round andthe flowery swathes fell on the broad mead in the tender sunshine, whilethe edges of the belt of trees were still softened by the morning mist. After the mowers, all the workers employed on the home-farm, men, women, and boys, entered the field to turn the swathes, which in a few hours weredried by the burning sun. On the morrow a couple of oxen drew a creakingwaggon into the field, and when the angelus sounded from the church-towerin the evening the haymaking was over. But I have not yet described themowers' feast. 

At about ten o'clock the big bell that hangs outside the château is rung, and the mowers, dropping their scythes, leave the field and troop into thegreat kitchen, which has changed so little for centuries. The pots and panshanging against the walls, and the pieces of bacon from the beams, havebeen renewed, but not much else. There is the same floor paved with stones, now much cracked and worn into hollows, the same hearth and broad chimneywith hanging chain; and the long table and benches stretching from end toend, although their age is uncertain, were certainly fashioned upon theexact model of others that preceded them. Richard Coeur-de-Lion, whencampaigning in Guyenne, may have sat down many a time to such a table asthis, and to just such a meal as the one that is about to be served to themowers, with the exception of the coffee and rum. 

Let us take a look into the great caldrons, which appear to have come outof Gargantua's kitchen. One contains two full-sized turkeys and severalfowls, another a leg of pork, and a third a considerable portion of a calf. Then there is a caldron of soup, made very 'thick and slab. ' Home-bakedloaves, round like trenchers, and weighing 10lb. Each, are on the sidetable, together with an immense bowl of salad and a regiment of bottlesfilled with wine newly drawn from the cask. 

In the evening, when all the grass has been cut, there is another and agreater feast. The work being done, the men linger long at the table. Then all the household is assembled in the great kitchen, including the_châtelain_ and _châtelaine_, and the young men who are known to havevoices are called upon to sing. They do not need much pressing, for whatwith the heat of the sun during the day, then the wine, the coffee and rum, their blood is rushing rather hotly through the veins. One after anotherthey stand up on the benches and give out their voices from their sturdychests, which are burnt to the colour of terra-cotta. They make so muchnoise that the old warming-pan trembles against the wall. Although theyall speak patois among themselves, they are reluctant to sing the songs ofPérigord in the presence of strangers. The young men are proud of theirFrench, bad as it is, and a song in the café-concert style of music andpoetry fires their ambition to excel on a festive occasion like this, whilst their patois ditties seem then only fit to be sung at home or in thefields. At length, however, they allow themselves to be persuaded, andthey sing in chorus a 'Reapers' Song, ' composed long ago by some unknownPérigourdin poet, who was perhaps a jongleur or a troubadour. The notes areso arranged as to imitate the rhythmic movements of the reaper: first thedrawing back of the right arm, then the stroke of the sickle, and lastly, the laying down of the cut corn. There is something of sadness as well asof joy in the repeated cadences of the simple song, and it moves the heart, for now the old men join in, and the sound gathers such strength that thelittle martins under the eaves must be pressing troubled breasts againsttheir young. 

This château had remained in the same family for centuries, and the actualowner, although by no means indifferent to the noble exploits of hisancestors, had long ago settled down to the life of an agriculturalgentleman, and devoted what energy may have come down to him from theCrusaders to the cultivation of tobacco, the improvement of stock, therearing of pigeons and poultry, the planting of trees, and a great dealmore belonging to the same order of interest. He was a strongly marked typeof the _gentilhomme campagnard_, in whom blue blood combines perfectly withrustic tastes and simplicity of manners. Like most men who live greatly tothemselves, he had his hobbies, and they were all of a very respectablekind. One was to surround himself with trees; another was to have all kindsof captive birds about him. I was never able to know exactly how manyaviaries he possessed, for I was always finding a fresh one curiouslyhidden in some neglected corner. He liked to mix up all sorts of birdstogether, such as pigeons, doves--tame and wild--blackbirds, linnets, canaries, chaffinches, sparrows, tomtits--no, the tomtits had been turnedout. I asked why. 

'Because, ' said M. De V. , 'there is no bird so wicked for its size as thetitmouse. It pecks other birds with which it is shut up so often in thesame part of the head that at length it makes a hole and picks out thebrains. '

He used to catch his birds by means of a long net, and his favourite placefor spreading it was along the side of the patch of buckwheat which wassown to feed the captives. He was a true lover of birds, and by observingthem had stored up in his mind a fund of curious knowledge respecting theircharacters and habits. He only worked a portion of his land with the aidof the servants of the château; the rest was farmed on the system of_métayage_, for which he had a very strong liking. He said it was farpreferable from the landlord's point of view to leasing, because the ownerof the soil remained absolute master of his property. He could take carethat nothing was done which did not please him, for the _métayer_ or_colon_ was on no firmer footing than that of an upper servant. If thelandlord was not satisfied with the manner in which his land was treated, or if he suspected his _métayer_ of trying to take an unfair advantage ofhim in the division of proceeds, all he had to do was to change him foranother. But it was the interest of both to work well together, and itwas the duty of the landlord to assist the _métayer_ as much as possible, especially when times were hard. 

On this estate the _colons_ were housed free, but they paid one-third ofthe taxes. At the time of sowing, the seed was found by the landlord, butthe colon returned half of the amount when the crop was gathered. 

_Métayage_, or the system of sharing results between the landowner and thelabouring peasant, still flourishes in France, notwithstanding the severedenunciations passed upon it by various writers. If it were a very badsystem, it would have fallen into disuse long before now, for although theFrench have a tendency to keep their wheels in old ruts, they are as keenas any other people in protecting their own interests. It is a system thatwould soon become impossible without trustfulness and honesty. On bothsides there must be fair dealing. The _colon_ must feel that the landlordwill help him in time of trial and need, and the landlord must feel thatthe _colon_ is not trying to cheat him. In the great majority of cases, theman who does the ploughing, the sowing and the harvesting quite realizesthat honesty with him is the best policy, and the owner of the soil knowsthat it is to his interest to support his _métayer_, and encourage him withjudicious aid when the times are bad. The _métayer_, who has hope of makinga little money over and above what is barely sufficient to support himselfand his family, and knows that results will depend largely upon hisown sagacity and industry, works with a steady zeal that it would beunreasonable to expect of the hired labourer, who, having his measuredwage always in his mind's eye, has no incentive to do more than what isrigorously expected of him. 

It may happen that the _métayer_, with all his labour--carried sometimesto an extreme that degrades the man physically and mentally--and allhis frugality, which so often entails constitutional enfeeblement anddegeneration, because the nutrition is not sufficient to correct theexhaustion of toil, obtains really less value for his work than an Englishfarm labourer, and is not so well housed; but, on the other hand, he enjoysa large amount of liberty and independence, and has the hope, if he isyoung, of being able to save money, buy some land, and become his ownmaster. A _métairie_ is seldom so large as to be beyond the workingcapabilities of a man and his family. In Guyenne an estate of a fewhundred acres, if the land is productive, is often divided up into several_métairies_. 

Farm labourers are not an overfed or overpaid class in Périgord. Food thatis almost bread and vegetables, and a wage of one franc a day, are theordinary conditions on which men work from sunrise to darkness. Lodging isnot always included. I have known men in the full vigour of life earningonly the equivalent of ninepence halfpenny a day, paying rent out of it, and presumably supporting a wife and children. 

The daily life at the château was quite old fashioned in its simplicity. Everybody rose with the sun, or very soon afterwards. At nine o'clock thebell in the court rang for the principal meal, which was called dinner. Kings dined at about the same hour in the times of the Crusaders. Early inthe afternoon the bell rang again. This was for _collation_, a very lightrepast, which was often nothing more than salad or fruit and a _frotte_--apiece of crusty bread rubbed with garlic. At about seven o'clock the bellrang for supper. 

The small châteaux with which the whole country hereabouts is strewn, notwithstanding that most of them have been partially rebuilt or grosslyand wantonly mangled without a purpose such as the rational desire ofincreasing homely comfort may excuse, even when combined with no respectfor the past, nevertheless contain numerous details that call up in themind pictures of the life of old France. In the rat-haunted lofts andlumber-rooms may still be seen, worm-eaten and covered with dust, the_cacolet_--a wooden structure shaped like the gable roof of a house, andwhich, when set upon a horse's back, afforded sitting accommodation for twoor three persons on each side. There are people who can still remember, onthe roads of Périgord, the _cacolets_ carrying merry parties to marriagefeasts and other gatherings. In a few of the great dining-rooms the visitorwill still notice the _alcôve volante_--a bedstead, that is a little housein itself, put into a cosy quiet nook where a person can get into bedwithout being observed by others in the room. A pretty sentiment caused itto be especially reserved for the grandmothers, who, stretched upon thewarm feathers on the winter evenings, could rest their weary limbs whilelistening to the talk of their descendants and friends, until drowsinessbegan to make confusion of the present and the past, and then they wouldpull the cords which closed the curtains and go to sleep. Poor old ladies, now in their graves under the paving-stones of little churches or beneaththe grass of rural cemeteries, how happy for them that they did not dreamof the future in their snug alcôves near the fire--of a revolution thatwould kill or scatter their descendants, and of the strangers to theirblood who would lie in their beds!

The detached dovecot is seen in almost every old manorial garden. Althoughpigeons are seldom kept in it, the structure has been preserved because ofits usefulness for various purposes and the solidity of its masonry. Insome of them is to be seen the old spiral ladder or staircase winding likea serpent round the interior wall from the ground to the domed or pointedroof. By means of this ladder the pigeons could be easily taken from theirnests as they were wanted. These great dovecots are an interesting remnantof feudalism. Down to the Revolution the right of keeping pigeons was stilla _droit seigneurial_. To those who enjoyed the privilege, the business wastherefore a profitable one, for the birds fed largely at other people'sexpense. 

It is rare to find the ancient walls and towers which stud the hills thatrise above these valleys in the hands of families who owned them even inthe last century. Terror of the Revolutionists caused most of the smallnobility of the country to forsake their homes and lands, which wereconsequently sold by the State _révolutionnairement_, and they who acquiredthem were thrifty, sagacious people of the agricultural, mercantile, orofficial class, whose political principles bent easily before the wind thatwas blowing, and whose savings enabled them to profit by the misfortunes ofthose who had so long enjoyed the advantages of a privileged position. Thedescendants of the men who seized their opportunity, and who purchased theestates of the refugees--often at the price 'of an old song'--generallycultivate anti-Republican politics, for they have the best of reasons tobe suspicious of the 'great and glorious principles' by virtue of whichproperty was made to change hands so unceremoniously at the close of thelast century. 

The present owners of most of the country houses in Périgord, whether theybelong to the old families or the new families, whether they put the nobleparticle before their names or not, have very much the same habits andmanners. Not a few of them have never been to Paris, and in speech theyoften use old French forms, which sound strange in the ears of themodernized society of the North. Although the accent is often drawlingor sing-song, their language is more grammatically correct than that nowordinarily used in conversation. They observe the true distinction of thetenses with an exactitude that sounds stiff and pedantic to those Frenchpeople who move about, and who consider that they live in the 'world. ' Tothe unprejudiced foreigner, however, it is not unpleasant to hear thisold-fashioned literary French spoken in an easy, simple manner that removesall suspicion of affectation. 

In the relations of master and servant, something of the old régime stillsurvives. The master still says _tu_ and _toi_ to his servant; but if thelatter were to take the liberty of replying with the same pronoun, hisinsolence would be considered quite unpardonable. And yet no people appearto be troubled less with false pride than the class of whom I am speaking. Relatively large landowners, whose names count for a good deal in thedistrict, think there is nothing derogatory in sending a maidservant tomarket to sell the surplus fruit and eggs. Those who buy are equallypractical. They haggle over sous with their friends' servant just as if shewere a peasant driving a bargain on her own account. It is the exception, however, when to this keen appreciation of money warm-hearted hospitalityand disinterested kindness are not joined. 

There was a château combining the country house, the farm, and the ruin onthe summit of the steep hill that rose above our little island just beyondthe river. It often tempted me to climb to it, and one day at the endof summer I wended my way up the stony path. I met with that courteousreception which so rarely fails in France to place the visitor completelyat his ease. I was surprised to find how extensive the ramparts were, andhow easily the castle behind the modern house could have been renderedhabitable. But all the windows were open to the weather. A Gothic chapelwith groined vaulting at the base of one of the towers had been turned intoa coach-house. Following an old servant who carried a lantern along a darkpassage leading to an _oubliette_, I saw what looked like a large cattletrough, and inquired the use of it in such a place. It was put to nopurpose now, was the reply, but it was intended for keeping a whole bullockin salt. In the tumultuous ages it was always necessary to be prepared totake immediate measures in view of a siege, and at no period more thanduring the wars of religion, when the owners of these castles, whether theywere Huguenots or Catholics, had to be continually on the alert. When therewas fighting to be done, a salted bullock gave less trouble than a liveone. 

The old man, having tied a string to the top of the lantern, let it downthrough the round hole of the _oubliette_ until it touched the ground manyfeet below. Then he told me that, when the dungeon was discovered yearsago, immediately beneath the opening an old tree was found stuck about withrusty blades and spikes, with their points turned upwards. This story wasconfirmed by others. 

In the garden on the edge of the cliff the myrtle flourished in a littleProvence sheltered from the cold winds; the physalis--beautiful southernweed--now laid its large bladders of a vivid scarlet along the edges of thepaths, and the walls flamed with the red fruit of the pomegranate. 

The most important feudal ruin in this district is that of the Châteaude Grignols, the cradle of the Talleyrand family. It was raised by HélyTalleyrand, Seigneur de Grignols, at the close of the twelfth century. Muchof the outer wall and a few fragments of the interior buildings remain. 

I lived a good deal upon the water when I was not in my hermitage under thetrees or wandering across country. I found in the water an ever-growinginterest and charm. It often drew me from my work, for my canoe was on thecanal only a few paces from my dwelling. On each side the high banks wereglorious with their many-coloured clothing of summer flowers. There werepatches of purple thyme, of blue stachys, and yellow gallium; there werecountless spikes of yellow agrimony and heads of wild carrot, and whiteox-eyes looked out from amidst the long grasses like snowflakes of summer. Near the water's edge, mingling with sedges, flags, marsh-mallows, bur-reed, and alisma, were the golden flowers of the shrubby lysimachiain dense multitudes, while from the canal itself rose many a spike ofwater-stachys, with here and there blossoming butomus, near the fringe ofthe banks. Then there were the pond-weeds, and other true water-plants, whose summer luxuriance nearly stopped the navigation of the canal, andwhose pollen in July, collecting near the locks, lay there upon the waterlike a thick scum. As my little boat moved over them, I could note all thewondrous beauty and delicacy of the strange foliage that lives below theair, and preserves so much of the character of the earliest vegetation ofthe earth. 

It is twilight, and I am paddling up to the river, gliding now along by onebank and now by another. A humming-bird moth, that seems to have been justcreated, for the eye cannot follow its movement in the dusky air, appearssuddenly upon the topmost flower of a stachys, and in another moment it hasvanished. Upon the broader and more open river the day appears to revive. There is a faint lustre upon the distant chalky hills and their corn-fieldsthat rise against the quiet sky. But the pale moon just above them isbrightening; already the rays are glinting upon the water. A little laterthe boat is moving up a long brilliant track, where small waves lap andquiver like liquid fire. It is now night, and the forms of the alders inthe air and on the water have become weird and awful. I often come aloneat this hour, or later, to be filled with the horror of them. There is astrong fascination in their terrible and fantastic shapes, which may bebecause the sublime and the horrible are so thinly separated. Rarely doesthe same tree wear the same ghostly appearance when seen a second time, anda shape that may seem to one person appallingly life-like may convey nomeaning to another. 

Had the gendarmes met me while water-wandering at night, they wouldcertainly have concluded that I was a fish-poacher. All fishing by nightin French rivers and streams is illegal, but it is much practisednotwithstanding. 

There are many carp in the Isle, weighing from fifteen to twenty pounds, but they are very rarely caught. The river is full of very deep pools, caused by the washing away of the sand down to the solid rock, and the carpseldom get within reach of a net except when they are stirred up and washedout of their lairs in time of flood. Then, when an old fish gets entangledin a net, it is almost certain to break through it, so that it is not witha feeling of pure pleasure that the fisherman recognises by the weight andtug that he has thrown his meshes over one of these monsters. Nor does anybetter success attend the angler--at all events, the angler who is known inthese parts. It is quite an extraordinary event when a carp weighing morethan five pounds is taken with the line. The bait commonly used is boiledmaize or a piece of boiled chestnut. There is another method of hookingthese fish which I have seen practised on the quays at Périgueux. Thefisher has a very strong rod, and also a strong line many yards long, atthe end of which is fastened, not a bait, but a piece of lead two or threeinches in length. To this large hooks are fixed, which barbs turned in alldirections. The man, whose eyes have become very keen with practice, seessome carp coming up or going down the stream, and, throwing the plummet farout into the river, he draws it rapidly through the water, across the spotwhere he believes the fish then to be. It is not often that he feels a tug, but he does sometimes, and then follows a deadly struggle, which may resultin his landing a splendid carp that is worth more than he might earn by anyother industry in two days. 

Among the peasants in this part of Périgord there is a deeply-engrainedsuperstitious horror of what is called a _rencontre_. If a person fallssuddenly ill, especially if his sickness be not a familiar ailment, he willbegin to probe his memory, and to ask himself if he has lately sat upon astone or the stump of a tree. If he remembers having done so, he murmurs, unless he should be free from the popular superstition, 'Ah! I thought so. This is a _rencontre!_'--by which he means that he has met one of the threeunholy reptiles, the snake, the toad, or the lizard, although it was hiddenunder the stone or stump. 

'Marie, ' said I to an old farm woman who was hobbling about with arheumatic leg, 'what is the matter?'

Oh, mossieu, ' said she, 'it's a _rencontre_. I sat down the other day upona stone. '

This made me inquire what was meant by a _rencontre_. 

I will only set down a few impressions of Périgueux, there being alreadyquite enough written respecting the ancient capital of the Petrocorii. The upper part of the town commands a pleasant view of the valley of thecurving Isle, with the wooded hills that lead away towards the upper andwilder country of Périgord; but it is in the lower town near the river, where the odours are strong, that the interest really lies. Here is thecathedral of St. Front, a church in the Byzantine style of the tenthcentury, and closely imitated from St. Mark's at Venice. It is impossibleto see it now, however, without regret and disappointment. In many it stirsboth sorrow and anger. It is no longer one of the most precious monumentsof old France. What we see now on the site of St. Front is a new church, scrupulously rebuilt, it is true, according to the original plan, and witha great deal of the original material, but its interest is that whichbelongs to a model: its venerable character, with all the associations ofthe past, is gone. Whether those responsible for the complete demolition ofthe ancient structure when it threatened to fall and become a heap of ruinswere right or wrong in their decision is a technical question on which veryfew persons are now competent to give an opinion. The plan of the church isa Greek cross, and, like St. Mark's and St. Sophia's, it has five domes;but the building has, nevertheless, a feature of its own which makes it oneof the most original of churches. It possesses a Byzantine tower. 

[Illustration: THE TOUR DE VÉSONE. ]

In common with many towns of Southern France, Périgueux shows remarkablevestiges of different races and dominations. Remnants of Roman orGallo-Roman architecture stand with others that belong to the dawn ofmediaeval art, and others, again, that are marked by the florid andgraceful fancy of the Renaissance. The ruins of the amphitheatre areinsignificant compared to those at Nimes and Arles, and there is nobeautiful example of Roman art like the Maison Carrée at Nimes; but thereis an exceedingly curious monument of antiquity, which was long a puzzle toarchaeologists, but which is now generally believed to be the _cella_ ofa Gallo-Roman temple dedicated to the city's tutelary divinities. It iscalled the Tour de Vésone, and, indeed, it was supposed for centuries tohave been originally a tower. Its cylindrical shape and its height (ninetyfeet) give it all the appearance of one. It is built of rubble, facedinside and out with small well-shaped stones, and has chains of brick inthe upper part. The circle of the tower is no longer complete, for about afourth of the wall has been broken down from top to bottom. The groundis strewn with fragments of immense columns and entire capitals, someCorinthian, others Tuscan. These, doubtless, were parts of the peristyle, which, with the exception of such scattered fragments, has quitedisappeared. There is something decidedly barbaric in the fantasticstructure that has come down to us, and it is difficult to understand themotive of its height. Such a cylinder rising far above the peristyle couldnot have had a classic effect. This ruin stands in an open field, and thefoulness of the spot, although quite in accordance with the Southern mannerof showing respect for antiquities, is nevertheless a disgrace to theideals of modern Vesunna. 

Another curiosity of the lower town is the ruin of a very early mediaevalcastle, said to have been built by Wulgrin, surnamed Taillefer, the firstof the hereditary Counts of Périgord. Close to this picturesque ruin isone of the ancient gateways of the town. It goes by the name of La PorteNormande, but its slightly pointed arch disposes of the suggestion that theNormans were in some manner concerned in its construction. 

[Illustration: THE 'NORMAN GATE' AT PÉRIGUEUX. ]

What interested me most at Périgueux was something that very few strangers, or even townspeople, for that matter, ever see, because, it is hidden frompublic view. This is a considerable fragment of one of the early wallsof the town, which, tradition says, was thrown up in great haste at theapproach of the Normans during one of the incursions of these adventurersup the valley of the Dordogne and, its tributary, the Isle, in the tenthcentury. It is a bit of wall that speaks to us in a language by no meanscommon. It is not built of stones such as could be found anywhere in allages, but is put together with the fragments of temples and palaces whicheven now tell of the power and splendour of Rome. The shafts of flutedcolumns, capitals wearing the acanthus, pieces of cornice and frieze, allmortared together with undistinguishable rubbish, bear testimony in thequiet garden of the Ursuline convent to the vanity of human works. Vesunna, splendid city of Southern Gaul, completely Latinized, with native poets, orators, and historians speaking and writing the language of Virgil andCicero, raised temples, palaces, thermae, and a vast amphitheatre to beused centuries later as material for building a wall to keep out theNorthern barbarians!

[Illustration: THE DRONNE AT BOURDEILLES. ]

FROM PÉRIGUEUX TO RIBERAC (BY BRANTÔME). 

From Périgueux I made my way to Brantôme in the neighbouring valley of theDronne--a tributary of the Isle, which nobody who has not stifled the loveof beauty in his soul can see without feeling the sweet and winning charmof its gracious influence. Between the two valleys are some fifteen milesof chalky hills almost bare of trees, a dreary track to cross at any time, but especially detestable when the dust lies thick upon the white road andthe summer sun is blazing overhead. But how delightful is the contrastwhen, going down at length from these cretaceous uplands, where even thepotato plants look as if they had been whitewashed, you see below theverdant valley of the Dronne, that seems to be blessed with eternal spring, the gay flash of the winding stream, the grand rocks that appear to bestanding in its bed, and the cool green woods that slope up to the skybeyond! The pleasure grows as you descend, and when at length you reach thelittle town you are quite enchanted with the grace and elegance, the poeticand romantic charm, of the scene. Although the church, with its tower halfbuilt upon a rock, dates from the eleventh and twelfth centuries, theinfluence of the sixteenth century is so strong that no other is felt. Theeye follows the terraces with graceful balustrades in the shadow of oldtrees, dwells on the fanciful Renaissance bridge, that looks as if itsfirst intention was to span the stream in the usual manner, but, havinggone some distance across, changed its mind, and turned off at an abruptangle; then the little pavilion in the style of Francis I. , connected witha machicolated gateway, fixes the attention. There is something in the airof the place which calls up the spirit of Shakespeare, of Spenser, andof all the poets and romancers of the sixteenth century; you feel thateverything here belongs to them, that you are in their world, and thatthe nineteenth century has nothing to do with it. Upon these balustradedterraces, beside the limpid river full of waving weeds, you can picturewithout effort ladies in farthingales and great ruffs, gentlemen in highhose and brilliant doublets; you can almost hear the lovers of threecenturies ago kissing under the trees--lovers like Romeo and Juliet, whokissed with a will and meant it, and who were afraid of nothing. ButBrantôme has clearer and more precise associations with letters thansuch as these, which belong purely to the imagination. Its name has beeninextricably entangled with literature by Pierre de Bourdeilles, Seigneurde Brantôme, author of the famous and scandalous 'Mémoires'--terriblechronicles of sixteenth-century venality, intrigue, and corruption, writtenin a spirit of the gayest cynicism. Brantôme--he is known to the world byno other name now--was the spiritual as well as the temporal lord here, forhe was abbot of the ancient abbey which was founded on this spot in theeleventh century or earlier. His ecclesiastical function, however, wasconfined to the enjoyment of the title and benefice, for if ever man waspenetrated to the marrow by the spirit of worldliness, it was Pierre deBourdeilles. What he has written about the women of his time is somethingmore than the critical observations of a chronicler who was also a causticanalyst of the female character. Such was his cynicism that he, the Abbotof Brantôme, laughed in his sleeve at the horrible strife of Catholics andHuguenots in his own and neighbouring provinces. It is true that he foughtat Jarnac against Coligny, but the admiral had met him in the court of theValois before these wars, and knew him to be an _abbé joyeux_, withoutprejudices, if ever there was one. The astute chronicler played his cardsso well as to keep on safe terms with both sides, and it was by thisdiplomacy of their lord and abbot that the inhabitants of Brantôme escapedthe sword and the rope when Coligny and his terrible German mercenariesentered the weakly-defended place on two occasions in 1569. On the first ofthese Coligny was accompanied by the young Henry of Navarre and the Princeof Orange. They were all made very welcome by Brantôme, and treated by himwith 'good cheer' in his abbey. He was rewarded for his diplomatic talent, for he tells us that no harm was done to his house, nor was a single imageor window broken in the church. No doubt he had turned to good profit hisdistant relationship with Madame de Coligny. On the second occasion theadmiral merely hurried through Brantôme with his _reîtres_ in full flightafter the bad defeat at Montcontour. 

The abbey church of Brantôme is not without beauty, but it is the towerthat is the truly remarkable feature. It was raised in the eleventhcentury, and although the architect--probably a monastic one--observed theprevailing principle of Romanesque taste, he showed so much originality inthe design that it served as a model, which was much imitated in the MiddleAges. It is not only one of the oldest church towers in France, but itsposition is one of the most peculiar, it being built, not on the church, but behind it, and partly grafted upon the rock. 

[Illustration: THE ABBEY OF BRANTÔME. ]

Of the old abbey little remains; but there is a cavern, formerly incommunication with the conventual buildings, which contains sculptures cutupon the rock in relief, which are a great curiosity to ecclesiologists. They are the work of the monks, who used this old quarry as a chapel, and, it would appear, likewise as an ossuary in a limited sense, if the rows ofsquare holes cut in the rock were to serve as niches for skulls, as somehave maintained. One of the compositions in relief has given rise todiscussion among archaeologists. The first impression that it conveys isthat of an exceedingly uncouth representation of the Last Judgment, butthe Marquis de Fayolle's explanation, namely, that the idea which thesculptor-monk endeavoured to work out here was the triumph of Death overLife, meets with fewer objections. There are three figures or headssymbolizing Death, of which the central one wears a diadem that bristleswith dead men's bones. Immediately below is Death's scutcheon emblazonedwith allegorical bearings. On each side of this is a row of heads risingfrom the tomb, in which a pope, an emperor, a bishop, and a peasant areto be recognised. In the middle part of the composition are two kneelingangels blowing trumpets, and above these is a vast and awful figure, apparently unfinished, and scarcely more human in its shape than somestalagmites I have met underground. Are we to see here the Eternal Father, or Christ sitting in final judgment? It depends upon the interpretationplaced upon the work of the monk, who, with slow and painful effort, gavefantastic life to his solemn thoughts in the gloom of this old quarry, fromwhich stone had been taken to build the church. He was a rude artist, suchas might have belonged to the darkest age, but certain ornamental detailsof the bas-relief indicate that he was a man of the sixteenth century. Thewalls of the cavern have been blackened by the damp, and these awful shapesreveal themselves but slowly to the eye, so that they look like a vague anddreadful company of ghosts advancing from the darkness. 

A visit to this sepulchral cavern gives an appetite for lunch at the goodinn which is hard by, and at whose threshold sits or did sit a very fat, broad-faced landlord, seemingly fashioned upon the model of an idealtapster of old time. Here a _friture_ of the famous gudgeons of the Dronneis placed before the guest, whether the fishing be open or closed, and amagistrate would feel as much aggrieved as anybody if the law were notlaughed at when its observance would lay a penalty upon his stomach. Atthe hospitable board of this inn I made the acquaintance of a somewhateccentric gentleman who lived alone in a large old house, where he pursuedthe innocent occupation of hatching pheasants with the help of hens. Inalmost every room there was a hen sitting upon eggs or leading about abrood of little pheasants. This gentleman was more sad than joyous, for hecould not take his handkerchief from his pocket without bringing out thecorpse of a baby pheasant with it--one that had been trodden to death by atoo fussy foster-mother. I owe him a debt for having led me a charming walkby moonlight to see a dolmen--the largest and best preserved of all those Ihad already seen in Southern France and elsewhere. 

It was not without a little pang that I broke away from the spell ofcoquettish Brantôme and began my wanderings down the valley of the Dronne. A few miles below the little town the stream passes into the shadow ofgreat rocks. I looked at these with something of the regret that one feelswhen awaking from a long dream of wonderland. I knew that they were almostthe last vestiges towards the west, in the watershed of the Gironde, ofthe stern jurassic desert, gashed and seamed with lovely valleys, and deepgorges full of the poet's 'religious awe, ' where I had spent the greaterpart of three long summers. And now, on the outskirts of the broad plain orgradual slope of undulating land that leads on from the darker and rockierPérigord, through the greenness of the lusty vine--led captive from the NewWorld and rejoicing in the ancient soil of France--or the yellow splendourof the sunlit cornfields, towards the sea that rolls against the pine-claddunes, I felt tempted to turn from my course and go back to my naked cragsand stone-strewn wastes. But I did not go back. Life being so short in thisworld of endless variety, we cannot afford to return upon our path. 

A little beyond where the double line of rocks ended, I saw a round towerof unusual height with machicolations and embattlements, in apparentlyperfect preservation, rising from the midst of what once must have been afortress of great strength, which on the side of the river had no need of amoat, for it was there defended by the escarped rock, to the edge of whichthe outer ramparts were carried. This was the castle of Bourdeilles, theseat of the family of which the Abbé de Brantôme was a younger son. I wassoon able to get a closer view of it. It is one of the most instructiveremnants of feudalism in Périgord, and one of the most picturesque, by thecontrast of its great gloomy keep and frowning ramparts with the peacefulbeauty of the valley below. The tall _donjon_, 130 feet high, and most ofthe outer wall, are of the fourteenth century. The inner wall encloses asixteenth-century mansion, marked with none of the picturesqueness of theRenaissance period, but heavy and graceless. In the interior, however, aresculptured chimney-pieces and other interesting details. This residence wasbuilt by the sister-in-law of Pierre de Bourdeilles. The burg itself, whichlies close to the castle and is much embowered with trees, has something ofthe open, spacious, and decorative air of Brantôme. It tells the strangerthat it has known better days. The broad terrace, planted with trees so asto form a _quinconce_, where the people stroll and gossip in the summerevenings, is quite out of keeping with a little place that has scarcelymore than a thousand inhabitants. 

[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE BOURDEILLES. ]

Near the castle gateway is the 'Logis des Sénéchaux, ' a small building ofthe fifteenth century with turrets capped by extinguisher like roofs, andwithin a stone's throw of this is a small church, dating from the twelfthcentury, the artistic interest of which has been lamentably deteriorated byrenovation and scraping. The influence of the Byzantine cathedral that rosein the old Roman city by the Isle spread far, and numerous churches inPérigord bear witness to the imitative zeal which it inspired, especiallyin the application of domes to the vaulting of the nave. This arrangementis frequently to be found in connection with the pointed arch, and such isthe case at Bourdeilles. The apse is beautiful, with its five tall windowsand its columns with Corinthian capitals in the intervening wall spaces. Although the church is in no style that is recognised as pure, it istypical of one that has been developed in the district, and which is by nomeans without grace; but the scraping that it has undergone has robbed itof the proper tint and tone of its age, and the ideal interest that belongsto this. 

But here is something from which the gray mantle that the centuries havesilently spun has not been lifted. I have gone down to the waterside tofollow the stream onward, and am held by the quiet charm of a half Gothicbridge that was thrown across it five or six hundred years ago; themiller's house just below, with its bright little garden flaming withflowers a few inches above the water, and two great wheels turning slowly, slowly, as if time and change and the rush of life were the vain words oftiresome fools. On the side of the bridge looking up-stream, each pier isbuilt out in the form of a sharp angle This was intended to lessen the pushof the current upon the masonry in time of flood. A great many old bridgesin Guyenne show a similar design. 

My road had now on one side the reedy Dronne, and on the other overleaningrocks topped with trees or shrubs, whose foliage reached downward as if itwere ever troubled by the futile longing to touch the cool green water, andevery little ridge or shelf was marked out by a line of ancient moss. Old alders had plunged their roots deep into the banks of the river, andwherever the sunshine struck upon the upper leaves was a cicada scratchingout its monotonous note in joyous frenzy. 

A long range of densely-wooded, rocky cliffs now stretched along the rightbank; but I, keeping to the road on the other side, soon left the streamand rose upon a hill dotted with low juniper bushes. The scene in thewidening valley below was full of summer light and gladness. Men weremowing, and women were turning the fallen swathes in the waterside meadows, and upon all the slopes above were patches of yellow corn ready for thesickle. In the green depth between the hills the river flowed vaguely on inthe shadow of tall poplars, and was sometimes hidden by its reeds. 

Here and there upon the higher ground, half concealed by walnut-trees, weresmall châteaux or farmhouses, with a castellated air derived from greatdovecots and towers, which last once served for the defence of themanor-house or the little castle. When the fury of the religious warsfollowed upon that tidal wave of dilettantism and sensuality which sweptover Europe from the south to the north, and which we call the Renaissance, and when Huguenots and Leaguers gave such frequent dressings of blood tothe vineyards of Périgord, every house and church that was in any wayfortified was used as a stronghold in the event of sudden attack. 

From the broad landscape I turn to the wayside flowers: the agrimony, thelittle lotus, the candy-tuft--getting rare now that I have left the aridstony region--the blue scabious, and, pleasanter than all, the purplepatches of dwarf thyme. 

It was not yet evening when I came to Lisle, a rather large village nearthe Dronne. Here I fell in with a plasterer, and he being a good-temperedman, with some spare time on his hands, he offered to show me before dinnerthe picturesque ruin of an old bridge, known in the district as the Pontd'Ambon. On our way to the river he talked much, and especially about hisvillage, in which he took a very lively interest. It had not changed itsprinciples, he said, for a hundred years. 

'And what are its principles?'

'Republican. We don't go to church here, although there is no ill-willtowards the curé. '

'And is all the country about here Republican?'

'Oh no, not at all. There is a village close by that is full of religion. We are often called savages. When the curé asked the commune to give him200 francs a year for saying an extra mass on Sundays, the majority of theinhabitants signed their names to a paper offering him 300 francs a year ifhe would say no mass at all. '

I said to myself that the curé of Lisle was not to be envied the piece ofvineyard that he had been sent to look after. I had often heard storiessuch as this. Faction fighting provides the chief intellectual stimulus inmany a village and small town of France. Where Republicanism is strong, themayor's party is often at bitter feud with those who share the viewsand uphold the authority of _M. Le curé_. The sign that the 'advanced'Republicans give of their political faith is never to set foot inside thechurch unless it be at a wedding or a funeral. But what is especiallyworth the attention of the philosophical observer is the extent to whichprevailing ideas in politics and religion differ in the same district. Within a few miles of a commune where Republicans and Freethinkers havecomplete control of local affairs, may be another that is altogetherRoyalist or Bonapartist, and where the curé is both popular and powerful. There is, moreover, a very marked difference in the character of theinhabitants of neighbouring places. In one the prevailing characteristicmay be mildness and affability of manners, whereas in another it maybe truculence and incivility. Neither the influence of politics nor ofreligion sufficiently accounts for these differences in character. Theyseem to rest rather upon obscure and remote causes, such as racial andcongenital tendencies. All this is especially observable in the South ofFrance, where the present population has been formed from the blood of somany races, which is very unequally mixed even to this day. 

When my talkative plasterer left the subject of local politics, he took upthat of the moon. Like all country people, whether in France or in England, he had the strongest faith in the influence of the moon upon the weather. He, moreover, maintained that moonbeams had a very corrosive anddestructive action upon zinc. This fact, he said, had come under hisobservation scores of times in his business, which was that of roofing aswell as plastering. 

Thus talking, we came to the bridge, or, rather, its sole remaining arch, now almost completely hidden by ivy, briars, and other vegetation, bywhich it has been gradually overgrown. The plasterer had a sense of thepicturesque, and he had not over-rated the beauty of this spot. A littlebelow the early Gothic arch, from which the briars reached down to thewater, was an old mill, in the shadow of a high, overleaning rock, andgreat trees made a vaulting over the grassy lane, at the end of which theturning-wheel could be seen, with just a sparkle of evening sunshine uponthe dropping water. 

The inn where I put up that night was a substantial hostelry, containingall that was needful for the entertainment of man and beast. Had I been a_Procureur de la République_ the law could not have been broken in a moresolicitous manner than it was in my behoof. Not only did I have gudgeons, _en temps prohibé_, but also partridge. It was not until the bones werecarried out that I felt that I had missed an excellent opportunity ofsetting a good example by declining to eat partridge in the month of June. 

I must have been put into the best bedroom, for among other works of artwhich it contained was a bridal wreath of orange-blossoms under a glass. I surmised that when it decked the head of my hostess, her form would nothave taken up so much room in the kitchen as when I saw it downstairs, passing with a slow and dignified movement in the midst of the saucepansand platters. I have often slept in rooms where there have been bridalorange-blossoms under glass. They always interest me, just as the fadedfamily photographs do which so frequently deck the walls of the same room. They get me on the lines of thought or sentiment which make us enter whenwe are by ourselves into all that is human. 

The next morning, after seeing the church--a Romanesque and Gothicstructure of considerable beauty--I returned to the Dronne, and, aftercrossing it, continued upon the road eastward until I saw the picturesqueruins of the Château de Marouette upon a hill above me. Then I left theroad, and climbed the hill by a rocky path. This castle, dating from theclose of the sixteenth century, shows a blending of feudal architecturewith the Renaissance style. In this respect it is like many others in thedistrict, but it is truly remarkable in having preserved an outer wall, strengthened with round towers at intervals, and enclosing two or threeacres of land. The fortress was raised by a Baron de Jarnac, and musthave been one of the last built to combine the double character of familyresidence and stronghold. The outer and inner ramparts, and the high, frowning, machicolated keep, perched upon the rock and overlooking thevalley, prove that it was truly a _château-fort_, and one that ought tohave been able to give a very good account of itself. A fantastic effecthas been produced by attaching a plain modern house without any characterto the best-preserved parts of the ruin. Agriculture must possess thethoughts of those who are now living there. The wide space between theouter and inner walls, as I saw it in the early sunshine of the Junemorning, was a level floor of golden ears, nearly ready for the reaper. 

A storm overnight had moistened the earth; the breath that came from theflowery banks and the glistening leaves of oak and chestnut was very fresh;all the birds that could sing were singing; the sound of the sweepingscythe and the voices of mowers rose from the valley, and the spirit ofpeace and gladness was over the land. 

I took a road somewhat at random, and it led me by many windings away fromthe Dronne, up hills, where there were vines but no cornfields, and wherethe wayside trees were chiefly plums, laden with fruit fast purpling. Andas I looked at the plums I thought of the time when, after being dried inthe sun, they would become 'prunes, ' and be scattered about the world, manyof them, perchance, in England, where children would buy them with theirpennies, as I had bought others myself, when I never supposed that I shouldwalk by the trees that bore them under southern skies. 

A road-mender whom I passed saluted me with the words, '_Bon soir!_'although the hour was eight in the morning. In these parts, however, _bonsoir_ is frequently said at all hours. It is a colloquial peculiarity. Another is to address or speak of a gentleman and a lady as '_Cesmessieurs. _'

At length I reached a plateau, where I saw not far off, in a hollowsurrounded by cornfields and fruit-trees, such a number of red roofs thatI concluded I must have come to the little town of Montagrier. A youngpeasant soon undeceived me: I was near the village of Grand-Brassac. It wasclear that I had gone much farther from the Dronne than I had intended, but, after all, it mattered little where I wandered. I now said that Iwould see Grand-Brassac, and that I might find something there worth thewalk. I was rewarded beyond aught that I had expected or hoped for. 

Here I found a very remarkable Byzantine-Gothic church of the thirteenthcentury, with a richly decorated front in strong contrast to the defensivemotive so clearly expressed by the solidity of the structure, the smallnessof the windows, and especially by the height of the entrance--some ten feetabove the level of the ground. It is reached by steps. Over the doorway, which has a pointed arch ornamented with a star moulding, is a semicircularcompartment containing several figures in high relief, the central one ofwhich represents the Virgin enthroned. No satisfactory explanation ofthe others has yet been found. Beneath the compartment is a row of veryfantastic bracket-heads, supposed to represent the Vices. Above it isa canopy with sculptured medallions on the under-surface, where thesymbolical Lamb may be recognised amongst winged dragons and othermonsters. Close to these is a monkey playing on the violin. Above thiscanopy is another, shaped like a low gable, and forming the upper frame ofa further set of figures in relief, larger than those in the compartmentbelow. The central and highest figure is that of Christ teaching. TheVirgin is kneeling on the right, and St. John on the left. St. Paul isshown with the book of his Epistles, and St. Peter, wearing a bishop'smitre, is holding his keys. Among other details of this curious façadeis the figure of a kneeling knight in a coat of mail. Upon the exteriorside-walls are Roman arches _en saillie_, resting upon corbels and verywide pilaster-strips that are almost buttresses. In the interior, theByzantine influence is very apparent in the three domes, which combine withthe Gothic vaulting of the narrow, dimly-lighted nave. The main walls arecarried so high as to hide the roof of the domes, and this goes far to giveto the church that air of a mediaeval fortress which at once impresses thebeholder. 

As the fortune of the road had cast me upon this village, I made up my mindto accept pot-luck here, for the morning was no longer young, and I knewnot how far I might have to trudge before finding better quarters. So Iresolved to take my chance at what looked like the best inn in the place, although it was a very rustic hostelry that would have repelled a wandererless seasoned than myself to the vicissitudes of the highways and byways. Ihad, however, a cool little back-room with whitewashed walls to myself, and through the small square window near the table where I sat I could seesomething of the sunny world, with bits of tiled roof and green foliage, as well as the lemon-coloured butterflies that fluttered from garden togarden. There was no lack of food in the auberge, for a pig had been veryrecently killed. There were several dishes, but they were all made upfrom the same animal. When something fresh came, I thought, 'This, at allevents, must be mutton or veal'; but although it may have been cunninglydisguised with tomatoes or garlic, I perceived that it was pork again. Itwas long after this adventure that I could look at a pig with a lenient andunprejudiced mind. 

When I left Grand-Brassac, I so shaped my course as to return to the valleyof the Dronne, but at a point much lower than that where I had last crossedthe river. The weather was now very sultry; not a breath of wind stirred, and thunder-clouds were gathering in the sky. As the sun glared between thelayers of vapour, the cicadas screamed from the tops of the walnut-trees, while I upon the dazzling white road felt that there was no need of so muchrejoicing. 

A great dark cloud with fiery fringe now stretches far up the sky from thesouth, and there is a constant long-drawn-out groan of distant thunder. This storm is no loiterer; it is coming on at a rapid pace, and it will bea fierce one. Still, the haymakers keep in the meadow hard by the road, working for dear life to fill the waggon, to which a pair of oxen areharnessed, and to get it safely to the village on yonder hill before thefloodgates of heaven are opened. I hasten on to this village, and reachit just before the rain begins to fall. It is almost deserted; everybodyappears to be in the fields. 

On the very top of the hill is a little old church surrounded by cypressesand acacias, and as the sun, about to vanish within the folds of the cloudypall that is already drawn up to its flaming edge, darts burning rays uponthe still motionless leaves, the cicadas again scratch out their note withthe blind zeal of fiddlers who have made too merry at the marriage-feast. 

According to my wont, I pay a visit to the dead, who lie scattered allaround the old church. Scattered do I say? Why, the very ground on which Iwalk is made up of them. When another dead villager is buried, what occursis merely a displacement of human remains. As one body goes down, the bonesand dust of others come up to the surface. Wherever I walk I see bones, andif I were an anatomist I could tell the use and place of each in the humaneconomy. One might well suppose that in these rural districts, where landis of so little value, there would be but slight disturbance of dead men'sbones. Observation, however, tells a very different story. These countrychurchyards are very small, and nobody but the stranger seems to think thatthere is any reason why they should be larger. There is little or no buyingof graves 'in perpetuity' here, and very little grave-marking, except bymounds and wooden crosses. Years pass quickly, while the briar and thethistle and the bindweed grow apace, like the new interests and affectionsthat spring up in the minds and hearts of the mourners. Who are they whocarry flowers to the graves of their grandfathers?

Think of the population of an entire village being swallowed up everyfifty or seventy years by this patch of ground that would make but a smallgarden, and of this movement going on century after century! It is surelyno matter for marvel that it has become as difficult to hide the bones asthe pebbles whenever a bit of soil has been lately turned. They lieeven about the sides of the rough path that goes round the church. Somefragments are so honeycombed that they are as light in the hand astouchwood; others have undergone little, if any, chemical change. Herepeople must often walk upon the bones of their not very remote ancestors;but they know, if they think about the matter at all, that their turn willcome to be similarly treated by their own descendants. There is no betterplace for meditating upon all the vanities than one of these old ruralcemeteries. Turn not away, you other wanderers who may chance to stray intothese little fields consecrated to the dead, and excuse your unwillingnessto reflect by muttering, 'Horrible!' There is nothing horrible, after all, in these poor bones. What matters it whether they are bleached by the sunor blackened by the clay? It is good for you and for me to see them here, and to realize how soon all men are forgotten, how quickly their bones, mingling with others, give no more clue to the individual life to whichthey once belonged than a particle of dust that dances in the sunbeam doesto the matter from which it parted. 

It is not good, however, to stay moralizing in a cemetery until athunderstorm bursts over your head. I remained so long here that I had torun for refuge in a manner quite out of keeping with my solemn train ofthoughts. I entered the first doorway that I saw open, and thus I foundmyself in a cobbler's shop. The cobbler was seated on a stool at a lowtable covered with tools and odds and ends in the middle of the room, sewing a boot, which he held to his knee with a strap passed under hisfoot. His apprentice was sitting near munching a piece of bread. Bothlooked up with an astonished, not to say startled, expression when Iappeared simultaneously with a dazzling flash of lightning, followedimmediately by a terrific thunder-clap. The thought expressed in the eyesof the cobbler as he looked up was, 'Are you a thunderbolt, or Robert theDevil?'

I spoke to him and calmed him; but although he was satisfied that I washuman, he evidently could not make me out. Nor was this surprising, forthe village--St. Victor by name--lies quite off the track of all but theinhabitants of a small district. The man, however, made me welcome, and offered me a chair. The sky was now the colour of dull lead, the lightning-flashes were almost momentary, and the thunder roaredincessantly. Mingling with this sound and that of the splashing rain wasanother--the clang and scream of the bell in the church-tower. It was rungas the tocsin, with that quick and wild movement which had startled meelsewhere in the depth of night with the cry of 'Fire! Fire!' The bell, however, was not rung now to give the alarm of fire, and to summoneverybody to lend a helping hand in extinguishing the flames, but topersuade the storm either to go somewhere else or to act with moderation. This old custom--now dying out--is no doubt founded on the religious beliefthat when the church bell is rung with faith a storm will do no harm; butthe country people join to the religious idea the notion that the vibrationof the atmosphere, caused by the ringing, dissipates the storm or turns itin another direction. Unfortunately for the ancient custom, churches havefrequently been struck by lightning at the time when the bells were beingrung, and science is positive in declaring that the electric fluid isattracted by an artificial commotion of the atmosphere. On the _causses_ ofthe Quercy, the peasants place bottles of holy water on the tops of theirchimneys as a protection against lightning. The idea is that the evilpower will not strike the dwelling of those who put up a sign that theirhabitation is blessed. These bottles on the chimney-tops puzzled megreatly, until at length I inquired the reason why they were there. 

There was to me something exceedingly grand and elevating in this stormthat raged upon the hilltop, while the bell in the open tower, tossing likea cask on the sea, proclaimed over all the house-tops and the fields thefierceness of the struggle between the celestial guardians of the churchand village, and the demons that thronged the air. I felt that I mightnever have such an opportunity as this again, and wished to make the mostof it. The cobbler nearly lost his temper at seeing me so wickedly elated. Perhaps he thought that I might draw down a judgment upon myself, and thathe ran some risk of being included in it for having harboured me. He notonly looked frightened, but frankly owned that he was afraid. He was oneof those men--of whom I have known several--who can never overcome theirhorror of a thunderstorm. At length the storm began to move off and thebell stopped ringing; then the cobbler became quite cheerful. He broughtout a great jar of spirit distilled from plums, and insisted upon mydrinking some with him. He also invited me to 'break a crust, ' but thisoffer I declined. Before I took leave of the good-natured man, he seemed tohave fairly shaken off the bad impression I had made upon him by watching athunderstorm with interest and pleasure. 

The sky having cleared, I continued my journey towards Riberac, and reachedthe Dronne when the stormy day was ending without a cloud. There was hardlya breath of wind to shake the drops from the still dripping leaves, and thelast groan of distant thunder having died away, there would have been deepsilence but for the warbling of blackbirds and nightingales. 

THE DESERT OF THE DOUBLE

I am now at Riberac--the Ribeyrac of Dante's commentators, who generallyprefer to abide by the old spelling. One might expect this ancient littletown to offer much interest to the archaeologist, but it does not. Itsinterest lies almost wholly in its literary associations of Arnaud Daniel, and of him mainly because Dante chanced to meet him in purgatory. Herewas the castle--there is nothing of it now--where the thirteenth-centurytroubadour was born whom Petrarch described as '_Il grande maestrod'amore, _' and whom Dante made Guido speak of as a poet in these words ofunqualified praise:

 'Questi ch' io ti scerno Fu miglior fabbro del parlar materno: Versi d'amore e prose di romanzi Soverchio tutti. '

Dante having asked for the name on earth of this gifted soul, thetroubadour replied in the tongue that he had learned from his mother's lipsat Riberac:

 'Jeu sui Arnaulz che plor e vai cantan. '

Arnaud's modern critics admire him less than did Dante and Petrarch; but hehad a gift of sweet song, and he owed it doubtless in no small measureto the influence of the lovely Dronne, on whose banks he must have oftenrambled in childhood--that season when impressions are unconsciously laidup which shape the future life of the intellect. No Englishman should passthrough Arnaud's birthplace with indifference, for he was the first to putinto literary form the story of Lancelot of the Lake. 

Although Arnaud Daniel's castle has quite disappeared, much of the church, that was almost a new one in his time, still remains. It was originallyByzantine-Romanesque, but in the sixteenth century it underwent fantasticrestoration, and was badly married to another style without a name. Whatstruck me most on entering was the religious darkness through which onesees the suspended lamp of the sanctuary gleaming like a star, and behindit the dim outline of the altar. This crypt-like appearance is explainedby the absence even of a single window in the apse, which is covered by asemi-dome. The Romanesque tower is very low and broad, with a broach spireroofed with stones. 

What a contrast to the deep shadow of the church was the brilliant whitelight that I met outside, and to the grave-like silence the sawing sound ofthe cicadas, drunk with sunshine, in the neighbouring tree-tops!

I set out from Riberac to cross that tract of country between the Dronneand the Isle which is known as the Double. It is still one of the mostforlorn wildernesses in all France; but, like the Camargue, it has beenmuch changed of late years by drainage and cultivation, and is destinedto become productive and prosperous. For incalculable centuries it hadremained a baneful solitude, overgrown with virgin forest, except inthe hollows between the low hills, which succeed one another like theundulations of the sea; and here, almost hidden in summer by tall reedsand sedges, lay the pools and bogs that poisoned the air and renderedthe climate abominable. In the midst of this marshy, cretaceous desert, stretching between the Isle and its tributary, the Dronne, and close to awretched fever-stricken village called Échourgnac, a small community ofTrappist monks established themselves in 1868. They did not go there merelyas ascetics fleeing from the world, but also as philanthropists, preparedto sacrifice their lives for the good of humanity. Their mission was todrain and to cultivate this most unhealthy part of the Double, and toimprove the condition of the peasants who eked out a miserable existencethere. With what success the monks have applied themselves to their taskof changing the climate by drainage, and assisting the peasants in theirstruggle, is proved by the sentiments of the people towards them. When, under the Third Republic, the unauthorized religious orders were expelledfrom France, the inhabitants of the Double threatened to resist by forceany official interference with the Trappists at Échourgnac, and theagitation was so great that the counsel given by the local authoritiesto the Government was to leave these monks alone. It was acted upon. TheTrappists, like the Carthusians, were left undisturbed in this and in otherparts of the country. 

When I had turned south-westward, on the road to Montpont, I saw nothingfor five or six miles that corresponded to what I had been told of theDouble. Yellow corn-fields and green meadows covered the fertile plain. Itwas not until I had passed the village of St. Vauxains, and had reached thetop of the line of hills beyond, that the character of the country changeddecisively. Now, as I left the broad and favoured valley, and reachedthe brow of the hilly range that helps to keep the water stagnant andimprisoned in the Double, meadow and corn-field grew scarcer and scarcer, and then passed altogether into the wooded moorland. Cultivation returnedat intervals, then vanished again. I was upon an undulating plateau withfar-off higher hills closing the horizon all around. The reclaimed land wasin the hollows or upon the surrounding slopes; but here, too, the scrubbyforest might be seen stretching for miles without a break. The heat wasintense, and the sky had become stormy. 

When I left Riberac the blue above was without a spot, but now heavy massesof cloud were hovering in the sky. As yet there was not wind enough torustle a leaf, and the dwarf oaks gave little shelter from the ardent sun. The air that rose from the heather and bracken was like the breath of afurnace. There were a few scattered cottages and farm-buildings, lyingchiefly near the road, and the turkeys and geese that roamed around themwere a sign that they were inhabited; but I rarely saw a human being. 

I was resting awhile by a reedy pool fringed with gorse and heather, andwas listening to the oriels answering one another upon their Pan-pipes, when I saw coming towards me a figure which might have disturbed me verymuch had I been living in those days when--if there is any truth inlegendary lore--the devil only needed half a pretext for forcing hissociety upon lonely travellers. This man--for man it was--had a faceso overgrown with coal-black hair that very little could be seen ofit excepting the eyes and nose. Beard, whiskers, and moustache wereinseparably mixed up. What skin was visible through the matted jungle ofhair was little less swarthy than a Hindu's. All the upper part of thisastonishing head was hidden by a large hat of black straw, shaped likean inverted washing-basin. The rest of the figure was clad in a frock ofdark-brown serge, with hanging hood. Not expecting to see a Trappist whereI was, I was startled for a moment by the apparition, but I quickly guessedthat this was one of the brothers of the still distant monastery who hadbeen sent out on some little expedition into the district. As he passed, he raised his hat just enough to show that the close-cropped black hairbeneath it was turning gray. 

The road led me through a little village where there was an old Romanesquechurch. There were numerous archivolts over the broad portal, and abovethese was a horizontal dog's-tooth moulding with grotesque heads atintervals; but time had effaced most of the carving. All about the churchthe long grass and gaudy mulleins stood over the bones of men and womenwho, like their parents before them, had clung to their old homes in themidst of the pestilential marshes, suffering continually from malaria, watching their children grow paler and paler, and yet never thinking ofsurrender. What a strange combination of heroism, obstinacy, and stupiditydo we find in human nature! But now things had changed here. There was anair of prosperity in the village, and the people said that the fever hadalmost left them. 

While crossing another bit of wild and deserted country, I saw the darkgleam of poisonous pools nearly hidden by sallows and reeds. The vibrationof my footsteps disturbed the vipers that lay near the hot road; they sliddown the banks and curved out of sight amongst the roots of the heather. These reptiles abound in the Double; conditions that are baneful to men arehealthful to them. The sighing of the pines added to the sadness of theland, for these trees now appeared in clumps along the way-side, and thestorm-wind had begun to blow. The sun was shining obliquely through adun-coloured haze when I reached the village of Échourgnac in acultivated valley. Here the cattle and the green fields were signs ofthe cheese-making industry carried on at the monastery. The conventualbuildings were now visible on the top of the neighbouring hill, with thechurch spire higher against the sky than all the rest. I made my waytowards this little fortress of asceticism hidden from the world amidst thewoods and marshes. 

I had made up my mind to spend the night with the Trappists, even if I wasobliged to accept their charity and to allow myself to be classed withthose tramps who have no literary pretext for their vagabond ways. Indeed, I had been given to understand by all to whom I had spoken on the subjectin the district, that the reverend fathers gave money sometimes to thewayfarer, but accepted none in return for food and shelter. That part of mein which the conventional is concentrated said: 'Stop at the inn;' but theother part, which has the curiosity and the errantry of the man who hasnever been perfectly civilized, said: 'Go on, and whatever happens pass thenight with the Trappists. '

Having reached the monastery gate, the next thing to do was to pull thebell. The porter opened first his wicket and then the door. The superiorcould not be approached for a quarter of an hour, so I was asked to waitin the lodge. Thus I had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with theporter. Although he was very much in religion, having been a brother atÉchourgnac since the foundation, he might be termed without disrespect 'ajolly old soul. ' He was, as he said, a man who had no pretensions whateverto be learned. His lack of book knowledge made him all the more natural. His age appeared to be about sixty-five, but he had a body that was stillrobust and vigorous under his dirty brown frock, although he had beenliving so many years on bread and cheese and vegetables, and short commonswithal. The post of porter must have helped him not a little to bear upagainst the discipline, for it allowed him the use of his tongue, and therule of silence would have been a more severe trial to him than to manyanother. He poured out some beer for me from a great stone jar that he keptnear at hand. I had heard that the Trappists of Échourgnac added to theirother accomplishments the arts of beer-brewing and wine-making, and wastherefore not surprised by the porter's kindly offer; but when I noticedthe yellow colour and soup-like consistency of the fluid that he poured outfor me, I was sorry that I had accepted it. 

'It is a little thick, ' said the Trappist, whose keen eyes had noticed thatthere was a lack of warmth in the manner in which I took the glass from hishand, 'but the beer is good. It is rather new. '

'It must be very nourishing, ' I replied, after heroically draining the cupof tribulation. 

'Have some more?' said this good-natured Trappist as he raised the jaragain. I saved myself from a second dose by an energetic '_Merci!_' andchanged his thoughts by asking him if he had been a long time at themonastery. 

'I was one of the first lot who came here in July, 1868. There weretwenty-two of us in all, _pères et frères_, and two or three weeksafterwards seventeen were down with fever. You can have no idea of what itwas here five-and-twenty years ago. The country was unfit for human beings. The people went shivering about in the heat of summer wrapped up as theywould be in the depth of winter. It was pitiful to see them. '

He then entered into details respecting the clearing of the land, thedraining of the pools, etc. Suddenly remembering the flight of time, hedisappeared with my card, and left me in charge of the lodge. Presently hecame back, and told me that the reverend father was unwell, and could notsee anybody, but that I could pass the night in the monastery if I wishedto do so. The porter led me through a great farmyard, then through adoorway into a room, in the centre of which was a large table, and inthe corners were four very small and low wooden bedsteads with meagremattresses, a couple of sheets, and a coloured quilt. 

When we entered, two men were seated at the table eating bread andcheese and drinking home-brewed beer. One was quite young, perhapsfive-and-twenty, and it was to him that the brother who parleyed with theouter world at the gate introduced me, with the recommendation that heshould do all in his power for me, adding, with an emphasis by which hegained my friendship for ever: '_Je réponds sur vous. _' The young man saidthat as soon as he had finished his own meal he would see to my supper. Ibegged him to take his time, as I was in no hurry. 

The good porter, still solicitous, asked where I was going to sleep, andthe young man, who I afterwards learnt was a postulant, pointed to a bedin one of the corners. I was then left with my two new acquaintances. Thepostulant had very soon finished, and having brushed the crumbs off hispart of the bare board with his hand, he disappeared, to see what he couldfind for me in the kitchen. The man who remained also brought his meal toa close, but he did not whisk the crumbs away; he brushed them into littleheaps, and, wetting his forefinger, raised them by this means to his mouth. He was about fifty; his chin was shaved, but he wore whiskers, and a longrusty overcoat hung nearly down to his heels. He was very quiet, and Ithought he looked like a repentant cabman. There was something about theman that excited my curiosity, but I felt that, considering where I was, itwould be very bad taste to put any leading questions to him respecting hishistory. I nevertheless found a way of getting into conversation with him, and he did not need much persuasion to talk. He was rather incoherent, but I gathered from what he said that he had wandered a good deal frommonastery to monastery, now in the world and now almost 'in religion, 'without finding anchorage anywhere. 

'The world, ' he said, 'is like a rotten plank, and we are like smoke thatcomes and goes. If we do not think of eternity, we are shipwrecked. '

Feeling, perhaps, that something in the world was a little more solid afterthe bread and cheese and beer than it was before, he was working himself upto a communicative humour, and I was beginning to hope that I shouldsoon know what sort of a character he really was, when the return of thepostulant changed his ideas as effectually as if a bucket of water had beenthrown in his face. When he ventured to speak again, the younger man toldhim that it was six o'clock, and that the whole community was now expectedto observe the rule of silence. 

'Do not be angry, ' he added, as he heard the other mutter something thatescaped me. 

'I am not angry, ' replied the owner of the long coat as he glided softlyout of the room. 

I was now alone with the postulant, who made matters pleasanter for me bygiving a generous interpretation to the rule of silence in so far as itapplied to himself. He told me that, as I had come after the hour of thesecond meal, the _frère cuisinier_ was not in the kitchen, but at _salve;_consequently there was no possibility of getting even an omelet madefor me. After looking, however, into all the corners of the kitchen, myprovidential man had discovered some cold macaroni, which he presented tome in a small tin plate. I do not know how it had been cooked, but itsvery dark colour made me suspicious of it. Although I knew it was quitewholesome, I thought it safer to leave it untouched, and to be satisfiedwith bread and cheese. Now, this cheese, made by the Trappists of theDouble upon the Port-Salut recipe, which is a secret of the Order, is ofexcellent quality, and deserves its reputation. The monastery bread, madefrom the wheat grown by the monks, was of the substantial and honest kindwhich in England would probably be called 'farmhouse bread, ' although thegreat wheel or trencher-shaped loaves of the French provinces might causesome surprise there. My meal, therefore, might have been worse than it was, and as it was given to me for nothing, it would have been very bad mannersnot to appear pleased. The truth is, the novelty of my position--that ofa tramp taken in and fed on charity--amused me so much that I foundeverything perfect. I had an idea 'at the back of the head' that I shouldfind a way of squaring matters financially with the holy men, but I didnot wish to tell it even to myself then. I must confess that when a blackbottle was placed beside the bread and cheese on the bare table, I was weakenough to hope that it contained some of the excellent white wine which Iwas told the Trappists made; but when the liquor came out the colour of peasoup, I recognised the religious beer which had already disappointed me. AsI could get nothing better, and the water being distinctly bad, the mostsensible thing to do was to be reconciled to the beer, and in this Isucceeded very fairly. Necessity is not the mother of invention only. Thewine, I afterwards learnt, is only drunk at the convent in winter. Much ofit is sold to priests for sacramental use. 

When I had taken the keen edge off my hunger, I began to feel a freshinterest in the postulant. Somehow, he did not appear to me to be of thestuff out of which monks, especially Trappists, are made, although I knowthat in all that relates to the interior workings of a man there areno outward signs to be relied upon. There is puzzle enough in our owncontradictions to discourage us from trying to find consistency in others;but we try all the same. We have a fine sense of proportion and harmonywhen we analyze our fellow-beings, but none whatever when we turn thefaculty introspectively. The sanctimonious undertone in which this youngman spoke struck me as being false, for there was nothing in him that Icould discover which linked him to the ascetic ideal of life. But then thequestion arose, Why was he there? He was strong and healthy; he had a deepcolour on his cheeks, and a humorous twinkle in his eye. He did not look asif he had been crossed in love, or had received any of the scars of passionsuch as might account for his wish to become a Trappist. He had seensomething of the world. He had been to Chili, among other countries, andthe war there had ruined his prospects, so he told me. I concluded, fromwhat he said, that on his return to France he had sought a temporary refugewith the Trappists, and that he preferred to remain under the shelter thathe had found there rather than run the risk of worse in the struggle forlife outside. Becoming more confidential, he told me that what was mostdifficult to be borne by those in his position was the rule of absolutesubmission and obedience. 

I had not been at the table long, when this postulant glided out of theroom, saying:

'I will see if there is a way of getting another bottle of beer. '

Presently he returned with a bottle under his arm, and then I learnt thatthe abbot had given orders that I was to pass the night _dans la chambrede Monseigneur. _ The prospect of sleeping in the bishop's bed furnished mewith a conscientious reason for not drawing the cork from the secondbottle of monastic barley-brew; but my companion, who was more or less inreligion, did not give me a chance of refusing, for he drew it himself andfilled two glasses. 

'_Nous allons trinquer, _' said he. 

We clinked glasses, and talked with greater freedom, although the postulantstill spoke under his breath--it was a habit that he had fallen into. Wewere interrupted by a scuffling outside, and by the opening of the door. Acouple of monks in brown frocks were on the threshold. A small gray-beardedbrother with a bent back held in one hand a pewter plate and in the othera little basin of the same metal. He was the _frère cuisinier_, who hadreturned from _salve_, and he had come to offer me some vegetable soupand some more macaroni, both of which I declined. Not a word did theseTrappists say, but they carried on with the postulant a conversation indumb show as to what my requirements would be on the morrow. They strokedtheir noses, rubbed their fingers together, and grimaced so expressivelyall on my account that I was much amused, and would have liked to laughoutright; but I durst not in such company. 

When they had left I took a stroll outside, for as yet I felt noinclination to go to bed, notwithstanding that a bishop had slept upon thesame mattress that was waiting for me. Keeping within the convent bounds, where no woman is allowed to set her foot--that troublesome foot whoseimprint may be found on most of the paths that lead to a Trappist monasteryin the obscure forest of human motives--wandering beyond the buildings, but still within the enclosure, I came to a bit of waste land covered withheather and gorse that overlooked the wooded wilderness towards the west, as a headland bluff overlooks the sea. 

The sun had set, and the wild spirits of the storm had drawn a translucentdrapery of vapour from the dark thundercloud hovering overhead to where thefringe of the forest broke the blood-stained bar upon the horizon's verge, and this luminous orange-coloured curtain was crossed every moment upwardsand downwards by silvery shafts of lightning. Such an effect of sunsetcombined with storm was like a new revelation of nature, and the sublimityof the spectacle would have held me fast to the patch of wild heath if therain had not begun to fall in splashes. The long summer day was over, andthe night came forth in trouble and with gushing tears. The roar of thethunder grew louder, and the flash of the lightning brightened everyminute. 

I returned to the monastery, and found the postulant quite anxious tohave done with me, and to put me into the bishop's room. He wassleepy--everybody gets sleepy in these country places at about nineo'clock, irrespective of canonical hours, whereas I grow livelier, likea night-bird, as the dusk deepens. All the monks must have been in theircells snoring with the clear conscience which is the gift of the day thathas been well filled up when I reluctantly entered the only room in theplace that had any pretension to comfort, but which to me was like aprison. I was making an effort to acquire the virtue of resignation, whenthe postulant spoilt the mood by speaking again of beer. Had he picked upin his wanderings the notion that an Englishman could not live unless hewere kept well supplied with beer, or had he formed an exaggerated idea ofthe seductiveness of the strange but innocent liquor that the Trappistsbrewed? Whatever his thoughts may have been, he darted away in spite of myendeavour to stop him, and presently reappeared with another black bottle. I knew that he had not obtained it without diplomacy, and that he had mademy unquenchable thirst the excuse; but by this time I had perceived thathis solicitude was not wholly unselfish. He muttered something about'charity' as he filled a glass for me, notwithstanding my refusal; thenvanished with the bottle. He had promised to wake me at two o'clock formatins. 

When left alone, I made an inspection of the bishop's room. It was spaciousenough for fifty people to dance in, and the furniture would not have beengreatly in the way. The stones which made the floor had no carpet, not eventhe _descente de lit_, which in France is considered indispensable evenwhen the floor is of wood. In the corner was a low wooden bedstead withdingy curtains suspended from a rafter, and a paillasse of maize-leaveswith a thin wool mattress above it. Coarse hempen sheets and a colouredcoverlet completed the bedding. By the side against the wall was a broad_prie-Dieu_, with a lithograph just above it of the Holy Child bearing thecross. A plain table in the centre without a cloth, a _secrétaire_ withhigh crucifix attached, another bare table with washing-basin, jug, andfolded towel, with a few chairs and several religious prints, made up thefurniture. 

This room was on the ground-floor, and looked out upon a long coveredterrace, with the farmyard immediately beyond. I opened the sashes--I hadalready prevailed upon the postulant not to fasten the shutters--and, having blown out the candle, I lit my pipe. I suppose if I had had anysense of propriety I should have refrained from smoking in the bishop'sroom; but what was I to do, a prisoner there at nine o'clock in theevening, and not a bit sleepy? If it had been a fine evening, I do notthink I could have resisted the temptation to jump out of the window and tostroll back to the patch of imprisoned moor. First a cat and then a greatdog came sneaking along, and I tried to get on friendly terms with themfrom the window; but they, too, seemed to have renounced the world, withall its pomps and vanities, to conform to the Trappist rule, for each ofthem looked at me with pity and reproach out of the corner of the eye, anddescribed a wide semicircle, at the risk of getting wet, in order not tobe drawn into conversation. But the storm, at all events, had not beensilenced; the thunder growled and groaned, and every half-minute thelightning lit up all the stones and puddles of the great farmyard, beyondwhich my vision was cut off by the roofs of the outbuildings. 

Notwithstanding the unpleasantness of being shut up, I felt that if themanagement of the weather had been left to me I could not have arrangedthings better for my first night in a Trappist monastery. Here I was in themidst of the desolation of the Double under the same roof with men who weredriven into this shelter by the desolation of their souls. Tempest-tossedby the conflict of the spirit and the flesh, wounded, perhaps, by secretgriefs and humiliations, strong, perchance, in the eyes of others, whilenever sure of themselves from one hour to another, putting out upon thesame sea again and again only to be thrown back upon the same desert shore, they at length settled down here, and they must have done so with the calmconviction that they had found the medicine to suit their kind of sicknessin a life of incessant punishment of self and labour for others. 

It was about eleven when I felt tired enough to lie down. I had not been inthis position long when something bit me. I thought I knew the enemy, butI dared not whisper its name even to myself, for I was overcome by itscondescension. From a bishop to me was a fall in the social scale thatought to have made the most voracious insect tremble on the edge of theprecipice. Maybe it did tremble before it yielded to temptation and forgotits dignity. 

The storm continued all night with intervals of calm. A little before twoo'clock the bell was rung for matins. The clang of the metal must have beenheard clear and shrill far over the Double, even when the storm seemed tobe rending the black sails of the clouds asunder. The postulant fetched me, as he had promised, and he led me through a labyrinth of passages to thechurch. Although the building was almost in darkness, I could see thatit was in the Pointed style, and that it was marked by a cold elegancebefitting its special purpose. The nave was divided near the middle by aGothic screen of wood artistically carved, although the ornamental motivehad been kept in subjection. The half that adjoined the sanctuary wassomewhat higher than the other, and here the Trappist fathers had theirstalls. The brothers' stalls were in the lower part. I was led to aplace below the screen. The office had already commenced; the monotonousplain-chant by deep-toned voices had reached me in the corridors. Perhapsit was half an hour later when the chanting ceased. The lamps were darkenedin the stalls above the screen--in the lower part there was but one verysmall light suspended from the vault--then the monks knelt each upon thenarrow piece of wood affixed to his stall for this purpose, and for half anhour with heads bent down they prayed in silence, while the thunder groanedoutside, and the lightning flashed through the clerestory windows. To theTrappists, who day after day, year after year, at the same hour had beengoing through the same part of their unchanging discipline, heedlesswhether the stars shone overhead or the lightning glittered, there wasnothing in all this to draw their minds from the circle of devotionalroutine: I alone felt as if I was going down into my grave. The gray lightthat was now making the ribs of the vaulting dimly visible was like thedawn of eternity breaking through the brief night called Death, which isnot perhaps so dark as it seems. At three o'clock the chill and awfulsilence was broken by the white-robed prior, who rose from his low posturelike a dead man in his shroud, and began to chant in another tone andmeasure from what had gone before. It had in it the sadness of the windthat I heard moaning in the pine-tops on the moor before the storm broke. The voice was strong and clear, but so solemn that it was almost unearthly;and it seemed in some strange way to mingle with the purity of the colddawn that comes when all the passions of the world are still, but whichmakes the leaves tremble at the crime and trouble of another day. 

When the prior stood up, the brothers left to begin their manual labour, each one in his allotted place. The fathers remained in their stalls untilafter the four o'clock mass, and then they, too, fell to work until sixo'clock--the hour of prime. I soon followed the brothers, although not sofar as the fields, the cheese-rooms, and farm-buildings. I returned to myroom; but as I had to pass on the upper side of the screen on leaving thechurch, I looked at the two rows of white figures standing in their stalls. It may have been the effect of the mingled daylight and lamplight: whateverthe reason, I thought during those few seconds that I had never before seensuch a collection of strange and startling faces. They were those of sombremen who had walked through hell like Dante, and who bore upon their calmand corpse-like features the deep-cut traces of the flame and horror. 

I took up my old place by the window, and watched in the twilight ofmorning an aged brother, with frock hitched up above his naked ankles andhis feet in great _sabots_, fetch sack after sack of what I supposed to bebran, and carry it away on his shoulders. He passed close to me, and lookedat me with an expression which I interpreted to mean: 'You must be alunatic to stare at me instead of going to bed--you, who have Monseigneur'ssoft bed, and are at liberty to sleep. ' But no word passed between us. Atlength I did go to bed again, and slept. 

I was awakened by a noise in my room, and on opening my eyes I saw a longfigure in white two or three yards from me, and I realized that a Trappistfather was watching me. Then, when he perceived that I was awake, he glidedfrom the room without saying a word. Had I spoken, he would have replied, and explained what he wanted; but I had not recovered sufficiently from mysurprise to remember the rule until he was gone. I now called to mind thatthe postulant had told me over-night that a certain father would show meround the monastery after prime. This, then, was he, and I was doubtlesskeeping him waiting, for it was seven o'clock. A few minutes later hereturned. I was then at my ablutions. 

Now, although I have grown pretty well accustomed to go through this dailyduty with the aid of salad-bowls and slop-basins while living in the Frenchprovinces, I think it good for the mind to keep up the illusion of athorough wash even when this is practically impossible. When, therefore, the Trappist stalked again into my room without giving me warning, hiscostume, simple as it was, was surpassed by the simplicity of mine. I toldhim that I would be with him in two or three minutes, and he retired witha slow and stately nod. I tried very hard to keep my word, for I expectedevery moment to see the door open again. When I opened it myself, I foundthe father pacing slowly in the passage. Knowing that there is not much tobe had in a Trappist monastery without asking, I opened the conversationby making some delicate allusions to breakfast. The truth is that thebread-and-cheese supper was nothing to me now but an unsatisfactoryrecollection, and, with the sense of vacuum that distressed me, I wasunwilling to follow the monk upon the promised round, lest I should die ofinanition on the way. He asked me what I would like to eat, and I said, 'Anything that is near at hand. ' Had I suggested that a chop or a steakwould be suitable after so light a dinner, I should not have had it; but Imight have received a large measure of silent reprobation for my bad tastein asking for it, and also for having reminded a Trappist of such vanitiesof the past. 

The father--he was becoming fatherly indeed--went to a cupboard of the_salle à manger_ already described, and brought out what I had left of thebread and cheese set before me the previous evening. Having placed thison the table, with a bottle of beer--the postulant had led me to hopefor coffee and milk, but there was evidently no escape from malt liquorhere--he withdrew to a little office close by where he was wont to performthe daily duty of keeping the cheese accounts of the monastery. I felt surethat when he had reckoned up a few figures he would be coming round totear me away from the bread and cheese, so I endeavoured to hasten theconsumption with as much speed as I could decently put on. I was right inmy conjecture. I had not been seated five minutes, when he came back andwandered half round the table. 

'_J'aurai fini dans un petit moment, mon père, _' said I, as I cut offanother piece of cheese. By-the-bye, nobody should call a Trappist'_monsieur_, ' because the monk has ceased to have even a name of hisown other than his religious one, and has become a father or brother toeverybody. He returned to his accounts; but he had not gone very deeplyinto them when he saw me standing at the door of his little den. He lefthis books at once, and we walked side by side where he chose to lead me. Hewas a rather tall man, with a face that was an enigma. The features wereso like those of the late Mr. Charles Bradlaugh, that if the EnglishFreethinker had disappeared mysteriously I might have strongly suspectedhim of having turned Trappist. 

This father volunteered no information whatever; it had all to be drawn outof him. He spoke in a low voice, and, as it appeared to me, with somethingof the hesitation of a man who is recalling his mother tongue after manyyears of disuse. His face was large and heavy; but there was a keen lightin his eyes which at times was that of gaiety well kept under. He soon letme see that even a Trappist may give out an occasional flash of humour. I was questioning him respecting the help that the monastery gave to thepoor, and he told me that in addition to thirty or forty persons livingin the locality who received regular assistance every day, about the samenumber of wanderers stopped at the gate and waited for the bread and cheesewhich was never refused them. 

'Men looking for work?' I asked innocently. 

'Yes, ' replied the monk, without moving a muscle of his stolid face; 'andwho pray to God that He will not give them any. '

It was evident that no sentimental illusions respecting the begging classwere entertained by the community. The monk confirmed what people in thecountry had already told me of the help afforded by the Trappists topeasant agriculturists in difficulties. The sick were, moreover, suppliedwith medicines gratuitously from the small pharmacy attached to themonastery. I did not ask the question, but I concluded that at least one ofthe fathers had a medical diploma. The medicine that was chiefly wanted inthe Double when the Trappists settled there was quinine. The demand upon itwas very heavy years ago, but by removing to a great extent the cause ofthe fever-breeding miasma, the monks have been able to economize the drug. 

Talking about these matters, we reached the refectory. A great cold roomwith whitewashed walls, and five long narrow tables with benches on eachside, stretching from end to end, was the place where the monks took theirvery frugal meals. The tables were laid for the first meal. There wereno cloths, and it is almost needless to add that there were no napkins, although these are considered so essential in France that even in the mostwretched auberge one is usually laid before the guest. Trappists, however, have little need of them. At each place were a wooden spoon and fork, aplate, a jug of water, and another jug--a smaller one--of beer, and aporringer for soup, which is the chief of the Trappists' diet. Very thinsoup it is, the ingredients being water, chopped vegetables, bread, anda little oil or butter. Until a few years ago no oily matter, whethervegetable or animal, was allowed in the soup, nor was it permissible, except in case of sickness, to have more than one meal a day; but thenecessity of relaxing the rule a little was realized. Now, during the sixsummer months of the year, there are two meals a day, namely, at eleven andsix; but in winter there is still only one that is called a meal, and thisis at four. There is, however, a _goûter_--just something to keep thestomach from collapsing--at ten in the morning. No flesh, nor fish, noranimal product, except cheese and butter, is eaten by these Trappistsunless they fall ill, and then they have meat or anything else that theymay need to make them well. There is, however, very little sickness amongstthem. The living of each Trappist probably costs no more than sixpence aday to the community. Assuming that the money brought into the common fundby those who have a private fortune--the fathers, as a rule, are men ofsome independent means--covers the establishment expenses and the taxationimposed by the State, there must remain a considerable profit on the workof each individual, whether he labours in the fields or in the dairy andcheese rooms, or concerns himself with the sales and the accounts, or, likethe porter at the gate, tests with an instrument the richness of the milkthat is brought in by the peasants, lest they who have been befriendedby the monks in sickness and penury should steal from them in return. Todevote this surplus, obtained by a life of sacrifice compared to whichthe material misery of the beggars whom they relieve is luxury, to thelessening of human suffering, to the encouragement of the family, offeringthe hand of charity to the worthy and to the unworthy--expecting no honourfrom all this, not even gratitude--is a life that makes that of thetheoretical philanthropists and humanitarian philosophers look ratherbarren. Let every man who lives up to an unselfish ideal have full creditfor it, whether he be a Trappist or a Buddhist. 

At one end of the refectory, below the line of tables, was a small woodenbench for a single person. The monk pointed to it with half a smile uponhis face. 

'What is it?' I asked. 

'The stool of penitence, ' he replied. 

Here the monk who had brought upon himself some disciplinary correction satby order of the abbot in view of everybody, and had the extra mortificationof watching the others eat, while he, the penitent, had nothing to putbetween his teeth. I wondered if my cicerone had ever been perched there, but I was not on such terms of familiarity with him that I could ask thequestion. 

From the refectory we went to the dormitory, an oblong room with a passagedown the middle, and cells on each side--about fifty altogether. Theywere very narrow, and were separated by lath and plaster partitions, onlycarried to the height of about six feet. These partitions, which had beenwhitewashed over, looked very fragile and dilapidated, and altogether theappearance of this great dormitory was wretched in the extreme. A glanceinto the interior of two or three of the cells deepened this impression. Ineach was a small wooden bedstead about a foot and a half high, with nothingupon it but a very thin paillasse, a black blanket (the colour of thewool), and a little bolster. Upon a nail hung a small cat-o'-nine-tails ofknotted whipcord. 

'How often do you administer to yourselves the discipline?' I asked. 

'Every Friday, ' said the monk. 

To other questions that I put to him he replied that about ten membersof the community were priests, and that fathers and brothers used thedormitory in common. There was no distinction between the two classes asregards the vows that were taken. 

We passed into the cloisters, which were very plain, without any attemptat architectural ornament; but the garden that filled the centre of thequadrangle was carefully kept, and the many flowers there were evidentlywatered and otherwise tended by hands that were gentle to them. Then Iasked if it was true that the members of the community, when they passedone another in their ordinary occupations, were allowed to break the ruleof silence only to say, 'Remember death!'

'No, ' replied the monk, 'it is a legend that originated withChâteaubriand. '

We reached the chapter-house, a plain room with benches along the walls anda case containing a small collection of books. I saw nothing of interesthere excepting a genealogical tree of the order of Reformed Cistercians, called Trappists, showing its descent from the Abbey of Cîteaux, and aportrait of Père Dom Sébastien, Abbot-General of the Trappists, who was apontifical zouave before he put on the monastic habit. 

I asked to see the cemetery, and was led to an uncultivated spot a littlebeyond the block of convent buildings. A small grassy enclosure, with awooden paling round it, was the monks' burying-place. About twelve had diedin the twenty-five years of the monastery's existence, but most of thegraves looked recent. This was explained to me by the father, who actuallysmiled as he said:

'We who came here at the commencement are getting old now, and arefollowing one another to the cemetery rather quickly. '

Wearers of the white frock and wearers of the brown frock were lying inperfect equality side by side as they happened to die, each having asmall cross of white wood standing in the grass of his grave. I read: 'N. Raphaël, monachus----, natus----, professus----, obiit----. ' The datesI took no note of. With the exception of the name and the dates, theinscription on each cross was the same. And the name, it need scarcely besaid, was the one taken in religion. 

'Do you know one another's family names?' I asked of the living monk by myside, who appeared to have lapsed into meditation, thinking, perhaps, howfar his place would be from the last on the line. 

'As a rule we do not. There are only two or three monks here whose names Iknow. '

Lastly, I was taken to the farm buildings, where there were about fiftycows and one hundred pigs. A young brother, a novice, was busy, with hisfrock hitched up, cleaning out the pigsties. He was piously plying theshovel, but his face had not yet acquired an expression of perfectresignation. He was young, however, and perhaps he had been brought up inbetter society than that of pigs. 

I was invited with much kindness and courtesy to stay until after theeleven o'clock meal; but, grateful as I felt to the Trappists for theirbread and cheese and home-brewed beer, which had enabled me to sustain lifefor more than twelve hours, I was quite content with what I had received inthat way. My curiosity being also satisfied, I gladly went forth into thewicked world again after exchanging a cordial farewell with the genialporter, who, when he caught sight of me returning to his lodge, lookedsharply to see if the jar of beer was safe, and his mind being made easy onthe point, he begged me to let him pour me out a glass. Then he gazed at mewith round eyes of surprise and reproach when I declined the offer. 

It was only a little past eight when I left the monastery. 'Ah, ' I thought, as I felt the gentle glow of the early sunshine and breathed the fresh airof the wide world, 'there is time enough for me to become a Trappist. '

I continued on the road to Montpont. It was a sad and silent land overwhich I passed, with frequent crosses by the wayside, telling of theinfluence of the monks. The words, '_O crux, ave!_' met me amidst theheather and on the margin of lonely pools. I was now in the most forlornpart of the Double, where all around the eye rested upon forest, swamp, andmoor. Not that I found it dismal: I drew delight from the lonesomeness, and revelled in the wildness of all things. Sunshine and flowers made thedesert beautiful. The waysides were red with thyme or purple with heather, and the blooming lysimachia was like a belt of gold around the reedy pools. After walking some miles over this country, patches of maize, potatoes, andvines told me I was nearing a village. At length I came to one, and itwas called St. Barthélemy. It was on the top of a bare chalky hill, andcommanded an extensive view of the wasteful Double. It had a windblown, naked appearance, like many villages near the sea, although the ocean wasstill far from here. Moreover, there was a strange quietude--the stillnessof a fever-stricken spot. The men and women looked undersized andprematurely old, and the children were pale and thin. Although the villagewas on a hill, the evil influence of the marshes reached it. I was told, however, that it had become much less unhealthy of late years. On thehighest spot was a poor and plain little church, with a paddock-likecemetery on one side of it. 

Although the hour was still early, I stopped for a meal at St. Barthélemy, for it seemed to me that I had been fasting a day or more. Choosing theonly inn that looked promising, I sat down in a large room, where therewere two long tables and a bed in one corner. The shutters of the windowswere carefully closed to keep out the flies, and all the light that enteredcame through the chinks and cracks. In the South, people prefer to eat insemi-darkness rather than be tormented by flies. The only other person inthe house was a young woman, and she was very uncouth. She may have heldme in suspicion, for not a word would she say beyond what was rigorouslynecessary; but, as she cooked much better than I had expected, I thought noill of her. She gave me, after an _omelette au cerfeuil_, a _fricassée_ ofchicken, with very fair wine of the district, red and white. Dessert andcoffee followed, and the charge was not much over a shilling. 

As I left the village, I noticed upon a low building these words in largeletters, '_Dépôt de Sangsues_, ' and concluded that catching leeches in thepools about here was a local industry. On inquiring, however, I was toldthat such was not the case, but that a man here had had a quantity ofleeches sent from Bordeaux to supply the district. 

'But what is the meaning of this great liking for leeches?' I asked. 

'Well, ' replied my informant, 'I should tell you that the people about herealways used to be bled when they had anything the matter with them. But thedoctors will do it no longer, consequently we do it ourselves. '

The sad-looking peasants, with pale dark faces, whom I saw reaping theirmeagre wheat on the outskirts of the village, seemed, like many more I hadmet since I left Riberac, to be in much greater need of blood than leeches. Women, wearing straw-bonnets of the coal-scuttle shape, were reaping withmen in the noonday heat. Upon all the burden of life appeared to press veryheavily. The chalky soil produced miserable crops of wheat, maize, and potatoes that yielded no just return for the labour expended. Theluxuriance of the young vines, planted where the old ones had perishedfrom the phylloxera, showed that the hillsides here are better suited forwine-growing than for anything else. 

As I went on, the country became more sombre from the increasing number ofpines bordering the road and mingling with the distant forest. Very weirdpines these were, chiefly covered with closely-packed dead foliage, witha living tuft of dark green at the end of each branchlet. A living deathseemed to be their lot, and they moaned without moving as the light windpassed on its way. 

But the descent towards the valley of the Isle had now begun. Huts built ofbrick and mud and wood became frequent, with hedges of quince bordering thegardens or little fields. Quite unexpectedly the river shone beneath me, and by following its course downward I soon came to a large block ofscarcely connected buildings with high Mansard roofs. This was a monasteryof the Carthusians. I did not recognise it at once as the conventualestablishment well known in the district as the Chartreuse de Vauclaire, nor did I show any better understanding as regards a certain human formhoeing in a field beside the road with back towards me. 

Wishing for information, I hailed this fellow-being as 'Madame!' The figurestraightened itself immediately and turned towards me a head covered witha broad-brimmed straw hat, such as women wear in the fields; but the faceended in a long, grizzly beard. Then I noticed that what I had taken for abrown stuff dress was a monk's frock. 

It was a Carthusian Brother whom I had addressed as 'Madame!' As he gaveno sign to indicate what his feelings were with regard to this mistake, Ithought it better not to make excuses, but asked him if I was on the roadto Montpont Learning that I was, I went on, and having reached the convent, which I now recognised for what it was, I pulled the bell of the porter'slodge. I was at once admitted to the presence of a tall and meagreCarthusian father, with a long, coal-black beard and very dark eyes, with afixed expression that expressed nothing that I could be sure about. WhatI fancied that I read in them was doubtfulness as to my motives, and thenecessity of being cautious. 

By far the greater number of visitors who call here ask for food. I wishedto see the monastery. After a little hesitation, this father, who before Ileft him was so communicative as to tell me he was a Spaniard, made asign to me to follow him. He showed me the church--which contains someinteresting carvings--the cloisters, and the cemetery; but every bit ofinformation had to be drawn from him as if it were a tooth. This was thekind of conversation that passed between us:

'Are there many monks here?'

'Not a small number. '

'Do you make cheese?'

'Yes. '

'For sale?'

'No. '

'Do you make the _liqueur?_'

'Oh no. '

He would have allowed me to leave with the impression that the Carthusiansof Vauclaire did nothing beyond observing the canonical hours; but I learntfrom the peasants of the country that, like the Trappists, they labouredindustriously in clearing and draining the desert. 

My walk across the Double ended at Montpont, a small agricultural centre onthe banks of the Isle, offering no charm to the traveller, unless he be acommercial one. It was a little fortified town of some importance in theMiddle Ages. In 1370 the Bretons in garrison at Périgueux besieged it, andit was surrendered without a struggle by the baron, Guillaume de Montpont, an English partisan. The Duke of Lancaster then hurried up and besieged theplace with one hundred men-at-arms and five hundred archers. For elevenweeks the little band of Bretons held out, but a breach having been made inthe wall, Montpont again fell into the power of the English. 

[Illustration: THE DRONNE AT COUTRAS. ]

A CANOE VOYAGE ON THE DRONNE. 

Before starting upon a long-thought-of voyage down the Dronne, I resolvedto make the canoe look as beautiful as possible, so that it might produce afavourable impression upon the natives of the regions through which it wasgoing to pass. I had learnt from experience that when one can take theedge off suspicion by giving one's self or one's belongings a respectableappearance, that does not cost much, it is well to do it. 

Therefore I sent the bare-footed Hélie, who always helped me when I hadany dirty work on hand, to buy some paint. Having first puttied up all thecracks and crevices, we laid the paint on, and as the colour chosen was avery pale green, the effect was anything but vulgar. When the boat was puton the water again it looked like a floating willow-leaf of rather uncommonsize. 

Now, between the river Isle, where I was, and the Dronne, where I wishedto be, there was an obstacle in the shape of some twelve miles of hillycountry. A light cart was accordingly hired to convey the canoe andourselves (I was accompanied on this adventure by an English boy namedHugh, sixteen years old, and just let loose from school) to the point atwhich I had decided to commence the voyage down-stream. We left at five inthe morning, when the sun was gilding the yellow tufts and the motionlesslong leaves of the maize-field. When we were fairly off--the boat, inwhich we were seated, stretching many feet in the rear of the very smallcart--the most anxious member of the party was the horse, for he had nevercarried such a queer load as this before, and the novelty of the sensationcaused by the weight far behind completely upset his notions of propriety. His conduct was especially strange while going up-hill, for then he wouldstop short from time to time and make an effort to look round, as ifuncertain whether it was all a hideous dream, or whether he was reallygrowing out behind in the form of a crocodile. 

The peasants whom we met on the road stood still and gazed with eyes andmouths wide open until we were out of sight. They had never seen peopletravelling in a boat before on dry land. When they heard we were Englishall was explained: '_Ces diables d'Anglais sont capables de tout_. '

While crossing the country in this fashion we passed a spot on the highroadwhere a man was getting ready to thresh his wheat. He had prepared theplace by spreading over it a layer of cow-dung, and levelling it with hisbare feet until it was quite smooth and hard. It is in this way that thethreshing-floors are usually made. 

'You see that _type?_' said the young man who was driving, and who balancedhimself on the edge of a board. 

'Yes. '

'Well, he owns more land than any other peasant about here, and is rich, and yet, rather than turn a bit of his ground into a threshing-floor, hebrings his corn where you see him and threshes it upon the road. '

I said to myself that this man was not the first to discover that oneway to get on is to trespass as much as possible upon the rights of thateasy-going neighbour called the Public. 

The hills between the two valleys were, for the most part, wooded withnatural forest, with a dense undergrowth of heather and gorse. As soon aswe began to descend towards the Dronne, the great southern broom, six oreight feet high, was seen in splendid flower upon the roadside banks. Wefound the Dronne at the village of Tocane St. Apre, and we launched theboat below the mill about half a mile farther down-stream. Then, havingput on board a knapsack containing clothes, a valise filled chiefly withprovisions, several bottles of wine, one of rum (a safer spirit in Francethan some others), and another of black coffee, made very strong, so thatit should last a long time, we took our first lunch in the boat, in thecool shade of some old alders. 

The wine had been already heated by the sun during the journey, but themeans of cooling it somewhat was near at hand. We hitched a couple ofbottles to the roots of the alders, with their necks just out of the water. The young peasant who had driven us was invited to share our meal, and thehorse was left at the mill with a good feed of oats to comfort him and helphim to forget all the horrible suspicions that the boat had caused him. Themeal was simple enough, for we had brought no luxurious fare with us;but the feeling of freedom and new adventure, the low song of the streamrunning over the gravel in the shallows, the peace and beauty of the littlecove under the alders, made it more delightful than a sumptuous one withother surroundings. 

Everything went as smoothly as the deep water where the boat was chained, until the spirit-lamp was lighted for warming the coffee. Then it wasdiscovered that the little saucepan had been forgotten. This was trying, for when you have grown used to coffee after lunch you do not feel happywithout it, so long as there is a chance of getting it. It is exasperatingwhen you have the coffee ready made, but cannot warm it for want of a smallutensil. The peasant went to the mill to borrow a saucepan, and he broughtback one that was just what we wanted; at least, we thought so until thecoffee began to run out through a hole in the bottom. In vain we tried tostop the leak with putty, which was brought in case the boat should springone; but after awhile it stopped itself--quite miraculously. Thus goodfortune came to our aid at the outset, and it looked like a fair omen of aprosperous voyage. 

We did not linger too long over this meal, for I had not come prepared topass the night either in the boat or on the grass, and I hoped to reachRiberac in the evening. The bottles were put away in the locker, and whatwas not eaten was returned to the valise. Then we parted company with theyoung peasant, whose private opinion was that we should not go very far. But he was mistaken; we went a long way, after encountering many seriousobstacles, as will be seen by-and-by. 

The chain being pulled in, the boat glided off like the willow-leaf towhich I have already compared it. I sat on my piece of sliding board aboutthe middle, and Hugh sat on his piece of wood--which was the top of thelocker--in the stern. We both used long double-bladed paddles. In a fewseconds we were in the current, and in a few more were aground. Althoughthe canoe was flat-bottomed, it needed at least three inches of water tofloat comfortably with us and the cargo. We were in a forest of reeds thathid the outer world from us, and we had left the true current for anotherthat led us to the shallows. But this little difficulty was quicklyovercome, and I soon convinced myself that, notwithstanding the dearth ofwater after the long drought, it was quite possible to descend the Dronnefrom St. Apre in a boat such as mine. 

Now, as there was no wager to make me hurry, and my main purpose in givingmyself all the trouble that lay before me was to see things, I put mypaddle down, and leaving Hugh to work off some of his youthful ardour fornavigation, I gave myself up for awhile to the spell of this most charmingstream. Its breadth and its depth were constantly changing, and in a trulyremarkable manner. Now it was scarcely wider than a brook might be, and wasnearly over-arched by its alders and willows; now it widened out andsped in many a flashing runnel through a broad jungle of reeds where theblistering rays of the sun beat down with tropical ardour; then it slept inpools full of long green streamers that waved slowly like an Undine's hair. Here and there all about stood the waxen flowers of sagittaria above thebarbed floating leaves, cool and darkly green. Close to the banks the talland delicately branching water-plantains, on which great grasshoppersoften hang their shed skins, were flecked with pale-pink blooms-flowers ofbiscuit-porcelain on hair-like stems. 

The splashing of a water-wheel roused me from my idle humour. We hadreached--much too quickly--our first mill-dam. It was a very primitive sortof dam, formed of stakes and planks, but chiefly of brambles, dead woodand reeds that had floated down and lodged there. Then began the tugging, pushing, and lifting, to be continued at irregular intervals for severaldays. The canoe was less than three feet wide in the middle, but it wasmore than six yards long, and this length, although it secured steadinessand greatly reduced the risk of capsizing in strong rapids or sinistereddies, brought the weight up to about 170 lb. , without reckoning thebaggage, which was turned out upon the grass or on the stones at each weir. After passing the first obstacle, we floated into one of those long deeppools which lend a peculiar charm to the Dronne. Usually covered in summerwith white or yellow lilies--seldom the two species together--these andother plants that rejoice in the cool liquid depths show their scallopedor feathery forms with perfect distinctness far below the surface of thelimpid water. 

Here, O idle water-wanderer, let your boat glide with the scarcely movingcurrent, and gaze upon the leafy groves of the sub-aqueous wilderness litup by the rays of the sun, and watch the fish moving singly or in shoalsat various depths--the bearded barbel, the spotted trout, the shimmeringbream, and the bronzen tench. Watch, too, the speckled water-snakes glidingupon the gravel or lurking like the ancient serpent in mimic gardens ofEden. Mark all the varied life and wondrous beauty of nature there. Aboveall, do not hurry, for little is seen by those who hasten on. 

At a weir of sticks and stones forming a rather wide dam, overgrown by tallhemp-agrimony now in flower, we met with our first difficulty. There was nooverflow to help us, for in this time of drought the mill-wheel needed allthe stream to turn it; so the boat had to be lifted over the stakes andstones. Into the water we had to go, and boots and socks, being now putaside, were not worn again for five days, except when we went ashore in theevening, and had to make an effort to look respectable. 

The dam being passed, the boat shot down a rapid current; then, as the bedwidened out and the water stilled, we were hidden from the world by reeds, through which we had to force a way while the sun smote us and frizzled us. Countless dragonflies flashed their brilliant colours as they whirled anddarted, green frogs plunged at our approach from their diving-boards ofmatted rush, or quirked defiance from the banks where they were safe; andnow and again a startled kingfisher showed us the blue gleam of a wingabove the brown maces of the bulrushes and the high-hanging tassels of thesedges. 

The bell of an unseen church a long way off sounded the mid-day angelus, and told that we had not drifted so far as it appeared from the peopledworld. Leaving the reeds, we passed again into the shade of alders thatstretched their gnarled, fantastic roots far over the babbling or dreamingwater, and thence again amongst the sunny reeds. And so the hours went by, and there were no villages, or even houses, to be seen, but the littlerough mills beside the slowly toiling wheel, which in most cases seemed tobe the only living thing there. Once, however, there was a naked child, very brown, and as round as a spider between the hips and the waist, playing upon a flowery bank above the mother, who wore a brilliant-colouredkerchief on her head, and who knelt beside the water as she rinsed thelittle elfs shirt. I thought the picture pretty enough to make a note ofit. This caused some contemptuous surprise to my companion in the back ofthe boat--not yet alive to the innocent cunning of the artist and writer, for he asked me, in the descriptive language of the British schoolboy:

'Are you going to stick down _that?_'

On we went, turning and turning, gliding into nooks that seemed each morecharming than the other, and having a constant succession of delightfulsurprises, interrupted only by the mill-dams, which were distressinglyfrequent. 

The hot hours stole away or passed into the mellowness of evening, and themarsh-mallows that fringed the stream were looking coolly white whenwe drew near to Riberac. The water widened and deepened, and we met apleasure-boat, vast and gaudy, recalling some picture of Queen Elizabeth'sbarge on the Thames. Under an awning sat a bevy of ladies in brightraiment, pleasant to look at, and in front of them were several young menvaliantly rowing, or, rather, digging their short sculls into the water, as if they were trying to knock the brains out of some fluvial monstersendeavouring to capture the youth and loveliness under the awning. 

Having reached that part of the river which was nearest Riberac, I had tofind a place where the boat could be left, and where it would be safe fromthe enterprise of boys--a bad invention in all countries. It is just, however, to the French boy to say that he is not quite so fiendish out ofdoors as the English one; but he makes things even by his conduct at home, where he conscientiously devotes his animal spirits to the destruction ofhis too-indulgent parents. 

My difficulty was solved by a kind butcher, whose garden ran down to thewater. He let me chain the boat to one of his trees, and he took our fowl, which was intended for lunch next day, and put it into his meat-safe--anexcellent service, for the drainage of his slaughter-house, emptying intothe river by the side of the boat, was enough to make even a live fowl loseits freshness in a single night. We were soon settled in a comfortable innthat prided itself, not without reason, upon its _cuisine_. Here we had a_friture_ of gudgeons from the Dronne, which is famous throughout a wideregion for the quality of these and other fish. 

The next morning I bought a saucepan, a melon, and grapes--which werealready ripe, although the date was the 9th August. Thus laden, we returnedto the boat and to the kindly butcher, who gave us our fowl wrapped up, notin a newspaper as we had left it, but in a sheet of spotless white paper. Having refilled our bottles, some with water, others with wine, we partedfrom our hospitable acquaintance with pleasant words, and were afloat againbefore the hour of eight. We had a serious wetting at the first weir, butwere dry again before we stopped to lunch. This time we landed, and choseour spot in a beautiful little meadow, where an alder cast its shade uponthe bank. It was far from all habitations, but had the case been otherwise, there would have been no danger of our being disturbed by a voice frombehind saying: 'You have no right to land here, ' or, 'You are trespassingin this field. '

Now, this little meadow was, except where the river ran by it, enclosed bya high hedge, just as one in England might be, and although it was somefour hundred miles south of Paris, and the season had been exceptionallydry, the grass was brightly green. Just below us was the clear river, fringed with sedges, sprinkled all over with yellow lilies; beyond thiswere other meadows, and then rose towards the cloudless sky the line ofwooded hills. There was a great quietude that nothing broke, save thesplash of a rising fish and the chorus of grasshoppers in the sunnyherbage. Here we stayed a good hour and warmed our coffee tranquilly in thenew saucepan, which afterwards proved very useful for baling purposes. ThenI smoked the pipe of peace, and felt tempted to tarry in this pleasantplace; but Hugh roused me to action by talking of fishing. 

A few minutes later we were again on our voyage. Not far below was anothermill-dam of sticks and stones, and when this was passed the river widenedso that it flowed round a little island covered with alders and purpleloosestrife, and girt by a broad belt of white water-lilies. At the nextweir, which was troublesome, we were helped by the miller and his brother, while a pretty young woman of about twenty, who stood with bare feet, shortskirt, uncovered stays, open chemise, and a linen sun-bonnet of the patternknown in England, looked on with a fat baby in her arms. These helpfulpeople refilled our water-bottles, and watched us with interest until wewere out of sight. 

Reeds again--innumerable reeds--through which we had to drag the canoe, forwe had somehow lost the current. Arrow-head and prickly bur-reed, greatrushes and sedges--a joy to the marsh botanist by the variety of theirspecies--stood against us in serried phalanxes, saying: 'Union is strength;we are weak when alone, but altogether we will give you some work that youwill remember. ' And they did so before we left them behind. Now, above thelily-spotted water, deep and clear, showed a little cluster of houses on alow cliff, and below these, close to the river, an old pigeon-house withpointed roof. 

To finish the picture, a narrow wooden bridge supported by poles stretchingdownward at all angles, like the legs of an ungainly insect, had beenthrown across the stream. And here a great flock of geese, horrified at sounwonted an apparition as the pale green boat and the paddles in fantasticmovement, were holding a hasty council of war, which we broke up beforethey came to a decision. 

The flow of water in the river had been perceptibly increased bytributaries, and now, after each mill, the current was strong enough totake us down for a mile or two at a quick rate. The little boat dancedgaily in the rapids. The great heat of the day had gone, and the light waswaning, when we mistook an arm of the river for the main stream, and foundourselves at length in a little gully, very dim with overarching foliage, and where the sound of rushing water grew momentarily louder. 

It was all one to Hugh whether he got turned out or not, but I had livedlong enough not to like the vision of a roll in the stream at the end ofthe day, with baggage swamped, if not lost. Therefore I chained up theboat, and went to examine the rapids. I found the stream in great turmoil, where it rushed over hidden rocks, and in the centre was a wave about threefeet high, that rose like a curve of clear green glass, but turned whitewith anger, and broke into furious foam, as it fell into the basin below. Having ascertained that the rock was sufficiently under water, I decidedthat we would take our chance in the current after turning out the baggage. 

We kept right in the centre. It was an exciting moment as we touched thewave. The canoe made a bound upwards, then plunged into the boiling torrentbelow. A moment more and we were out of all risk. So swift was the passagethat scarcely a gallon of water was taken in. Having put the baggage back, we continued our voyage towards the unknown, for I knew not whither thisstream was going to take us. About a mile or two farther down, however, itjoined the river, which here seemed very wide. It was marvellous to findthat the brook of yesterday had grown to this; a circumstance to beexplained, however, by the number of springs that rise in its bed. 

The scene was beyond all description beautiful. The wooded banks, the calmwater, the islands of reeds and sedges, the pure white lilies that scentedthe air and murmured softly as the boat brushed their snowy petals, wereall stained with the blood of the dying sun. For a moment I saw the upperrim of the red disc between the trunks of two trees far away that seemed togrow taller and more sombre; then came the twilight with its purple tones. 

The colours faded, darkness crept over the valley, and the water, losingits transparency, looked unfathomably deep, and mirrored with tenfold powerall the fantastic gloom of the leaning alders, and the weird forms of thehoary willows. And there was no light or sound from any town or village, nor even from a lonely cottage. I had expected to reach at sundown thelittle town of Aubeterre, in the department of the Charente, but all ideasof distance based upon a map are absurdly within the mark when one followsthe course of a winding river, and the information of the inhabitants isequally misleading, for they always calculate distances by the road. 

When we reached the next weir there was very little light left, so, withoutattempting to pass it, we paddled down to the mill. It was kept by threebrothers, who treated us with much kindness and attention. I learnt that wewere not far from the village of Nabinaud in the Charente, where there wasa small inn at which it would be possible to pass the night. 

Aubeterre was still some miles off by water, and there were weirs toovercome. Tired out, with legs and feet scraped and scratched by stones andstumps, and smarting still more from sun-scorch, we were glad enough tofind a sufficient reason for getting out of the boat here. 

One of the brothers carried politeness so far--I saw from the importanceof the mill that remuneration was not to be thought of--as to walk about amile uphill in order to show the inn and to see us settled in it. Then heleft, for I could not prevail upon him to sit down and chink glasses. It was but a cottage-inn on the open hillside, and I doubt if thesimple-minded people who kept it would have accepted us for the night butfor the introduction. Husband and wife gave up their room to us, and wherethey went themselves I could not guess, unless it was to the loft orfowl-house. They were surprised, almost overcome, by the invasion, thelike of which had never happened to them before; but they showed plenty ofgoodwill. 

All that could be produced in the way of dinner was an omelet, some friedham, very fat and salt, and some _grillons_-a name given to the residuethat is left by pork-fat when it has been slowly boiled down to make lard. The people of Guyenne think much of their _grillons_ or _fritons_. Iremember a jovial-faced innkeeper of the South telling me that he andseveral members of his family went to Paris in a party to see theExhibition of 1889, and that they took with them _grillons_ enough to keepthem going for a week, with the help of bread and wine, which they werecompelled to buy of the Parisians, Had they done all that their provincialideas of prudence dictated, they would have taken with them everything thatwas necessary to the sustenance of the body during their absence from home. 

The best part of our meal must not be forgotten; it was salad, fresh-plucked from the little garden enclosed by a paling, well mixed withnut-oil, wine-vinegar, and salt. Then for dessert there was abundance ofgrapes and peaches. 

The little room in which we slept, or, to speak more correctly, where Itried to sleep, had no ornament except the Sunday clothes of the innkeeperand his wife hanging against the walls. Next to it was the pigsty, as theinmates took care to let me know by their grunting. Had I wished to escapein the night without paying the bill, nothing would have been easier, forthe window looked upon a field that was about two feet below the sill. 

I opened this window wide to feel the cool air, and long after Hugh went tosleep, with the willingness of his sixteen years, I sat listening to thecrickets and watching the quiet fields and sky, which were lit up every fewseconds by the lightning flash of an approaching storm--still too far away, however, to blur even with a cloudy line the tranquil brilliancy of thestars. 

Leaving the window open, I lay down upon the outer edge of the bed, but tono purpose. In the first place, I am never happy on the edge of a narrowbed, and then sleep and I were on bad terms that night. The lightning, growing stronger, showed my host's best trousers hanging against thewhitewashed wall, and from the pigsty came indignant snorts in answer tothe deepening moan of the thunder; but the crickets of the house sang aftertheir fashion of the hearth and home, and those outside of the great joy ofidleness in the summer fields. From a bit of hedge or old wall came now andthen the clear note of a fairy-bell rung by a goblin toad. 

I lit the candle again, and elfish moths, with specks of burning charcoalfor eyes, dashed at me or whirled and spun about the flame. One was a mostdelicately-beautiful small creature, with long white wings stained withpink. Thus I spent the night, looking at the sights and listening to thesounds of nature; which is better than to lie with closed eyes quarrellingwith one's own brain. 

We left with a boy carrying a basket of grapes and peaches, also wine torefill the empty bottles in the boat. On my way down the hill, I stoppedat the ruin of a mediaeval castle that belonged to Poltrot de Méré, theassassin of the Due de Guise. All this country of the Angoumois, evenmore than Périgord, is full of the history of the religious wars of thesixteenth century. The whole of the southwestern region of France might betermed the classic ground of atrocities committed in the name of religion. Simon de Montfort's Crusaders and the Albigenses, after them the Huguenotsand the Leaguers, have so thickly sown this land with the seed of blood, to bear witness through all time to their merciless savagery, that theunprejudiced mind, looking here for traces of a grand struggle of ideals, will find little or nothing but the records of revolting brutality. 

There is nothing left of Poltrot de Méré's stronghold but a few fragmentsof wall much overgrown with ivy and brambles. In order to get a close viewof these I had to ask permission of the owner of the land--an elderly man, who looked at me with a troubled eye, and while he wished to be polite, considered it his duty to question me concerning my 'quality' and motives. I knew what was in his mind: a foreigner, a spy perchance, was going aboutthe country, taking notes of fortified places. 

It was true that this fortress, nearly hidden by vegetation, was no longerin a state to withstand a long siege, but who could tell what importanceit might have in the eyes of a foreign Power traditionally credited witha large appetite for other people's property? However, he was not anill-natured man, and when I had talked to him a bit, he moved his handtowards the ruin with quite a noble gesture, and told me that I was free todo there anything I liked. Had I been a snake-catcher, I might have done agood deal there. 

We were afloat again before the sun had begun to warm an apple's ruddycheek; but already the white lips of the water-lilies were wide-parted, as the boat slid past or through their colonies upon the reedy river. Weglided under brambled banks, overtrailed with the wild vine; then thecurrent took us round and about many an islet of reeds and rushes where thecommon _phragmites_ stood ten or twelve feet high; and now by other banksall tangled with willow-herb, marsh-mallow, and loose-strife. Over theclear water, and the wildernesses of reeds and flowers, lay the mildsplendour of the morning sunshine. But the blissful minutes passed tooquickly; all the tones brightened to brilliancy, and by ten o'clock therays were striking down again with torrid ardour. 

We had lunched amongst the reeds under a clump of alders, and were paddlingon again, when the massive walls and tower of a vast fortress of old timeappeared upon the top of a steep hill, rising above all other hills thatwere visible, and at the foot of the castle rock were many red roofs ofhouses that seemed to be nestled pleasantly in a spacious grove of trees. Above all was the dazzling blue of the sky. A truly southern picture, flaming with shadeless colour, and glittering with intense whiteness. Wewere reaching Aubeterre. 

We beached the canoe beside a meadow, opposite a spot where about twentywomen were washing clothes, their noses very near the water. They weremightily surprised to see us suddenly arrive in our swift boat. All theheads came up together, and the rest went down. 

We walked into a riverside inn, and there I made friends with the innkeeperover one or two bottles of beer--there was an innocent liquor so called onsale at Aubeterre. The _aubergiste_ was rather down on his luck, for somemill at which he had been employed had gone wrong financially, and thewheels thought it no longer worth while to turn round. He thereforeundertook to show us the way to everything that ought to be seen atAubeterre. 

He led us up a steep winding road where the sun smote furiously, wherethere was no shade, and where the dust was so hot that it might haveroasted an egg, if the person waiting for it was in no great hurry. We hadgone a very little way, when Hugh proposed to return and mount guard overthe boat, for whose safety he had become unreasonably anxious. On reachingthe steep little town there was more shade, because the streets werenarrow, but the rough pitching of cobble-stones was very bad for feet sosore as ours, and so swollen that the boots into which we managed to forcethem before leaving the river were now several sizes too small. 

We stopped at the parish church, but not so long as I should have, had Ibeen a lonely wayfarer without anybody to guide me. It is a delightfulexample of a Romanesque style that is found much repeated in Périgord, Angoumois, and the Bordelais. The great interest lies in the façade, whichdates from the eleventh century. Here we have a large central portal, andon each side of it, what the architectural design supposes to be a smallerone, but which in reality is only a sham doorway. The slender columnsof the jambs, and the archivolts filled in with little figures, sacred, fantastic, and grotesque, are there, as in connection with the centralarch; but all this has only an ornamental purpose. The spectator who isat all interested in ecclesiastical architecture will examine with muchdelight the elaborate mouldings and the strangely-suggestive forms ofmen, beasts, birds, shapes fantastic and chimerical, which ornament theseRomanesque doorways. 

But this church has not the interest of singularity which belongs toanother at Aubeterre--that of St. John. It is, or was, truly a church, andyet it is not an edifice. Like one at St. Émilion, it is monolithic in thesense that those who made it worked upon the solid rock with pick, hammer, and chisel; in which way they quarried out a great nave with a rough apseterminating in the very bowels of the hill. On one side of the nave, enoughhas been left of the rock to form four immense polygonal piers, whose upperpart is lost to sight in the gloom, until the eye grows somewhat reconciledto the glimmer of day, which, stealing in through openings in the cliff, is drowned in darkness before it reaches the hollow of the apse. On theopposite side is a high gallery cut in the rock in imitation of thetriforium gallery. The row of piers separates the church proper from whatwas for centuries the cemetery of Aubeterre: a vast burrow made by theliving for the reception of the dead, where they were plunged out of thesunlight teeming with earthly illusion and phantasy, to await the breakingof the great dawn. 

Not a spring violet nor a gaudy flower of summer gave to the air theperfume, or to the earth the colour of sweet life, to soothe and lightenthe dreariness of the dead: such thoughts in the Middle Ages would havebeen almost pagan. Then the darkness of death was like the darkness ofnight here in this necropolis hewn in the side of the ancient rock, whosevery substance is made up chiefly of other and older forms of life. Moreover, the hope that was then so firmly fixed beyond the grave was thehope of rest--everlasting repose--after so much tossing and battling uponthe sea of life. The palmer dying of weariness by the wayside, and theCrusader of his wounds upon the blood-soaked sand, could imagine no moreblessed reward from the '_dols sire Jhésu_' for all their sacrifice ofsleep, and other pain endured for their souls' sake, than a 'bed inparadise. ' To me it seemed that had I lived seven centuries ago, I should, when dying, have been so weak as to beg my friends not to lay my body inthe awful gloom of this sepulchral cavern, there to remain until the end oftime. But the mediaeval mind, having better faith, appeared to be moved byno such solicitude for the lifeless body. 

If there are ghostly people who haunt the earth, and have theirmeeting-places for unholy revel, what a playground this must be for them atthe witching hour! It is enough to make one's hair stand on end to think ofwhat may go on there when the sinking moon looks haggard, and the owlshoot from the abandoned halls open to the sky of the great ruin above. Theburying went on within the rock until thirty years ago, and the skulls thatgrin there in the light of the visitor's candle, and all the other bonesthat have been dug up and thrown in heaps, would fill several waggons. Itwas with no regret that I went out into the hot and brilliant air, andleft for ever these gloomy vaults, with their dismal human relics and thatpenetrating odour of the earth that once moved and spoke, which dwells inevery ancient charnel-house. 

Now we climbed to the top of the calcareous and chalky hill and made theround of the castle wall. We could not enter, because by ill-luck the ownerhad gone away, and had not left the keys with anybody. This was especiallydisappointing to me, because my imagination had been worked upon bythe stories I had heard of the subterranean passages leading from thisfifteenth-century stronghold far under the hill, and which had not beenthoroughly explored since the castle was abandoned. The innkeeper assuredme that during an exploration that was being made in one of them thecandles went out, and that nobody had attempted again to reach the end ofthe mysterious gallery. 

I may observe here that people in this part of France have such a stronghorror of passages underground, which they commonly believe to be inhabitedby snakes and toads--an abomination to them--that it is just possiblethe candles of which the _aubergiste_ spoke may have been put out by thesuperior brilliancy of the meridional imagination. 

The time spent in this interesting little town that lies quite off allbeaten tracks made the prospect of arriving that night at St. Aulaye, thenext place by the river, look rather doubtful. We re-started, however, withthe knowledge that we had still several hours of daylight before us. Thevoyage now became more exciting, and likewise more fatiguing. Mills werenumerous, and the weirs changed completely in character. The simple dam ofsticks and stones, with a drop of only two or three feet on the lower side, disappeared, and in its place we had a high well-built weir, with a fall ofeight or ten feet. Fortunately, there was generally enough water runningover to help us, and not enough to threaten shipwreck. The manoeuvre, however, had to be quite altered. The boat had to be thrust or drawnforward until it hung several feet over the edge of the weir, then a quickpush sent it down stern first into the water, while I held the chain, whichwas fastened to the other end. Then Hugh, saucepan in hand, let himselfdown by the chain, sometimes in a cascade, and baled out the water takenin. Finally, when all the traps had been collected from the dry placeswhere they had been laid and were handed down, I had to get into the boatand bring the chain with me. It was a movement that had to be learnt beforeit could be done gracefully and surely, and at the second weir of thiskind, where there was a considerable rush of water, in stepping on board Ilost my balance, and rolled into the river. It was, however, not the firstbath that I had received in my clothes since starting upon this expedition, and the inconvenience of being wet to the skin was now one that troubledneither of us much. We were dry again in two hours, if no similarmisadventure happened in the meantime. 

It was an afternoon full of misfortune. We lost the spirit-lamp andthe best dinner knife, and, what was far more precious to me, the mostcompanionable of sticks--one that had walked with me hundreds of miles. It was once a young oak growing upon the stony _causse_. A friendly bakerhardened it over the embers of his oven, and a cunning blacksmith puta beautiful spike at one end of it, which became the terror of dogsthroughout Guyenne. 

Evening stole quietly upon us with a stormy yellow glow; then little cloudsturned crimson overhead. Onward went the boat through the reeds in the rosylight, onward over the purpling water. It was nearly night when we caughtsight of the houses of St. Aulaye upon a hill. 

Presently the wailing of water was heard, by which we knew that anotherweir was near. Instead of trying to pass it, we went on down themill-stream, my intention being to leave the canoe with the miller and walkto the town. 

Now the gentle miller, after accepting the custody of the boat, held arapid consultation with his wife on the threshold of his dwelling, and aswe were moving off to look for a hostelry, he limped up to me--he had a legthat seemed as stiff as a post--and said:

'If _ces messieurs_ would like to stop here to-night, we will do our bestfor them. We have little to offer, for we do not keep an inn, and are onlysimple people; but _ces messieurs_ are tired perhaps, and would rather staynear their boat. '

Although it was dark, I quite realized what a disreputable figure I made, with my bare red feet, muddy flannels, and my straw hat, which, aftertaking many baths and being dried as often by the sun, had come to have theshape of almost everything but a hat. I had, therefore, grave doubts ofmy ability to inspire any respectable innkeeper with confidence, and Iresolved at once to accept the offer that had been so unexpectedly made. 

The spot where we were to pass the night was decidedly sombre, for therewere trees around that cast a dark shadow, and there was the incessant cryof unseen, troubled water; but from the open door of the low house thatadjoined the mill there flashed a warm light, and, as we entered, there wasthe sight, which is ever grateful to the tired wanderer, of freshly-piledsticks blazing upon the hearth. The room was large, and the flickeringoil-lamp would have left it mostly in shadow had it not been helped by theflame of the fire. The walls were dark from smoke and long usage, for thiswas a very old mill. There was no sign of plenty, save the chunks of fatbacon which hung from the grimy rafters. There were several children, andone of them, almost a young woman, went out with a basket to buy us somemeat. We had not a very choice meal, but it was a solid one. It commencedwith a big tureen of country soup, made of all things, but chiefly ofbread, and which Hugh, with his ideas newly-shaped in English moulds, described as 'stodgey. ' Then came an omelet, a piece of veal, and a dishof gudgeons. I am sorry to add that these most amusing little bearded fishwere dropped all alive into the boiling nut-oil. 

Although our bedroom was immediately overhead, we had to pass through themill to reach it, and the journey was a roundabout one. The lame miller wasour guide, and on our way we learnt the cause of his lameness. About a yearbefore he had been caught up by some of his machinery and mangled in afrightful manner. We came to a brick wall plastered over, and a littlebelow a shaft that ran through it was a ragged hole nearly three feet indiameter. 

Said the miller: 'You see that hole?'

'Yes. '

'You wouldn't think a man's body could make that? Mine did: and all thosedark splashes on the plaster are the marks of my blood!'

The poor fellow had been brought within a hair's-breadth of death, and thelong months during which he could do nothing but lie down or sit in a heapafter his accident had, he said, nearly ruined him. 

This night, although we had but one room, we had two beds. I lingered atthe open window, and watched the swiftly-running mill-stream a few feetbelow. It had an evil sound. Then I felt the bad power that lies in water;above all, its treachery. Had not this small stream, by lending itsstrength to a wheel that turned other wheels, taken up a man as if hewere a feather, and dashed him through a wall? When the morning light andsunshine returned, the chant of the running water was as soothing as thesong of birds. 

We contrived, after infinite torture, to put on our boots again, and thenwalked up the hill to the village-like town. Besides the church of mixedRomanesque and Gothic, there was nothing worth seeing there, unless thespectacle of a woman holding up a rabbit by the hind-legs, while herdaughter, a tender-hearted damsel of about sixteen, whacked it behind theears with a fire-shovel, may be thought improving to the mind. At a shopwhere we bought some things, Hugh was deeply offended by a woman whoinsisted that some rather small bathing-drawers were large enough for him, and especially for speaking of him as the _petit garçon_. He talked abouther 'cheek' all the way back to the boat. It was on returning that Inoticed the picturesque charm of our mill, with the old Gothic bridgeadjoining it, a weather-beaten, time-worn stone cross rising from theparapet. Fresh provisions having been put on board the boat, we wished ourfriends of the mill good-bye. They and their children, with about a dozenneighbours and their children, assembled upon the bank to see us off. Along line of dancing rapids lay in front of us, so that we were really ableto astonish the people by the speed at which we went away where any boatof the Dronne would have quickly gone aground. In a few minutes the strongcurrent had carried us a mile, and then, looking back, we saw the littlecrowd still gazing at us. A turn of the stream, and they had lost sight ofus for ever. 

Under the next mill-dam was some deep water free from reeds and weeds. Onthe banks were tall trees; behind us was the rocky weir, over which thestream fell in a thousand little rivulets and runnels, and less than ahundred yards in front rose the seemingly impenetrable reedy forest. Thespot so enclosed had a quiet beauty that would have been holy in days goneby when the mind of man peopled such solitudes with fluvial deities. Herethe desire to swim became irresistible. What a swim it was! The water wasonly cold enough to be refreshing, while its transparency was such thateven where it was eight or ten feet deep every detail could be seen alongthe gravelly bottom, where the gudgeons gambolled. After the bath wepaddled until we saw a very shady meadow-corner close to the water. Herewe spread out upon the grass eggs that had been boiled for us at the mill, bread, cheese, grapes, and pears, and what other provisions we had. Now andagain the wind carried to us the sound of water turning some hidden, lazywheel. Those who would prefer a well-served lunch in a comfortable room toour simple meal in the meadow-corner under the rustling leaves should nevergo on a voyage down the Dronne. 

Some time in the afternoon we came to a broad weir that was ratherdifficult to pass, for there was no water running over, and a densevegetation had sprung up during the summer between the rough stones. Themiller saw us from the other end of his dam, which was a rather long wayoff, for these weirs do not cross at right angles with the banks, butstart at a very obtuse one at a point far above the mill. After a littlehesitation, inspired by doubtfulness as to what manner of beings we were, he came towards us over the stones and through the water-plants with abog-trotting movement which we, who had scraped most of the skin off ourown bare ankles, quite understood. 

He was a rough but good fellow, and he lent us a helping hand, which wasneeded, for every time we lifted the boat now it seemed heavier than itwas before. The hard work was telling upon us. The sound of voices causedanother head to appear on the scene. It came up from the other side of theweir, and it was a cunning old head, with sharp little eyes under bushygray brows, overhanging like penthouses. Presently the body followed thehead, and the old man began to talk to the miller in patois, but failing, apparently, to make any impression upon him, he addressed me in very badFrench. 

'Why give yourselves the devil's trouble, ' said he, ' in pulling theboat over here, when there is a beautiful place at the other end of the_barrage_, where you can go down with the current? The water is a bitjumpy, but there is nothing to fear. '

For a moment I hesitated, but I saw the miller shake his head; and thisdecided me to cross at the spot where we were. The old man looked on withan expression that was not benevolent, and when the boat was ready to bedropped on the other side, the motive of his anxiety to send us down awaterfall came out. He had spread a long net here in amongst the reeds, andhe did not wish us to spoil his fishing. 

When we got below the mill we saw the water that was not wanted for thewheel, tumbling in fury down a steep, narrow channel, in which were setvarious poles and cross-beams. And it was down this villainous _diversoir_that the old rascal would have sent us, knowing that we should have come togrief there. The boat would almost certainly have struck some obstacle andbeen overturned by the current. 

Sometimes people rushed from the fields where they were working to thebanks to watch us. Dark men, with bare chests, and as hairy as monkeys;women, likewise a good deal bare, with heads covered by great sun-bonnets, and children burnt by the sun to the colour of young Arabs, stood and gazedspeechless with astonishment. Who were we in this strange-looking boat thatwent so fast, and whence had we come? They knew that we must have come along, long way; but, how did we do it? How did we get over the _barrages_?These were the thoughts that puzzled them. No boat had ever been known totreat the obstacles of the Dronne in this jaunty fashion before. 

Several more weirs were passed; one with great difficulty, for the canoehad to be dragged and jolted thirty or forty yards through the corner of awood. Then the evening fell again when we were following the windings of aswift current that ran now to the right and now to the left of what seemedto be a broad marsh covered with reeds and sedges. Sometimes the currentcarried us into banks gloomy with drooping alders, or densely fringed withbrambles. When I heard squeals behind, I knew that Hugh was diving througha blackberry-bush, or a hanging garden of briars. 

I was sorry for him; but my business was to keep the canoe's head in thecentre of the current, and leave the stern to follow as it might. At everysudden turning Hugh became exceedingly watchful; but in spite of hissteering the stern would often swing round into the bank, and then therewas nothing for him to do but to duck his head as low as he could, and tryto leave as little as possible of his ears upon the brambles. Before theend of this day he gave signs of restlessness and discontent. 

Our stopping-place to-night was to be La Roche Chalais, a rather importantvillage, just within the department of the Dordogne. We still seemed to befar from it, notwithstanding all the haste we had made. While the air andwater were glowing with the last flush of twilight, myriads of swallows, already on their passage from the north, spotted the clear sky, and settleddown upon the alders to pass the night. At our approach they rose again, and filled the solitude with the whirr of their wings. We likewisedisturbed from the alders great multitudes of sparrows that had becomegregarious. They stayed in the trees until the boat was about twenty yardsfrom them, and then rose with the noise of a storm-wind beating the leaves. One of the charms of this waterfaring is, that you never know what surprisethe angle of a river may bring. Very tired, and rather down at heart, weturned a bend and saw in front of us a clear placid reach, on which thereds and purples were serenely dying, and at a distance of about half amile, a fine bridge with the large central arch forming with its reflectionin the water a perfect ellipse. 

On the left of the bridge was a wooded cliff, the edges of the treesvaguely passing into one another and the purple mist, and above them all, against the warmly-fading sky was the spire of a church. That, said I, canbe no other than the church of La Roche Chalais; and so it turned out. 

There was a large mill below the bridge, where we met with much politeness, and where our boat was taken charge of. Here we were told there was a goodhotel at La Roche, and we set off to find it. But how did we set off?With bare feet, carrying our boots in our hands, and looking the veriestscarecrows after our four days of amphibious life. We had tried to put onour boots, but vainly, for they had been flooded. Now, this was the chiefcause of the unpleasantness that soon befell us, for no pilgrims ever hadmore disgraceful-looking feet than ours. Fortunately it was nearly dark, and the people whom we met did not examine us very attentively. Moreover, they saw bare feet on the road and in the street every day of their livesduring the summer. 

At the inn, however, our appearance made an instantaneously bad impression. It was the most important hotel in a considerable district. It lay in thebeat of many commercial travellers--men who never go about with barefeet, or in dirty flannel and battered straw hats, but are always dressedbeautifully. We walked straight into the house, with that perfect composurewhich the French say is distinctly British, and sudden consternation fellupon the people there. Two elderly ladies, sister hotel-keepers--one ofwhom had a rather strongly-marked moustache, for which, of course, poorwoman, she was not responsible--came out of the kitchen, and stood in thepassage fronting us. It was not to welcome us to their hostelry, but toprevent us penetrating any farther, that they took up this position. 

'Mesdames, ' said I, 'we want rooms, if you please, to-night, and alsodinner. '

'Monsieur, ' replied the lady with the moustache, 'I am sorry, but--but--allour rooms are occupied. '

'You are afraid of us, madame?'

'Yes, monsieur, I am. '

This I thought very frank indeed; and I was turning over in my mind what Ihad better say next, when she continued:

'We never take travellers without baggage. '

'But, ' said I, holding out my knapsack in one hand, and my boots in theother, 'I have baggage. ' Perceiving that the expression did not change, Iadded:

'I have also a boat. '

'A boat!'

'Yes, a boat. '

'Where is it?'

'On the river. I have left it at the mill just below here. We have comefrom St. Apre. '

'St. Apre! And where are you going?'

'To Coutras, I hope. '

By this time several persons who had collected in the passage and thekitchen were grinning from ear to ear. I felt that all eyes were fixed uponmy red feet, and not liking the situation, I resolved to end it. 

'As you are afraid, I will give you my card. ' So saying, I pushed my wayinto the _salle à manger_, and pulled out a card, which, marvellous tosay, I had managed to keep dry. Now, the card itself conveyed nothing ofimportance to anybody. It was the manner of saying, 'I will give you mycard, ' together with the movement that meant, 'I am here, and I intend tostop, ' that broke down the resolution of the two women to turn us fromtheir door. 

Their confidence gradually came, and they gave us a very good dinner, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. We had comfortable beds, too, andthe next morning we got our feet into our boots. We bought our provisionsfor the day at the inn, and to avoid the curiosity of the natives, weescaped by a back way, and hobbled down to the boat through a rocky field. 

The stream was strong for a few miles below the mill at La Roche. The canoewent down by itself fast enough, but the water had to be watched carefully, for the bed was strewn with rocks. Sometimes we shot over blocks oflimestone that were only three or four inches below the surface. We couldnot be sure from one minute to another that our rapid flight would notmeet with a sudden check. In this excitement of uncertainty there was truepleasure. We chose our first spot for bathing where the current was strong, and had our second swim in a wide and beautiful pool, where the table-likerocks, smooth and polished, could be seen ten or twelve feet below thesurface. Then having spread out our provisions once more on the river bankin a nook that seemed to be far from village, or even homestead, we had anunpleasant surprise. About a dozen boys, on their way home from some hiddenschool, suddenly appeared round a wooded corner, and after being brought toa momentary standstill by their own astonishment, made straight towardsus. Having examined the canoe with much curiosity, they sat down in ahalf-circle just behind us, with minds evidently made up to wait and see usoff. They watched us through our meal with much interest, and made jokes inpatois at our expense. They were not, however, so boldly bad as many boys, and there was no sufficient reason to drive them away. Moreover, they mayhave had a better right to be there than we. The field may have belonged tothe father of one of them. I suggested to them that their mothers might beanxious, if not angry, on account of their loitering; but they were not tobe moved by any such reminders. They had made up their minds to see us off, and this they did, to their great delight and entertainment. 

The river was charming, with its myriads of white water-lilies and forestsof reeds. Once it spread out into a lake, in which was a little islandcovered with tall bulrushes and purple loosestrife. But although there wasso much pleasure for the eye, the afternoon was one of suffering. We wereblistering from the heat of the sun, and our bottles being emptied, we weretormented with thirst. It was true that there was plenty of water alwayswithin reach; but it had already run past a good many villages and smalltowns, and, moreover, it was tepid. After leaving La Roche Chalais theriver had on its left bank the department of the Dordogne, and on itsright the Charente Inférieure. Rather late in the afternoon we entered theGironde, and soon afterwards heard the familiar sound of women beatinglinen with their _battoirs_ by the side of the water. We came upon a crowdof them, and learnt from them that the village of Les Églisottes wasclose by. Having obtained here both water and white wine, we were able tocontinue the voyage in better spirits. 

This fifth and last day on the Dronne was the most trying of all. Thedistance may not have been more than twenty-five miles, but we were veryjaded. There were few weirs, but some of them were not easy to pass. Thenthe boat from time to time had to be dragged a long way through reeds, where there was not enough water to float it. For eight or nine hours thesun raged above us; but the cool evening came at length--about the timethat we passed the last mill. The river was broad and deep, and I thoughtthat we could not be far from Coutras; but long reaches succeeded oneanother, and the great forests of the Double on the left seemed as if theywould never end. 

The river is now running--or, rather, creeping, for it has lost itscurrent--under densely-wooded hills, and the water is deeply dyed withinterflowing tints of green and gold. These fade, and in the gatheringdarkness without a moon the silent Dronne grows very sombre. The boat musthave received an exceptionally hard knock at the last weir, for we feel thewater rising about our feet. The wonder is that our frail craft has takenits five days' bumping over stumps and stones so well. It would be veryannoying if it were to sink with us now that we are so near the end of ourvoyage. But is the end so near? We scan the distance in front of us insearch of twinkling lights, but the only twinkle comes from a brighteningstar. We see the long wan line of water, marked with awful shadows near thebanks, from which, too, half-submerged trees, long since dead, lift strangearms or stretch out long necks and goblin heads that seem to mock and jibeat us in this fashion: 'Ha! ha! you are going down! We'll drag you under!'And the interminable black forest stretches away, away, always in front, until it is lost in the dusky sky. 

Ah, there is a sound at length to break the monotonous dip, dip of thepaddles, and it is a sweet sound too. It is the angelus; there is nomistaking it. It is very faint, but it puts fresh strength into our arms, and revives the hope that this river will lead us somewhere. 

It led us to Coutras. There at about nine o'clock we beached the halfwater-logged canoe not far above the spot to which the tide rises from thebroad Atlantic. We felt that we had had quite enough waterfaring to satisfyus for the present. We had voyaged about eighty miles, and passed aboutforty weirs. 

BY THE LOWER DORDOGNE

[Illustration: A STREET AT ST. ÉMILION. ]

The nooks and corners where great men of the past spent their lives quietlyand thoughtfully often lie far enough from the beaten ways to provide theromantic tramp with a motive that he may need to excuse his singularityin faring on foot over a tract of country which lacks the kind ofpicturesqueness that would mark it out as a territory to be annexed by thetourist sooner or later. Having found myself, almost unexpectedly, in thedistrict of Michel de Montaigne, after crossing the Double, I reckonedthat less than a day's quiet walking would bring me to the village ofSt. Michel-Bonnefare--better known in the region as St. Michel-Montaigne(pronounced there Montagne, as the name was originally spelt), close to thecastle or manor-house where the contemplative Périgourdin gentleman wasborn, and where he wrote his 'Essays' in a tower, of which he has left adetailed description. Then there was another lure: the battle-field ofCastillon, a few miles farther south, where the heroic Talbot was slain, and where the cannon that fired the fatal stone announced the end of thefeudal ages. We may travel over the whole world of literature without goingbeyond our house and garden. Even the blind may read, and thus bring backto themselves the life of the past; but how the indolent mind is helpedwhen spurred by the eye's impressions! The eye awakens ideas that mightotherwise sleep on for ever, by looking at scenes filled with the livinginterest of a Montaigne or a Talbot. 

I might have got to within four miles or thereabouts of the Castle ofMontaigne, by using the railroad that runs up the valley of the LowerDordogne, but I preferred to start on foot from Montpont. This manner oftravelling is very old-fashioned, but it will always possess a certaincharm for two classes of people: habitual vagabonds who beg and are freelyaccused of stealing, and the literary, artistic, antiquarian, or scientificvagabonds who take to tramping by fits and starts. The latter class, beingquite incomprehensible to the rustic mind in Guyenne, are regarded by itwith almost as much suspicion as the other. 

I started at the hour of seven in the morning, which the French--earlierrisers than the English--think a late one for beginning the work of asummer day in the provinces. I will not say that the plain on which I nowtramped for some miles was uninteresting, because all nature is interestingif we are only in the right mood to observe and be instructed; but to meit was dull, for I had been spoilt by much rambling in up and down countryfull of strong contrasts. Here I saw on each side of me wide expanses offield, with scarcely a hedge or tree, all dotted with grazing cattle. Nota few of the animals were in the charge of muscular, aggressive dogs, thatinterpreted their duty too largely, and made themselves a nuisance. Atintervals were patches of maize or pumpkins, or a bit of vineyard with ahouse hard by facing the road--a low ground-floor house solidly built, but its plainness unrelieved by the grace of a vine-trellis or a climbingflower. By-and-by the land became somewhat hilly, and the pasturage changedgradually to open wood and heath, where the gorse was already gilding itssummer green, and the bracken stood palm-like in purple deserts of heather. Then the ideas began to warm in the sunny silence, and I fear that Irejoiced in the sterility of the soil which had preserved the charm of freeand untormented nature. 

When I reached the village-like town of Villefranche, I perceived amovement of men and women like that of bees around a hive. I chanced toarrive on the day of the local fair, when everybody expects to make somemoney, from the peasant proprietor or the _métayer_ who brings in his cornor cattle, to the small shopkeeper who lives upon the agriculturist. I feltdisposed to lunch at the grandest hotel in Villefranche, and a good womanwhom I consulted on the subject led me through throngs of barteringpeasants and cattle-dealers, forests of horns, and by the upturned jaws ofbraying asses, until she stopped before an inn. There all was bustle andcommotion. A swarm of women had been called in to help in anticipation ofthe crush, and they got in one another's way, walked upon the cats' tails, and raised the tumult of a boxing-booth with the rattle of their tongues. All this was in the kitchen; but there was a side-room in which a longtable had been laid for the guests. I took a place at this rustic_table-d'hôte_, and I had on each side of me and in front of me men inblouses who talked in patois or in French, as the mood suited them. I hadalready perceived that, as I drew nearer to Bordeaux, the Southern dialectbecame more and more a jargon, in which there were not only many Frenchwords, but French phrases. These men in blouses were rough sons of thesoil, but I soon gathered that some of them were very well off. Inprovincial France dress counts for very little as a sign of fortune'sfavour. There were men at the table whose burly forms and full-colouredfaces were just what one would expect to see at a market dinner in anEnglish country town; but their epicurean style of dealing lightly witheach dish, so that the charm of variety might not be spoilt by a too hastysatisfaction of hunger, and the unanimity with which they asked for coffeeat the close, marked a strong difference in habits and manners. Theirpoliteness to me was almost excessive. As soon as the most jovial member ofthe company--who had undertaken the carving had cut up a piece of meat ora fowl, the dish was invariably passed from his end of the table to mine, where I sat alone. 

Before leaving Villefranche, a low, square tower enticed me to the parishchurch. The building was originally Romanesque, but the pointed style musthave been grafted upon the other so long ago as the English period. Outsidethe walls, some steps led me into a little chapel half underground. It wasa barrel-vaulted crypt, sternly simple, and lighted only by one very narrowRomanesque window in the apse, just above a rough stone altar of ancientpattern, with a statue of the dead Christ on the ground beneath the slab. In the semi-darkness, the flame of a solitary candle shone without smoke ormotion, as if it had been there for centuries, and like all the rest hadgrown very old. 

I had climbed to the ruined Castle of Gurçons, where sloes and blackberrieswere waiting for the birds in the feudal court strewn with stones. I hadleft the village of Montpeyroux, with the sound of flails weakening onthe wind, and late in the afternoon was drawing near to the Castle ofMontaigne, when a small wayside auberge tempted me from the hot road. Thewoman who waited upon me had a fat body and a hard, firmly inquisitiveface--a combination to be distrusted. Having settled down again to herknitting, she inquired of me where I was going, and when I told her that Iwas on my way to the Château de Montaigne, she asked me if I had any workto do there. I evaded this question, not knowing, or not wishing to know, exactly what she meant. She reflected a few minutes, then, looking at meover her knitting-needles, she said:

'Are you a tiler or a plasterer?'

Now, this was a question that I was quite unprepared for. I had often beenset down as a pedlar. I had been suspected of being a travelling musician, and also a colporteur for the Salvation Army; in fact, of being almosteverything but a tiler or plasterer. But this shrewd woman had evidentlycome to the conclusion that, if I did not work upon the housetops, I mustperforce be an artist of the trowel. I assured her that I was as incapableof fixing a tile as of making a ceiling; whereupon she said:

'I beg your pardon. I thought you were a workman. '

As I left, I saw by the vivacity with which she scratched the back of herhead with a knitting-needle that she was writhing mentally with the tortureof unsatisfied curiosity; and I took a malignant pleasure in her suffering. The white flannel that I was wearing was the most agreeable reason I couldthink of for being associated with plaster, but my resemblance to a tilercontinued to perplex me as I trudged along the road. 

I now left the broad highway, and took a narrower road that went forsome distance through woods up the side of a long hill. The shadows weregathering under the trees, and I was beginning to fear that I should reachthe castle too late to carry out my pilgrimage that night, when I saw aboveme, upon a knoll resting upon rocky buttresses, a modern mansion against abackground of trees. This was the very pleasant country residence built byM. Magne, Minister of Finance under the Second Empire, upon the site of thecastle of Montaigne, which the author of the 'Essays, ' with a better senseof certain distinctions than that which is observed nowadays, preferred tospeak of as his _manoir_. This manor-house still preserved its fifteenthand sixteenth century character, when a fire breaking out destroyedeverything but the walls, and gave M. Magne a plausible excuse for thedemolition. A part that was spared by the fire, and was therefore sufferedto remain intact, was the almost isolated tower, to which Montaignewithdrew for the sake of quiet and meditation, and which is so well knownto all readers of his 'Essays. ' Had this also disappeared, I should havehad no motive for wandering down the long avenue at nearly the end of theday. 

I met with a courteous reception at the mansion, and obtained immediatepermission to visit the retreat of the sixteenth-century moralist wholooked with such clear eyes upon human life. 

[Illustration: THE CHÂTEAU DE MONTAIGNE AFTER THE FIRE. ]

The tower and its gateway belong to the period when feudalism had lost itsvitality, and life was troubled by the vague perception of new motives andprinciples. Montaigne tells us that his family had occupied the manora hundred years when he entered into possession, and the style of thefragment that is left bears out this statement: it appears to belong to themiddle part of the fifteenth century. Already manorial houses, crenated andoften moated, but, like this one at Montaigne, defensive rather for showthan the reality, were scattered over France. Speaking generally, theybelonged to the small nobility who fell under the category of the_arrière-ban_ in time of war. In this tower Montaigne had his chapel, hisbedroom--to which he retired when the yearning for solitude was strong--andhis library. The chapel is on the ground-floor, and is very much whatit was in Montaigne's time. It is small, but there was room enough toaccommodate his household, which was never a large one. Its littlecupola connects it with the local style of architecture, to which thehigh-swelling name of Byzantino-Périgourdin has been given. A small stonealtar occupies the apsidal end, and here, as in two or three other places, the arms of Montaigne will be noted with interest by those who have read inthe essays: '_Je porte d'azur semé de trèfles d'or, à une patte de lyon demesme armée de gueules, mise en face_. '

A man is often a sceptic on the surface and a believer underneath. Pascalhas called Montaigne '_un pur pyrrhonien_'; but Pascal himself has beenaccused of scepticism. Living in an age when the crimes daily committed inthe name of religion might so easily have inspired a hater of violence likeMontaigne with a horror of creeds, he was no philosopher of the God-denyingsort. Moreover, notwithstanding his doubting moods and his fondness of thewords '_Que sais-je?_' he upheld the practice of religion in his own home, and died a Christian. 

He shared, however, the eccentricity of Louis XI. In keeping himself outof sight when he attended the religious services in his chapel. In thevaulting near the entrance is a small opening communicating with a narrowpassage, by means of which Montaigne could leave his bedroom and hear masswithout showing himself; but in order to do so he had to grope along hisrabbit's burrow almost on hands and knees. To reach his bedroom from theground, he climbed up the spiral staircase as the visitor does today. Thesteps are much worn in places, and the boots of the essayist must have hadsomething to do with this, for he probably used the tower more than anyother man. The room, nearly circular in shape, with brick floor and smallwindows, looks to modern eyes more like a prison than a bed-chamberbefitting a nobleman. But independently of the great difference inthe ideas of home comfort which prevailed in the upper ranks ofsixteenth-century society, compared to those of the same class to-day, Montaigne, like all men with large minds, loved simplicity. His father, whorode the hobby-horse of frugal and severe training to an extent that mighthave proved disastrous to his son Michel, had not the boy been singularlywell endowed by nature to correspond to his parent's wishes, had nurturedhim in the scorn of luxury by methods which would be considered verycrotchety nowadays. But this could not have been 'my chamber' in which KingHenry of Navarre slept, in 1584, when he paid a visit to Montaigne at hisfortified house. There was a better one in that part of the building whichhas disappeared. Montaigne tells, with his quaint humour, that he was inthe habit of retiring to his bedroom in the tower so that he might rulethere undisturbed, and have a corner apart from what he curiously terms the'conjugal, filial, and civil community. ' And he expresses pity for the manwho is not able to 'hide himself' in the same way when the humour leads himto do so. 

It was in the room above, however, where he enjoyed to the full thepleasures of contemplation and quietude. Here, he tells us, he hadinstalled his library, in what had previously been regarded as the mostuseless part of his mansion. The position had certain advantages. 'Ican see beneath me my garden and my poultry-yard, and can look into theprincipal parts of my house. ' It appears from this that he was so much 'inthe clouds, ' that he did not occasionally find satisfaction from peepingthrough windows to see what others were doing. It is in this way that theold writers reveal themselves, and they keep themselves in sympathy withmankind by not affecting to be above the little weaknesses common tohumanity. Here Montaigne spent the greater part of his time, except inwinter, when he often found the library too draughty to be comfortable. Itwas in this room that he wrote his essays, and chiefly thought them outwhile pacing up and down the floor, which even then was so uneven that theonly flat bit was where he had placed his table and chair. In common withsome other celebrated writers, he found that his thoughts went to sleepwhen he sat down. 'My. Mind does not work unless the legs make it move. Those who study without a book are all in the same state. '

Montaigne was no despiser of books; on the contrary, he was a great reader, and one of the most scholarly men of his age; but he had his fits ofreading like other people, and the intervals between them were sometimeslong. Without a doubt, these intervals were the most productive periods. The educational system to which he was subjected as a child was enough todisgust him with books, and to separate him for ever from them as soon ashe had obtained his freedom. He was crammed with Latin, as a goose thathas to be fattened is crammed with maize in his own Périgord. He was notallowed to speak even to his mother in French or in Périgourdin. Such wasthe will of his father, who must have been a rather difficult man to livewith, and one whom a woman of spirit in this century would kill or curewith curtain lectures if his interference with her in the nursery shouldoutrage the instincts of maternity. The very small boy was handed over totutors, whose instructions were to make Latin his first language, and evenhis mother and servants were compelled to pick up enough Latin words tocarry on some sort of conversation with him. 

In the printers' preface to one of the earliest editions of the 'Essays, 'it is said: '_Somme, ils se_ _latinisèrent tant qu'il en regorgea jusqueà leurs villages tout autour, où ont pris pied par usage plusieursappellations latines d'artisans et d'outils. '_ It is just possible thatsome of these Latin terms may have lingered in the district to the presentday; but it would need a great deal of patience to find them, and todistinguish them from the patois of the people. Montaigne was more than sixyears old before he was allowed to say a word in French or in the dialectof Périgord--that of Arnaud and Bertrand de Born. He finished his austereeducation at the then celebrated College of Guyenne, at Bordeaux, where, according to local authorities, he had among his teachers the Scotch poet, George Buchanan. 

'When young, ' writes Montaigne, 'I studied for show; afterwards to growwiser; now I study for diversion. ' He liked to have his books around himeven when he did not read them. Numerous reading-desks were distributedover the brick floor of this circular room, and upon them he placed hisfavourite volumes. He therefore read standing, according to the verygeneral custom of his time, which was doubtless better than our own, ofmaking our backs crooked by sitting and bending over our books. Accordingto his own admission, he had a bad memory, therefore he must have been infrequent need of referring to his tomes for the quotations from ancientauthors which he was so fond of bringing into his text, and which make awriter at this end of the nineteenth century smile at the thought of howall the quills would rise upon that fretful and pampered porcupine, thereading public of to-day, if Latin and Greek were ladled out to it afterMontaigne's fashion. 

The room is bare, with the exception of the wreck of an armchair ofuncertain history; but upon the forty-seven beams crossing the ceiling arefifty-four inscriptions in Latin and Greek, written, or rather painted, with a brush by Montaigne. Their interest has suffered a little from therestoration which some of them have undergone; but there they are, thecrystals of thought picked up by the hermit of the tower in his wanderingsalong the highways and byways of ancient literature, and which he fastened, as it were, to the beams over his head, just where the peasants to-day hangtheir dry sausages, their bacon, and strings of garlic. Many persons copysentences out of their favourite books, with the intention of tasting theirsavour again and again; but if they do not lose them, they are generallytoo busy or too indolent afterwards to look for them. Montaigne, however, had his favourite texts always before his eyes. 

The curious visitor intent upon a discovery will be sure to find in thesethe philosophical scaffolding of the 'Essays;' but I, who examine suchthings somewhat superficially, would rather believe that Montaigneinscribed them upon the rough wood because they expressed in a few wordsmuch that he had already thought or felt. By the extracts that a man makesfor his private satisfaction from the authors who please him, the bent ofhis intellect and cast of character can be very accurately judged. Ifother testimony were wanting, these sentences would prove the gravelyphilosophical temper of Montaigne's mind, notwithstanding the flippantconfessions of frailty which he mingles sometimes so incongruously withthe reflections of a sage. Most of the extracts are from Latin andGreek authors, but not a few are from the Books of Ecclesiastes andEcclesiasticus and the Epistles of St. Paul. Here one sees written by thehand of the sixteenth century thinker the noble words of Terence:

 'Homo sum, humani a me nihil alienum puto. '

Then one catches sight of this line by the sagacious Horace:

 'Quid aeternis minorem consiliis animum fatigas?'

Looking at another piece of timber, one slowly spells out the words:

 'O miseras hominum mentes! O pectora caeca!'

And so one follows the track of Montaigne's mind from rafter to rafter. 

Had I been left alone here while the evening shadows gathered in the tower, I might soon have seen the figure of a man in trunk-hose, doublet, andruff, with pointed beard and pensive eyes, moving noiselessly between rowsof spectral desks covered by spectral books; but, as it was, even in themost shadowy corner I could not detect the faintest outline of a ghost. Nobody knows what has become of all the volumes which were here, and whichwere said to have numbered a thousand. They were given by Montaigne's onlysurviving child, his daughter Léonore, to the Abbé de Roquefort, but whatbecame of them afterwards is a mystery. There is a small room adjoining thelibrary, the one that Montaigne mentions as having a fireplace. The hearthwhere he sat and warmed himself has scarcely changed. Here on the wallsmay be seen traces of paintings. They are supposed to be the work of atravelling artist, to whom Montaigne gave food and shelter in exchangefor his labour. It would appear from this that he was careful not to ruinhimself by the encouragement of art. Montaigne, however, had a good nature, although he may not have cared to spend money on bad pictures. He has toldus of his efforts to reclaim little beggars, and to make them respectablemembers of society. Before the present château was built, the old kitchencould be seen where he warmed and fed the young mendicants, who, havingbeen refreshed and comforted, returned to their old ways, '_les gueux ayantleurs magnificences et leurs voluptés comme les riches_. '

The village of St. Michel is close to the château, but is of much moreancient origin, as its church plainly shows. The venerable Romanesquedoor-way was to me more beautiful because of the purple spots ofsnapdragon, that shone in the clear dimness of the twilight like littlecoloured lamps about the crevices of the old stones. It is uncertainwhether Montaigne was christened here or in the family chapel. It was astrange christening wherever it took place, for we are told that he was'held over the font' by persons of most humble condition, his father'smotive in this matter being, according to the printers of the early editionof the 'Essays' already referred to, 'to attach him to those who mighthave need of him rather than to those of whom he might have need. ' It wasPapessu, another village in the neighbourhood, to which he was sent asa nurseling, and where, in obedience to the injunctions of his Spartanfather, he was treated like one of the peasant family with whom he wasplaced. He was reared from his cradle in frugality and philosophy, and, considering what an unpleasant childhood he must have passed, it is trulywonderful that he fulfilled parental expectations, and did not turn out ahard drinker and a brawling cavalier. 

There is a tradition in Périgord which some local writers have accepted asfact, that the Montaigne family was of English origin. It is not easy toascertain the ground on which it rests. The patronymic was Eyquem, and the_chevalier-seigneur_, who settled in Périgord and took the territorialtitle of Montagne or Montaigne, came from the Bordelais. 

That is about all that is really known of the family. If the Eyquem hadborne a prominent part against the French kings in the long wars which hadnot ended a hundred years before the birth of the moralist, this would havebeen sufficient to account for their being described as English. 

Speaking of the peasants of his district, Montaigne tells us that theirdress was 'more distant from ours than that of a man who is only clothedwith his skin. ' From this we have a right to suppose that their appearancewas original, if not picturesque. To-day it is neither one nor the other. With the exception of the kerchief tied round the back of the head, afterthe fashion of the Périgourdine or the Bordelaise, by some of the women, these peasants wear nothing to distinguish them from those who haveentirely abandoned a local costume. 

I was in no way pleased with the villagers of St. Michel-Montaigne, nor didthey seem to be agreeably impressed by me. Those to whom I spoke did notconceal their surprise that I had been allowed to see over the castle. Ithink they must have set me down for something less respectable than aplasterer, and I began to think quite seriously that I was neglecting myappearance. Then I thought of the knapsack, which was really getting tolook, from long usage, as if the time had come for placing it in the way ofa deserving _chiffonnier_, but I could not make up my mind to buy another. I was anxious to pass the night in the village, for I hoped that theinhabitants had preserved some traditions of Montaigne; but there was onlya small and very dirty-looking auberge that had any pretension to lodgeman and beast, and here the hostess rejected my overtures with vivacity. Consequently, I was compelled to trudge on, and as I left the place I shookthe dust from off my feet at the inhabitants. There was plenty of it, but Iam afraid it did them little harm. 

The road, now descending towards the Dordogne, passed through greatvineyards, and there was enough light for the clustered bunches of grapesto be seen on every vine. Under the calm sky, still full of the heat of thesummer day, and glowing duskily, the wide, sloping land offered up all itsmyriads of broad, motionless leaves and its wealth of fruit to the god ofwine. O gentle peace of the summer night that has still the bloom of thesun upon its dusky cheek--peace untroubled by any sound save the joyousshrilling of the cricket that has climbed upon the darkening leaf--why do Ihurry onward upon the dusty road, instead of sitting upon a bank amid thefragrant thyme and agrimony, and letting the mind lay in great store ofyour sweetness against the cold and dismal nights to come?

I reached the village of La Mothe by the Dordogne, and while I was castingabout for an inn that looked comfortable, and also hospitable, I meta pretty little brunette with a rich southern colour in her cheeks, charmingly coifed _à la bordelaise_, and tripping jauntily along with acoffee-pot in her hand. It was pleasant to look at a nice face again afterall the ill-favoured visages that had risen up against me during the secondhalf of the day, and so I stopped this pretty girl and asked her to tell mewhich was the best hotel in the place. She would not answer the question, but she mentioned a hotel which she said was as good as any. Thither Iwent, and found a comfortable little inn, where I was well received. I hadnot been there long when the little brunette entered. She was the 'daughterof the house. ' I now understood that her hesitation was conscientious. 

The hostess was a small, sprightly woman with a smiling face, which, together with her bright-coloured coif gracefully hanging to her blackhair, made up such a head as puts one in a good temper for a whole evening. She was so highly civilized that she actually asked me if I would like towash my hands. I expected that she was going to lead me to one of thoselittle cisterns--'fountains' in French--attached to the wall, that one seesthroughout Guyenne, and which have come down almost unchanged in form, aswell as the roller-towels that often go with them, from the feudal castlesof the twelfth century; but I was wrong. She led me to a bucket. Fillinga large ladle with water, she fixed it lengthwise, and the handle being atube, the water ran slowly out from the end. I quite understood that I hadto wash my hands with the trickling water, for I had often done it before. These ladles with hollow handles are also used for sprinkling the floors, which are never washed in Southern France. The sprinkling lays the dust, cools the air, and depresses the fleas for at least a quarter of an hour. 

After I had dealt with a well-cooked little dinner, plentifully bedewedwith a pleasant but not insidious wine grown upon the sunny slopes abovethe Dordogne, I made the discovery that the best room in the house wasoccupied by the dark-eyed damsel, except when a guest came along whomanaged to ingratiate himself with her mother, and then the daughter hadto turn out. The room was not exactly luxurious, for it contained littlebesides the bed, a table, and a chair, but it was bright and clean; andwhen I had confided myself to the strong hempen sheets that had still halfa century of wear in them, and had passed the first quarter of anhour, which is always critical, without being made aware by scouts andskirmishers of the advance of a hostile force, I was very thankful that Iwas not received with open arms in the village of St. Michel-Montaigne. 

The next morning I met the Dordogne again after a long separation. It wasnow a great river flowing quietly through a vine-covered plain. The rapidshad all been left far away, but it had begun to feel the tide, and thisto a river is like the first shock of death. It struggles for awhile withdestiny, and a sadder sound than the cry which it made when it came forthfrom the rock or the little lake is heard in the quiet evening or the moresolemn night. Although it is flowing back to its true source, the rivershrinks from the vast and mysterious ocean as we shrink ourselves from theimmense unknown. 

But at this hour of eight in the morning, with a sun so bright and a sky soblue, only the broad and serene beauty of the water makes itself felt. Asthe river goes curving over the vine-covered land, its stillness is almostthat of a lake, and it mirrors nothing but the sky, save the trees andflowers of it's banks. The moments are precious, for the tender lovelinessof the landscape will wane as the light gains strength. 

On each side of the Dordogne, between the water and the vineyards, whichstretch away with scarcely a break across the plain and up the sides of thedistant hills, is a strip of rough field. The sunshine of four months, withhardly a shower to moisten the earth, has made flowers scarce, but on thislong curving bend of coarse meadow the grass has kept something of itsgreenness, and the season of blossoming stays by the beautiful stream. There is a wanton tangling and mingling of the waste-loving flowers, suchas the yellow toad-flax, the bristling viper's bugloss, the thorny ononisthat spreads a hue of pink as it creeps along the ground, sky-blue chicoryon wiry stems, large milk-white blooms of _datura_, and purple heads of_centaurea calcitrapa_, whose spines are avoided like those of a hedgehogby people who walk with bare feet. Upon the banks, the high hemp-agrimonyand purple loosestrife, with here and there an evening primrose, flaunttheir masses of colour over the water or the pebbly shore. 

From a distant church tower that rises above the wilderness of vinesa clear-voiced bell calls through the morning air, _Sanctus! sanctus!sanctus!_ by which all know who care to think of it that the prieststanding at the altar there has come to the most solemn part of his mass. 

Wandering on, indifferent to the flight of time, upon these pleasant banks, which, but for a bullock-cart that came jolting and creaking along bythe edge of the vines, I might have thought quite abandoned by all otherhumanity, I saw afar off a little cluster of white houses that seemed tobe floating on the blue water. I knew that this could be nothing else butCastillon, and that the effect of floating houses was an illusion caused bya bend of the river. And so I was nearing at length that place where thedestinies of France and England, so long interwoven, became again distinct, and where the English nationality, which five-and-twenty years before wasin imminent danger of absorption as the fruit of victory, was decisivelysaved from this fate by a defeat for which all England then in herblindness mourned. The loss of Guyenne made an alien dynasty national, and by stopping the outflow of the Anglo-Saxon race upon the Continent, preserved its energies for the fulfilment of a very different destiny fromthat which had almost begun when a peasant-girl dropped her distaff andtook up the sword. 

On reaching Castillon I had one of those disappointments to which atraveller should always be prepared after being taught so often byexperience that distance idealizes a scene. How much less romantic the townlooked now than when I saw it floating, as it seemed, upon the sky-bluewater in a haze of gold-dust fired by the slanting rays! It was then likethe Castillon of some troubadour's song; now it was a mean-looking littlesun-baked town modernized to downright plainness, with no remnant of itsramparts remaining save a sombre old Gothic gateway near the river, and noecclesiastical architecture deserving notice. Its site, however, is thesame as that which it occupied in the Middle Ages, namely, close to theDordogne, upon a ridge of rising land running up towards the hills whichclose the valley on the north. On the eastern side this ridge for somedistance is so steep as to be almost escarped, but it is covered with grassor vines; on the opposite side it is now only a little above the plain. Thebattle was fought, not under the walls of the town, but somewhat to thenorth-east of it in the open country. 

Talbot's mistake lay in the confidence with which he attacked an entrenchedarmy much stronger than his own, and especially in his contempt for MessireJean Bureau's guns. The old leader now belonged to a dying epoch, andhis great faith in British and Gascon archers may well have led him toundervalue the power of artillery, notwithstanding that it was used withterrible effect by Edward III. At Crecy more than a hundred years before. The French had profited by that lesson, and at Castillon they turned thetables on their tenacious adversaries. 

It may be well to briefly recall the circumstances under which thismomentous battle was fought. One after another the English had beencompelled to surrender to the victorious armies of Charles VII. Theirfortresses in Poitou, Angoumois, Guyenne and Gascony; so that of theirimmense province of Aquitaine, which at one time stretched from the Loireto the Pyrenees, they possessed nothing. Even Bordeaux, after remainingfaithful to England for 200 years, was a French city at the middle of thefifteenth century. It would probably have remained so without any freshappeal to arms if Charles VII. Had treated the inhabitants with the samejustice, and accorded them the same liberties which they enjoyed while theywere the subjects of the English kings. It is a truly remarkable fact that, although these kings were so intimately connected with France by blood andambition, they had borrowed enough of the genius of the Anglo-Saxon racefor establishing foreign possessions upon the solid basis of reciprocalinterest to make their administrative policy in Aquitaine incomparablybetter by its equity, the facilities which it afforded for localgovernment, the assertion of individual rights, and the growth of communalprosperity, than that of the French kings and the great nobles who, whileowing homage, to the crown, were virtually sovereigns. 

At no time was there much dissatisfaction with the rule of the Englishsovereigns and their seneschals in Western Aquitaine. It was only in thewilder parts of the country, such as the Quercy and the Rouergue, whereCeltic blood was, and still is, almost pure, and where the people were verydifficult to govern--Caesar had found that out before Henry Plantagenet, Becket, and John Chandos--that there were frequent revolts, entailing as afatal consequence in those feudal ages barbaric repression. Throughout theflourishing Bordelais the people became firmly and thoroughly attachedto the English cause, not less than the Alsatians and Lorrainers becameattached to that of France in later times--although there is no historicalparallel between the origin of the two connections. Bordeaux was likeanother London when the Black Prince held his splendid but profligate courtthere. Commercial interest had doubtless something to do with this fidelityof the Bordelais, for the wealthy English soon learnt to appreciate thedelicate flavour of the wines grown upon the chalky hillsides by theGaronne and the Dordogne, and 500 years ago ships came from London andBristol to Bordeaux and returned laden with pipes and hogsheads; but asagacious and--the times being considered--a large-minded and generoussystem of government gave to the people that feeling of security whichwas then so rare, and which was the beginning of all patriotic sentiment. French writers who have studied this subject frankly admit that we havehere the true explanation of the strong attachment of the Bordelais and theGascons to the English cause. As an illustration, it may not be amiss totranslate the following passages from 'Les Anglais en Guyenne, ' by M. D. Brissaud:

'The Aquitanians had reason to thank the English Government for not havingtreated them as foreigners, like the inhabitants of a conquered province, as the people of Ireland, for example, had been treated, and for havingconfined its action to the development of judicial institutions, of whichthe germ was found in the feudal system of France. .. . The kings of Englandnot only refrained from setting themselves in opposition to the localjustice of the _arrière-fiefs_; we have seen them, and we shall see themagain in the history of the communal movement, favour the extension oftrial by peers, while accommodating at the same time their administrativesystem to the spontaneous manifestations of opinion in a continentalcountry. They even took care in the composition of the courts that theAquitanians should not feel the supremacy of the foreigner. With rareexceptions, the _personnel_ of the courts of justice was recruited fromamong the inhabitants of the province--a precious advantage at a time whenthe predominance of provincial feeling caused those magistrates who weresent from the North of France into the South by the Capetian royalty tobe regarded as foreigners and enemies. The consequence of this choice byEngland of Aquitanians in preference to English in the composition of thecourts was that under Philippe le Bel or Philippe de Valois Guyenne hada right to consider itself in possession of a milder and more impartialsystem of justice than other provinces of the South already attached likeLanguedoc to the crown of France. '

When, therefore, the Bordelais fell under French rule, the exactions ofCharles and the cynicism with which he broke faith, together with thestagnation in the wine trade, caused the people to wish very heartily thatthe English would return and try their luck again with the sword. A revoltwas secretly planned, in which many of the powerful barons of Aquitaineleagued themselves with the burghers of Bordeaux, for the nobles were asdissatisfied with the new state of things as the commoners. The Earl ofShrewsbury, notwithstanding his great age, came over from England with avery small following, and placed himself at the head of the insurrection. The name of Talbot was sufficient to fire the Bordelais and the Gasconswith enthusiasm and confidence. As the news of his landing in the Médocspread, men rushed to arms and raised the old battle-cries of the Englishin Aquitaine. Bordeaux opened its gates immediately to the veteran leader, and the example was quickly followed by Libourne, Castillon, St. Émilion, and other strong places in the district. This was in the month of October, 1452. It was not until May of the following year that Charles VII. Decidedto risk the fortunes of war with the two armies which he had mustered--oneon the Garonne, and the other on the Charente. By that time the whole ofWestern Guyenne was again English. The plan of campaign followed wasthe one laid out by the long-headed Jean Bureau, a man of figures andcalculations--a small Moltke of the fifteenth century. He had been theKing's treasurer, his _argentier_; then the Bastard of Orleans made himMayor of Bordeaux, and now, because he had a taste for guns, he was GrandMaster of the Artillery. He advised Charles that the best course to adoptin order to spoil the English scheme would be to take possession ofthe roads leading to Bordeaux, and thus cut off communication with theinterior. Now, Castillon was an important strategical point, commandingone of the principal gates of the Bordelais, and it was resolved to make avigorous effort to snatch this fortress, which was but weakly garrisoned, from the hands of the English. The army, which was under the nominalcommand of the Comte de Penthièvre, but whose ruling spirit was JeanBureau, accordingly marched on Castillon, and the King's army moved inthe same direction. Talbot, having tidings of the enemy's plans, hurriedeastward with all the forces he could muster to the relief of the garrison. His main object, however, was probably to prevent a junction of the twoarmies. He was confident of being able to defeat both if he could engagethem separately. 

The French army came down the valley of the Dordogne, and drew near toCastillon when Talbot was still far away. The plan of the leaders was notto attack the town until their camp had been well fortified with earthworksand palisades, for it was felt that they could not be too cautious when anadversary like Talbot was in the country, and possibly near at hand. Theentrenched camp was laid out and ordered with a military science inadvance of the age. The position, moreover, was very judiciously chosen, considering the impossibility in which the French were placed of selectinghigh ground. The camp was in a fork formed by the Dordogne and its smalltributary, the Lidoire, which flows in a south-westerly direction, andfalls into the broad river a mile or two above Castillon. Bureau was givenample time to raise his ramparts, dig his moats, fix his palisades, andset up his park of artillery, on which he laid so much store. Then weredetached 800 archers--Angévins and Berrichons--who took up their quartersat an abbey that then existed a little to the north of the town, at thefoot of a wooded hill. The fortress was therefore threatened on two sides. 

On July 16 Talbot arrived on the scene, and at the first brush obtained asignal advantage by taking the French completely by surprise. On the marchfrom Libourne he did not trust himself to the broad valley, which, beinghighly cultivated then as it is now, offered no cover, but followed theline of hills to the north of it, on which much of the ancient forest stillclung. Thus he managed to conceal his advance until his men broke suddenlyupon the unsuspecting archers of Anjou and Berry, and slaughtered them withthat thoroughness which was characteristic of mediaeval warfare. Talbotbelonged to an age that gave no quarter and expected none. A man down was aman lost, unless he had extraordinary luck. The massacre of these archersput the English army--which, after the drafts made on various garrisons, was now said to be about 6, 000 strong--in good spirits. Not many of thefugitives reached the camp. Talbot did not follow up this advantage byattempting an immediate attack upon the fortified position in the plain. Hegave his men a rest after their toilsome march over rough ground, andput off the decisive battle until the morrow. In the meantime, he placedhimself in communication with the garrison of Castillon, and arranged thata sortie in force should take place on the signal being given for the greattug-of-war. He made the abbey his headquarters, and it has been recordedthat the casks of wine found in the cellars of the dispossessed monks werespeedily drained. 

The momentous day of July 17 broke, and Talbot was waiting to hear massbefore risking upon the die of a battle the English cause in Aquitaine, sowonderfully and bloodlessly redeemed in a few months. One of the last ofthe mediaeval knights, the ardour of his loyalty was tinged with mysticism, and any cause that he had espoused would have become holy in his eyes. Hetherefore raised those aged eyes now to the God of battles as he knelt inthe quiet sanctuary, impatient though he was to see the vineyards and themeadows redden again with the blood that he had been shedding with the zealof a Crusader for more than half a century. His chaplain was layingthe altar, when a sudden movement of armed men disturbed the kneelingoctogenarian from his devotions. Tidings were brought that the French campwas breaking up in disorder, and that the enemy was about to escape. Atthis news the blood of the old warrior began to rush through his veins, andwithout waiting for the mass, he had his armour brought to him. Clad iniron and mounted upon his white horse, accompanied by his son, the LordLisle--Shakespeare's John Talbot--he rode down into the plain. The enemywas not in disorder, but was waiting behind the entrenchments for theexpected onslaught. 

Talbot gave the order for the attack, and his thousand knights and esquirescharged down upon the camp. When they were well within range of Bureau'sartillery, the 'three hundred cast-iron pieces mounted on wheels, whichthey called _bombardes_, ' [Footnote: Chroniques de Jean Tarde. ] broke intoa roar, and the stone balls worked terrible havoc upon horses and riders. The ground was quickly strewn with heavily armoured men, who lay there ashelpless as turned turtles, and who were ridden over by those in the rear. The mediaeval cavalry was shattered or thrown into hopeless confusion bythe new artillery. The infantry met with no better success in moving to theassault of the hastily raised ramparts bristling with guns. The Englisharmy was demoralized by this unexpected reception. In vain did Talbot rideagain and again into the thickest of the fray--the besieged had now assumedthe offensive. Even his grand old figure and his rallying cry failed toturn back the tide of disaster. It has been written that in his wrath hestruck those of his own party who endeavoured to draw him out of the dangerto which he was constantly exposing himself. He felt that at his age it wasnot worth while to survive defeat, in order that he might die in his bedwith a mind tortured by gnawing regret a few months or years later. 

But although he resolved not to save himself, he urged his son to flee. On this point there is too much agreement between English and Frenchchroniclers for it to be possible to doubt that Shakespeare's well-knownscene between the old and the young Talbot, in the first part of 'KingHenry VI. , ' was founded on fact. Moreover, what was more natural than thatthe father, when he saw the evil turn that things were taking, should havesaid to his son:

 'Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse, And I'll direct thee how thou shall escape By sudden flight. Come, dally not; be gone'?

What more natural, too, than that the son of such a father should havereplied in words which, although less rhythmical, would have been insubstance these?--

 'Is my name Talbot? and am I your son? And shall I fly? The world will say he is not Talbot's blood, That basely fled when noble Talbot stood. '

To the fact that the battle of Castillon was fought in Périgord, althoughthe town is in the Bordelais, we doubtless owe the interesting descriptionthat Jean Tarde has left us of the memorable struggle. His narrative, sofar as it relates to the incident between Talbot and his son, is in themain the same as Shakespeare's; but being told in the plain prose of asimple annalist, it lacks the rhetorical and romantic embellishments whichthe British poet thought fit to add. In the following translation of themost interesting part of Tarde's description of the battle, an effort hasbeen made to preserve the style of the writer:

'The English troops entered courageously by the passage where the artilleryawaited them, which (passage) alone could give them access to the Frencharmy. He who commanded the artillery took his time, and at the firstdischarge laid low three or four hundred. This massacre, comingunexpectedly, troubled the whole English army, and threw it into disorder, which pained Talbot to see; and fearing the defeat of his men, he toldthe Sieur de l'Isle, his son, to withdraw and reserve himself for a morefortunate occasion; who replied that he could not retire from the combatin which he saw his father running the risk of his life. To this Talbotrejoined, 'I have in my life given so many proofs of my valour and militaryvirtue, that I cannot die to-day without honour, and I cannot flee withoutmaking a breach in the reputation I have acquired by so much labour; but toyou, my son, who are bearing here your first arms, flight cannot bring anyinfamy nor death much glory. ' [Footnote: 'J'ay pendant ma vie donné tant detesmoignages de ma valeur et vertu militaire que je ne puys meshuy mourirsans honneur et ne puys fuir sans fère brèche à la réputation que j'ayacquise par tant de travaux; mais vous mon filz qui portés icy vospremières armes, la fuitte ne vous peut apporter aucune infamie, ny la mortbeaucoup de gloire. '] But without giving heed to this counsel, the younglord, full of generous courage, reassured his men, made them fall againinto rank, and having ranged them with their bucklers fixed in tortoisefashion, sped on to the attack of his enemies in their camp; for they hadnot dared to leave their trenches. The French, seeing themselves pressed inthis way, entered into the battle. Great was the _mêlée_. The artillery ofthe French continued all the while to fire upon the English troops, and sowell that a stone striking Talbot broke his thigh. The English seeing theirchief on the ground, believing him dead, and recognising that the Frenchwere the stronger in artillery and in the number of men, lost courage, fellinto disorder, and only thought of saving themselves. The French, on thecontrary, took heart and fought with fury. The battle was bloody. Talbot, his son the Sieur de l'Isle, another bastard son, and a son-in-law, werekilled with the greater part of the English nobility, and the whole armywas cut to pieces. Talbot's body was buried on the spot where it was found, and upon his grave was built a small chapel that still exists, but open tothe sky and half ruined. '

Jean Tarde concludes his narrative of the battle with these remarks:

'The English army being thus defeated, Castillon surrendered, and the Kingin person besieged Bordeaux, which surrendered on October 18. Following itsexample, all the other towns of Guyenne again submitted to him. Thus endedthe domination of the English in Guyenne, of which (province) they werecompletely dispossessed, and which at once returned to the sceptre andcrown of France, after remaining for three hundred years in the claws ofthe English leopards. '

There are some patent inaccuracies in Tarde's account--the statement, towit, that Talbot was buried on the spot where he fell, whereas his body wascarried from the field and taken to England. The ecclesiastical chroniclermust have accepted the story in circulation among the common people, whichis repeated to this day by the peasants around Castillon, who even pointout a mound which they call 'Talbot's grave. ' Shakespeare does not fallinto this error, although he brings Jeanne d'Arc upon the battlefield, notwithstanding that she was burnt twenty-two years before the death ofTalbot. 

According to the version accepted by French historians, Talbot wasoverthrown by a cannon-shot, and was afterwards despatched on the ground bya soldier who ran his sword through the hero's throat. His body was carriedinto the French camp, where it remained all night, and it was so disfiguredthat his herald could hardly recognise it. Many of the fugitives weredrowned or were killed by the archers while attempting to swim across theDordogne. Four thousand English, or English partisans, were said to havebeen slain on this fatal day, and only a small remnant of the army managedto retreat within the walls of Castillon. The French then besieged thetown, and the bombardment was so furious that the garrison was soon willingto surrender on the best terms that could be obtained. Bordeaux was notbesieged until St. Émilion, Libourne, Fronsac, Bazas, Cadillac, and otherstrongholds of the Bordelais had capitulated. 

After this rather long journey into the past, I must return to my wayfaringupon the battlefield of Castillon, over which more than four centuries havecrept since the events occurred which gave it so dramatic a celebrity. 

Scorched by the now blazing sun, I took the shadeless road leading out ofthe town towards the north-east, and after walking about a mile betweenvineyards, I came to the commemorative monument of the battle raised in1888 by the Union Patriotique de France. It is a low obelisk, with noornament save a mediaeval sword carved upon it, with point turned upwards. Facing the road is the following inscription:

 '_Dans cette plaine le 17 Juillet, 1453, fut remporté la victoire qui délivra du joug de l'Angleterre les provinces meridionals de la France et termina la guerre de cent ans_. '

The abbey where the French archers were surprised and slain must have beennear this spot, but it was down in the valley by the Lidoire where Talbotfell. There is no trace of a chapel such as that of which Tarde speaks, norany other mark to show the place. But the little stream is there as of old, and the beautiful Dordogne that drank the mingled blood of the two armieswhich its tributary poured into it flows serenely and blue as it did thenunder the same summer sky. 

An Englishman who now wanders over the battlefield of Castillon can hardlyrealize how his country grieved at the defeat of Talbot far away hereamidst the southern vines. To-day it seems so absurd, so contrary to thepolicy of common-sense, that England, then so thinly populated, should havestriven so hard and so long in order to be a Continental power; when now, with her dense population, half subsisting upon foreign supplies, sheblesses that accident of nature which caused the bridge of rocks thatconnected her with the mainland to disappear beneath the sea. Surely ifhistory teaches anything, it teaches the vanity of politics. 

From Castillon I bent my course to St. Émilion on the road to Libourne; theDordogne, which here twists like a snake in agony, being left somewhat tothe south. The whole country, hill and plain, was clad with vineyards, butI soon grew weary of looking at the numberless short vines fastened tostakes in one broad blaze of unchanging sunshine. Even the hanging clustersof grapes wearied the eye by endless repetition. 

By-and-by, out of all this sameness rose a hill in that abrupt manner whichstrikes a peculiar character into this southern landscape, and uponthe hill were jutting rocks and a broken mass of strangely-jumbledmasonry-roofs rising out of roofs, gables crushing gables, feudal towers, great walls, and one tall heaven-pointing spire. This was St. Émilion, respected in the Middle Ages as a strong fortress of the Bordelais, and nowso famous for its wine that the locality has long ceased to produce morethan an insignificant part of that which is put into bottles bearing thename of a saint who drank nothing stronger than water. Only the wine thatis grown upon the sides of the hill is really St. Émilion; it changes assoon as the vineyards reach the plain. It is then a _vin de plaine_, and isno more like the other than if it had been grown fifty miles away. 

Celtic remains point to the conclusion that, long before the foundation ofthe first monastery, which was the beginning of the mediaeval town, theGauls had an _oppidum_ on this hill. St. Émilion became a fortified town inthe reign of King John, who signed a charter here, and it may be said tohave been thoroughly gained over to the English cause by Edward I. , whogranted numerous privileges to the burghers. For a short time the placefell into the power of Philippe IV. , but it was in its collegial church inMay, 1303, that the duchy of Aquitaine was ceremoniously restored by theSeneschal of Gascony to the King of England, represented on this occasionby the Earl of Lincoln. To reward the inhabitants for their fidelity, andto compensate them in some sort for the trials which they had endured inconsequence, St. Émilion was made a royal English borough, and enjoyed thespecial favour and protection of the sovereign. 

It was in this fourteenth century that it rose to the height of itsimportance and prosperity. We can gather to-day from the ruins of itsreligious buildings and fortifications what that importance must have been. Besides the monastery dating from the age of Charlemagne, whose monks earlyin the twelfth century were placed under the rule of St. Augustin, two great religious establishments were those of the Minor Friars orCordeliers, and the Preaching Friars or Dominicans. Of the vast convent ofthese last nothing remains but a very stately and noble fragment of thechurch wall, standing isolated on the top of the hill. 

During the Hundred Years' War St. Émilion was besieged and taken by DuGuesclin; but although the burghers were often compelled to dissemble inorder to save their throats, they were always ready to welcome an Englisharmy. They were among the first to follow the example of the men ofBordeaux, who raised the English flag for the last time in 1452. 

During the religious wars of the sixteenth century St. Émilion sufferedgrievously from the fury and bestiality of the vile ruffians of both camps. The excesses of the Norman barbarians when they burnt and pillaged thetown in the ninth century were mild in comparison with those of thesixteenth-century Christians. 

There are few spots more fascinating to the artist and archaeologist thanthis ruinous old stronghold of the English kings. One might ramble a longtime over the cobble stones of its steep narrow streets, and about theruined ramparts draped with green pellitory and the spurred valerian'spurple flowers, with a mind held in continual tension by the picturesque. At every angle there is a fresh surprise. The monolithic church, made byexcavating the calcareous rock, which crops out and forms a kind of tablenear the top of the crescent-shaped hill, is said to have been mainly thework of monks in the ninth century. There is no other resembling it, withthe exception of the one at Aubeterre, the idea of which was probablyborrowed here. Steps lead down into the nave, where there is an odour ofancient death, and where the light darting through windows pierced in theface of the cliff reveals on each side a row of huge rectangular pierssupporting round-headed arches, all forming part of the rock. Theseseparate the nave from the aisles, of which there are three, the onefarthest from the centre having been used chiefly for burial. All about arenumerous tomb recesses. The piers and their arches are covered with greenor black lichen, which adds not a little to the gloom and dismalness ofthis subterranean church. 

[Illustration: MONOLITHIC CHURCH AND DETACHED TOWER AT ST. ÉMILION. ]

Ornamental details of the exterior, such as the doorway with its has-reliefof the Last Judgment, are of a much later period than the rude excavationsof the interior. From the platform of rock immediately above the vastcrypt rise a Gothic tower and spire dating from the twelfth century. Thisstructure, which lends so much character to St. Émilion, appears to belongto the church beneath; but such is not the case. Although separated, it isa part of the collegial, now parish, church, which is higher up the hill, just within the line of the ramparts. It is said to have been built by theEnglish, but the Romanesque lateral doorway would be strong evidence ofthe contrary if there were no other. English influence, however, may haveplayed some part in the extensive rebuilding which was carried out in thefourteenth century. The east end, scarcely forming an apse, and pierced inthe centre with a high broad window with a narrower window on each side, suggests this, as do also the very massive columns of the choir. 

Close to the monolithic church is the cavern where the hermit Émilion issupposed to have dwelt. In order to see it, I had to find a little girl whokept the key, and who led the way down the steps with a lighted candle. St. Émilion might have looked far before finding a more unpleasant place tolive in than this cavern. It might be safely guaranteed to kill in a veryshort time any man with a modern constitution, unless he were miraculouslypreserved from rheumatism and other evils of the flesh. The damp oozesperpetually from the slimy rock, and the air is like that of a well. Indeed, there is a little well here called St. Émilion's Fountain. Thespring is intermittent; every two or three minutes the water is seen torise with one or more bubbles. It never fails, no matter how prolonged thedrought may be. 

The little girl pointed out to me a great number of pins lying upon thesandy bottom of the basin. I asked her how they came there, and she saidthat they were dropped into the water by people--chiefly young girls--whowished to know when they would be married. If two pins that had beendropped in together crossed one another upon the bottom, it was a sign thatthe person who let them fall would be married within a year. As I coulddistinguish none that were crossed, I concluded that all who had madethe experiment here were condemned to celibacy. This form ofsuperstition--doubtless of Celtic origin wherever met with--is much morefrequent in Brittany than in Guyenne. 

Close to the 'grotto' is an old charnel-house quarried in the rock with adome-shaped roof, at the top of which is a round hole that lets the lightof heaven into the awful pit. This opening formerly served another purpose. There was a cemetery above, and as the bones were turned up from theshallow soil to make room for others still clothed with their flesh, theywere thrown down the orifice. For those who did not wish to be disturbedafter death, the charnel-house was the securer place of burial. Here, as inthe underground church, one sees numerous recesses in the wall which weremade for tombs. Those who feel the need of sombre ideas will be as likelyto find the incentive to them here as anywhere. Oh, what ghostly places arethese old southern towns, with their heaps of ruins, their churches as dimas sepulchres, their crypts and charnel-houses filled with bones!

[Illustration: CONVENT OF THE CORDELIERS: THE CLOISTERS. ]

Fellow-wanderer, come and see with me the convent of the Cordeliers. Thereare no monks here now. Since the Revolution their habitation has been opento all the winds of heaven, and the shadow of the wild fig-tree falls wherethat of their own forms once fell as they stood in the stalls of theirchapel choir. In the cloisters, the ivy and the pellitory and the littlecranesbill have crept with the moss and the lichen from stone to stone, andin the centre of the quadrangle stands a great walnut-tree that spreads itsbranches and long leaves over all the grassy ground. Birds that cannotbe seen sing aloft under the flaming sky; but here in the shadow of thearcades and the dark foliage nothing moves except the snail and the lazytoad at evening amidst the damp weeds. The stones that we see here in thisruined convent bear testimony to the eternal restlessness of man's desireto give some fresh artistic form to his religious aspiration. Some werecarved in the Romanesque period, others in the Gothic, others in theRenaissance. Witnesses of the human mind in different ages, all arecrumbling and growing green together, sharing a common fate. 

Among the many holes and corners full of curious interest at St. Émilion, but which have to be searched for by the visitor, is the cave where duringthe Reign of Terror seven of the Girondins sought refuge, and where theyremained hidden from their persecutors several months, notwithstandingthe unflagging efforts made to discover their retreat. Their enemies wereconvinced that they were somewhere in the town, or, rather, underneath thetown, for the rock on which it rests is honeycombed with quarries. TheseGirondins were Guadet, Salles, Barbaroux, Petlon, Buzot, Louvet, andValady. Guadet was a native of St. Émilion, and he had a relative therenamed Madame Bouquey. She and her husband were a brave and noble-mindedcouple at a time when the craven-hearted--always the accomplices oftyrants--were in the ascendancy everywhere. They sheltered Guadet and hiscompanions in a cave under their garden. The fugitives had first thought ofhiding in the old quarries, but they realized that they would be much saferin the cave. 

Hearing that the 'Grotte des Girondins' was in the garden of the school, now kept by Christian Brothers, thither I went. A little boy in a longblack blouse, with a leather belt round his waist, having obtained thepermission, pulled open a trapdoor in the garden, and, candle in hand, ledthe way down a flight of steps into a cavern, about the same size as St. Émilion's, but much dryer and more comfortable. On one side of it was anopening, which was made perceptible by a very faint glimmer of daylight. Ifound that this opening was in the side of a well. The water was stillfar below, and the surface of the earth was about fifteen feet above. Thetrap-door entrance--so the Brothers assured me--did not exist in thelast century, and the only entrance to the cave was by the well. It was, therefore, an admirable hiding-place, for the lateral opening was notdistinguishable from above, and anybody looking down and seeing the waterat the bottom would have thought it quite unnecessary to search any furtherthere. The Girondins were let down by the rope, or they let themselvesdown. As time went on, the position of Monsieur and Madame Bouquey, onwhom strong suspicion rested, became more and more difficult; and whenthe fugitives were informed that commissioners were on their way to St. Émilion, they resolved that, rather than expose their benefactorsto further peril, they would make an attempt to escape in differentdirections. Louvet got to Paris, and was the only one of the seven whodid not come by a violent death. Guadet and Salles were captured at St. Émilion, and were executed, as a matter of course. Barbaroux was alsotaken, after making an unsuccessful attempt to blow out his brains, and he, too, was guillotined at Bordeaux. Buzot and Petion stabbed themselves in afield between St. Émilion and Castillon, where their bodies were foundhalf eaten by wolves. The seventh, Valady, was brought to the scaffold atPérigueux. Monsieur and Madame Bouquey met the same fate. And it is withthis page of modern history that the quiet little garden of the Brothers'school, its well and hidden cavern, are so tragically associated. 

Near a ruinous _donjon_, called the Château du Roi, and attributed to LouisVIII. , now much overgrown with herbs and shrubs, I stood on a bastion ofthe town wall, overlooking the crescent-shaped hollow, covered with houses, bits of fortification older than the outer wall, ruined convents--a chaosof lichen-tinted stones and tiles gilded by the warm yet tenderly softenedsunshine of early evening. And as I gazed, I longed the more to be ableto carry away a picture of that scene, with all its tones and tints, thatwould last in the memory, as I also wished to draw out of it all themeaning of what I felt. I left with a sense of failure, of weakness, ofconfused impressions, which was to me like a gnawing weevil of the mind, onthe road to Libourne. 

Vines, vines, nothing but vines, gradually shading down to the darkness ofthe night that covers them. Then, when the dusky gauze of the cloudlessnight is drawn all over it, the broad leafy land sleeps under the sparklingstars. 

Here at Libourne I am in a town of whose English origin there can be nodoubt. It was one of the thirteenth-century _bastides_ founded in Guyenneby Edward I. These _bastides_ were at the outset intended as places ofrefuge for serfs and other non-belligerents of the rural districts in timeof war. Their character was that of free or open towns, and most of theburgs that still bear the name of Villefranche in the South of France wereoriginally _bastides_. Not a few of them keep the name of _La bastide_, in combination with some other to this day. They are to be found all overGuyenne and a great part of Languedoc. They were often fortified with awall, a palisade, and a moat. Their strong peculiarity, however, the onethat has been preserved in spite of all the changes that centuries havebrought, was the rectilinear and geometrical manner in which they were laidout. In contrast to the typical mediaeval town that grew up slowly aroundsome abbey, or at the foot of some strong castle that protected it, and inthe building of which, if any method was observed, it was that of makingthe streets as crooked as possible, to assist the defenders in stopping theinward rush of an enemy, the streets of the _bastide_ were all drawn atright angles to each other. Consequently, however old the houses may be, such towns have somewhat of a modern air. For the same reason, one of thechief attributes of the picturesque--an accidental meeting of variousmotives--is absent. To the inhabitants of these free towns a certainquantity of land was apportioned in equal parts, for which a fixed rent waspaid to the king or other feudal lord. 

I have said that the _bastides_ were not picturesque. In their early daysthey must have been quite hideous; but time, that plays havoc with humanbeings, lends to such of their works as may offer to it the resistance of along, hard struggle an interest which becomes at length a beauty. Thereis usually to be found in these towns the thirteenth-century _place_, orsquare, which formed, as it were, the heart of the commune. Along each ofthe four sides is a Gothic arcade, on which the first and all the higherstoreys of the houses rest. Thus, there is a broad pavement completelyvaulted over on each side of the quadrilateral, where people can walk, sheltered from the sun or rain, These old squares, wherever they are found, are now always picturesque. 

Libourne, from being a small _bastide_, grew to such importance, on accountof its position on the right bank of the Dordogne and the wine trade thatit was able to carry on by water, that it rivalled Bordeaux before theclose of the English domination, and the question of making it the capitaland the seat of the Prince of Wales and Aquitaine was seriously pondered. To-day it preserves all the plainness of its line-and-rule origin; but ithas a few redeeming features, such as one side of its ancient square, with broad pavement under Gothic arches, a picturesque town-hall of thesixteenth century, and a curious mediaeval tower, with machicolatedembattlements, now capped with a very tall and pointed roof, and known asthe Tour de l'Horloge. It is a remnant of the fourteenth-century ramparts. 

The people of Libourne were steadfast partisans of the English to thelast, and after 1453 they did not seek to distinguish themselves by theirresignation to the rule of the French kings. When in 1542 the insurrectionagainst the salt-tax, commencing at La Rochelle, spread over Saintonge andthe whole of Western Guyenne, the Libournais threw themselves heartily intothe movement. When the time of repression came they were made to smartsorely for their turbulent spirit. The Place de l'Hotel de Ville, of whichone side remains very much as it was then, bristled with gibbets, and 150persons were hanged in a single day. The man who had rung the tocsin thatcalled together the insurgents was suspended by the neck to the hammer ofthe bell, as a warning to others not to ring it again unless they had abetter motive. 

[Illustration: TOUR DE L'HORLOGE AT LIBOURNE. ]

Standing by the broad river, a little above the point where the Isle isfalling into it, carrying down all manner of craft with the tide, I see ata distance of a couple of miles or so towards the west the hill that isknown in history as Le Tertre de Fronsac. There Charlemagne built a castle, of which nothing now remains. The hill owes its modern celebrity entirelyto its wine. It is not everybody who knows the virtue of the genuineFronsac, especially that which was yielded by the old vines before thephylloxera destroyed them, but most people are familiar with the brand. But for this, the _tertre_ would long since have ceased to be famous, notwithstanding Charlemagne. 

The hill has a strange appearance, for it rises abruptly from the riverbank in the midst of the plain. It did not tempt me to walk to it in thescorching heat, but as a steamboat was going there, I paid two sous andwent on board. I had never been in such a cockle-shell of a steamer before. It rocked and tumbled like a coracle, and spat and fumed and snorted like averitable devil composed of an engine, a couple of paddle-wheels, and a fewboards. Helped by the tide that was pouring out, it went down stream at arate that was almost exciting, and in a few minutes I was landed at thebottom of the famous hill. I made a conscientious attempt to reach the top, but was stopped just where it began to grow interesting by a notice-boardthat warned me, if I ventured any farther, I should be prosecuted andheavily fined. Such things are not often seen in France. Vineyards aregenerally open, but here they were fiercely protected with walls and fencesand notice-boards. The land was evidently very precious. I had wanderedinto truly civilized country, where land and manners were too highlycultivated to please me, and I again regretted the rocky wastefulness thatI had left behind me. 

[Illustration: THE HILL OF FRONSAC. ]

I turned back, and wandering about the village, which is a straggling one, looked for the church, hoping that this at least would show something ofinterest. Not being able to find it, I asked a man to tell me the way toit, and he, stopping, said:

'_L'église pour aller prier dedans?_'

What does he mean by asking me that? I thought. Could there be a church atFronsac that was not used for praying?

'Yes, that is the kind of church I am looking for. ' 'Very good, ' rejoinedthe man. 'Now I know what you want I can inform you. I put that question toyou because there are some people here called Léglise. '

It was to the church _pour prier dedans_ that I went, not to Mr. Church. Originally Romanesque, it has been pulled about and changed almost as muchas the Tertre de Fronsac, which I am sure I shall never wish to climbagain. 

[Illustration: No Name]

BY THE GARONNE

I have reached--I need not say how--the south-eastern corner of theBordelais, and am now at Bazas in very hot September weather, I am not onlyas warm as a lizard of the dusty roadside likes to be, but am hungry andthirsty. I therefore cast about for an inn that looks both cool and capableof giving a fair meal to a tired wanderer. My choice rests with one thatswings the sign of the White Horse; for, to tell the truth, I have somewhatof a superstitious belief in the luck that this emblem brings to thetraveller. I place it immediately after the Golden Lion, my favourite beaston a signboard, although it deceived me once. The deception, however, befell in the Bordelais, where the inhabitants are far from being themost pleasant to be found in France; therefore I judged this _Lion d'Or_charitably, and took account of all that might have frustrated its goodintentions. 

Having made up my mind to trust myself to the White Horse, I entered alarge, _salle-à-manger_, which, after the glare of the mid-day sunshine, seemed as dark as a cellar that is lighted by a small air-hole. Theshutters had been closed against the heat and the flies, but the rays thatbroke through had the ardour and brilliancy cast by molten metal in asmelting-house, and the sight very quickly accepted with relief thelessened light of the room. There was one other person present, and, although the table was long enough to accommodate fifty, my plate was setimmediately opposite his. He was a young negro gentleman, with such ashining ebony skin that he was almost refreshing to eyes that had just leftthe dazzling whiteness of the outer world. He gave me the impression ofbeing a rather conceited African, but this may have been because my dresscompared so unfavourably with his. He was the son of a merchant at St. Louis in Senegal, and was just like a Frenchman in all but his colour. Iasked him if he found the weather we were having sufficiently warm, and hereplied:

'_Regardez comme je sue!_'

True enough, the beads of perspiration glistened upon his forehead likeblack pearls. What is the use, I thought, of being an African if one cannotkeep dry in a temperature of 95° Fahrenheit?

I soon left my dark acquaintance, and went forth to roam about Bazas, which, like so many little old towns of Southern France, is in the earlyhours of a summer afternoon as quiet and deserted as a cemetery. The stonesare so heated that a cat that begins to cross the road lazily, stopping tostretch or examine something in the gutter, will suddenly start off at arush as if a devil had been cast into it. 

The interest of Bazas to the traveller lies mainly in its church, whichwas formerly a cathedral. Its broad and imposing façade, encrusted withornament, chiefly in the florid Gothic of the fifteenth century, butdisfigured by a hideous eighteenth-century _fronton_ that crowns the gable, stands at the top of a broad and rather steep _place_, of which some ofthe houses are of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The tower builtagainst the northern end of the front carries a lofty and gracefulcrocketed spire. Until the Revolution, this west front, ornamented as itwas with nearly three hundred statues, was considered the most elaboratelydecorated in the South of France. Even now, although so many of the nichesare vacant, it is exceedingly rich in sculpture. The central doorway is solofty that it occupies more than half the height of the original façade, and the doorway on each side of it is only a little lower. The centraltympanum is divided into five compartments filled with figures in relief. The uppermost panel represents the Last Judgment. The interior admirablycombines grandeur and lightness. The nave (without transept) is very longand lofty, and, together with its clerestory, is beautifully proportioned. Finally, the effect of a delightful vista is obtained by the widesanctuary. With its lofty and airy arcade separating it from the_pourlour_. 

[Illustration: BAZAS. ]

All the old part of the town is built upon a rocky hill, and it is stillalmost surrounded by ruinous ramparts. The church is just within the wallon the side where the rock is precipitous. Looking upward from the bottomof the narrow valley, the view of the ramparts high overhead, tapestriedwith ivy and other plants, and above these the tabernacle work, thecrocketed pinnacles and spire, and the fantastic far-stretching gargoylesof the venerable cathedral, makes one feel that joy of the eye and thespirit which is the wanderer's reward for all the sun-scorch and otherpetty tribulations he may have to endure in searching for the picturesque. 

From Bazas I made my way to Villandraut, a neighbouring town of about 1, 000inhabitants. I had left the vines, and was now in the _landes_ of theGironde. I was surrounded by pines, gorse, and bracken, which last was asbrown as if it had been baked in an oven. Ten summers had nearly passedsince I undertook my long walk through the great pine forests of theLandes. I had wandered on and on, and was again drawing near to them. Already the country wore much the same appearance as that farther south, although less wild and desolate. I expected to have a return of the oldfeelings when I found myself again in the midst of the pines that said somuch to me years ago; but somehow the old spirit would not come back, and Ifelt little besides the heat and the weariness of the way. 

Villandraut, ordinarily a very dull place, was exceedingly animated whenI walked into it. A fair was being held there, and a fair in a village orrural town is always a reason for being gay, and often an excuse for worse. There was some local colour here. All the young girls wore the Bordelaisecoiffure, the handkerchief being generally of white, yellow, green, orcrimson silk. Just clinging to the back of a young head, no coif is moregraceful or picturesque than this. There was much dancing. Cheeks flushedand dark eyes flashed as the brilliant coifs and light-coloured dresseswhirled round and round. I found more feminine beauty in this south-easterncorner of the Bordelais than I had seen for a very long time among theFrench peasants. The young women here are well and delicately formed, and have an erect and graceful carriage. They are coquettes from theirchildhood. They have fine eyes and luxuriant tresses, and the face oftenshows richness of colour. A few _blondes_ are seen among the _brunes_; butwhether fair or dark they have all the same exuberance of nature. The teethare rarely good after early youth. The cause of this blemish is said to bethe water, which, passing through a sandy soil, contains little or no lime. 

My motive in coming to this place was to see the ruined castle ofVillandraut, the gloomy stronghold built at the commencement of thefourteenth century by Bertrand de Goth (or Got), Archbishop of Bordeaux, who afterwards as Pope Clement V. Took the momentous step of transferringthe Papal See from Rome to Avignon. I found it a little outside the burg, but near enough to be used by many of the peasants who had come into thefair as a convenient place for putting up their carts and stabling theiranimals. Each of the towers had been turned into a stable for horses andoxen, and scattered over the weedy space within the walls were vehicles ofall sorts and sizes. 

The plan of the castle is a vast oblong, with a high cylindrical tower ateach angle, and two additional towers on the side of the town. The deep andwide moat that still surrounds it, except where it has been filled up infront of the gateway from which the drawbridge was once raised and lowered, is like a ravine that is choked with brambles and shrubs. The exterior viewis very striking. It is impossible to approach this ruin without beingimpressed by its mournful grandeur. From all these piled-up stones whichthe wild plants strive to cover, there comes the sentiment of pride indeath. A very slow but a certain death it is. One after another the stoneswill continue to fall as they have been falling for centuries, and will beput to fresh uses. How many houses and pigsties at Villandraut have beenbuilt with materials taken from the castle? Nobody knows exactly, buteverybody in the place has a shrewd suspicion on the subject. I climbed upthe dilapidated spiral staircase of one of the towers, and after passingthrough two guard-rooms with Gothic vaulting, where the wind, now blowingup for storm, moaned through the loopholes, I came out upon the _chemin deronde_, quite overgrown with shrubs and ivy. All around stretched the pineforest, with tints of violet and the purple rose deepening in the mistydistance. 

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE CHÂTEAU DE VILLANDRAUT. ]

This bastille on the edge of the sandy desert was a queer sort of fold fora shepherd to build. To judge the past, however, by the present is one ofthe most mischievous of errors. Nothing is easier than to criticise theactions of men in a bygone age, and nothing is more difficult than to dojustice to their motives. The militant bishop is intolerable now even, whenhe is nothing more formidable than a controversialist. It may have beennecessary, however, in the Middle Ages for him to make himself dreaded aswell as respected, like the judges of Israel. This Clement V. , at any rate, must have believed in the need of the Church to be able to defend itselfbehind strong walls. 

From Villandraut I turned towards the Garonne. A furious storm was nowraging southward, and after nightfall the lightning flashes kept the wholeforest seemingly ablaze. The hour was late when I reached the town ofLangon by the river, and at the inn where I put up I met with a cold dinneras well as a cold reception. 

When the sun came again I took the road to St. Macaire, and this sooncrossed the Garonne. The broad blue river was very beautiful in the earlymorning sunshine, and a mild lustre lay over the vine-clad plain beyond. The vintagers were getting busy. Bullock-waggons were waiting with thebarrels, now empty, that were to bear the grapes to the wine-press, andhere and there amidst the green of the motionless leaves was the gleam ofa white, yellow, or crimson coif that moved with the head of the woman orgirl who wore it. 

[Illustration: THE GARONNE. ]

The morning had not lost its freshness when I reached St. Macaire. This isone of those ruinous old towns of the Bordelais where the traveller, ifhe were an artist, would find a thrilling subject for his pencil at everystreet corner, and at the angle of every bastion of crumbling rampart, where the bramble, the ivy, and the wild fig-tree strike their rootsbetween the gaping stones. Proud and strong in the centuries that have beenleft far behind, St. Macaire is now a little spot of slow life in the midstof a wilderness of ruins. Three walls encircled it, and although these didlong service as the quarries wherefrom the inhabitants drew such buildingstone as they needed, yet have they not been demolished, but tell theirwhole story still, in spite of wide gaps and breaks--ay, and with a farmore soul-moving voice than when they could show to the enemy theircrenated parapets without a flaw, when not a stone was wanting to any toweror gateway, and when the twang of the cross-bow might have been heard fromevery loophole. There are heaps of stones where the lizard runs, where thecoiled snake basks untroubled, where the dwarfed fig-tree sprouts when thespring has come, and where the wild cucumber pushes forward its yellowflowers that fear not the flame of summer. The fig-tree may also be seenhanging from high walls, and the vine rambles among blooming or embrownedwallflowers on the top of ruinous gateways, through which the people stillenter and leave the town as they did centuries ago. 

The spirit of originality that animated the mediaeval architects inthis part of France, and which has given to so many churches a distinctcharacter, an individual expression, that keeps the interest of thetraveller constantly alive, is strongly marked upon the church of St. Macaire. Commenced at the beginning of the twelfth century, its earliestportions show the Pointed style in its infancy, fearful as yet ofcommitting what seemed so like heresy--a departure from the Roman arch; butin the same building a much bolder Gothic asserts itself in the parts thatwere added in the thirteenth century. The west front and doorway have notthe majesty of the style as it was developed chiefly in the North, but theyhave that venerable air which is not always to be found in the stately andmajestic. The low tympanum is crowded with figures belonging to the periodwhen the statuary's art was still swathed in the swaddling clothes of itsnew infancy, and what with their own uncouthness, and the wear and tear oftime, it is no easy matter now to trace in them all the purpose and meaningof the sculptor. 

And yet in their blurred and battered state they tell us much more thanthey would if they had been restored with the best skill and learning ofour own time. The age is gone when these bas-reliefs were the religiousbooks of the people. To imitate them is mere aestheticism, and to restorethem is often destruction. 

A few words must be said of the old market-place of St. Macaire. Thanks tothe poverty or the apathy of the commune, three sides have retained alltheir mediaeval character, the interest of which has been refined anddeepened by the artistic touch of time, the sentimental ravisher, the slowand gentle destroyer. A Gothic arcade encloses a wide pavement, and eachbay, with its vaulting, forms, as it were, the portico of the house, whosefirst and higher storeys rest upon it. Here those who are interested incivic architecture can see thirteenth and fourteenth century houses stillretaining their wide Gothic doorways. 

I rested awhile in a café, and chance led me to one that was kept by anEnglishman. He recognised my nationality, while I supposed him to be aFrenchman, and he seemed as glad to see me as if I had been an old friend. He told me that when he was a boy his father brought his family fromEngland to Les Eyzies, where he was employed at the iron works. (Thesmelting furnace has been cold for many a year. ) The man who spoke wasmiddle-aged, and although he expressed himself with difficulty in English, and turned his phrases out of French moulds of thought, he had kept astrong accent of the Midland counties. The tenacity with which an accentadheres to the tongue, even when the language to which it belongs hasbeen half lost, is very remarkable. I remember meeting in my roamings anEnglishwoman who had married a French cobbler, and who had been buriedalive with him in the Haut-Quercy for forty years. She had learnt to speakpatois like a native, but it had become a sore trial to her to put herthoughts into English words; nevertheless, when she did bring out thosewords that had been so long put away in the mind's lumber-room, the accentwas as pure Cockney as if she had but lately drifted away from her ownMiddlesex. 

The freshness of the morning was gone, and even in the shade of the cafeI felt the hot breath of the day. When I was again upon the powdered roadbetween interminable rows of vines, the glare was dazzling; but I was notalone. Groups of people were trudging under the same fiery sky, and uponthe same dusty road, and all were moving in the same direction. When Ilearnt that they were pilgrims on their way to Verdelais, I thought that Imight do worse than be a pilgrim, too. I therefore went with the stream, which soon turned up the flanks of the vine-clad hills. 

Thus I found myself about noon in a small village, seemingly composed ofone wide street lined on both sides with cafés and restaurants. There wasalso a very conspicuous modern church in a fantastic and debased, butshowy, style of architecture. It was densely crowded, and the shine ofinnumerable candles was seen through the open doors. The whole streetwas likewise crowded with people, who had come from various parts of theBordelais, and who seemed determined to spend a happy day in a sense noless material than spiritual. There was a great rush to the restaurants, and there was flagrant overcharging on the part of those who kept them--allspeculators on piety. 

Perhaps the grandeur of the solitude of Roc-Amadour, the antiquity of thebuildings, and the simplicity of the pilgrims had made me a wrong-headedjudge of the newer places of pilgrimage. However this may be, after thefirst glance at Verdelais I wished I had not come. There was no quietcorner here where a wayfarer could sit and refresh himself; in thishurly-burly of eager hunger, and with this infernal clatter of tongues, repose was impossible. 

After lunching in the midst of a noisy and vulgar throng, I regained theopen country, with the conviction that, should I ever decide to start offupon a serious pilgrimage, the road to Verdelais would not be the one thatI would take. 

I now turned down towards the valley through the vines, the inevitablevines, and was soon on the banks of the Garonne. Almost facing me upon theopposite hillsides were the famous vineyards of Sauterne, and I knewthat the vintagers were busy there, every woman--women are chieflyemployed--with her pair of scissors snipping off the grapes one by one fromthe gathered bunches, and rejecting all that were not sound. It is a costlymethod, but the wine pays for it. 

A steamer comes panting down the river, and stops near the grove of willowswhere I have been trying to hide myself from the all-searching, all-burningsun. I go on board and take a delicious rest under an awning for two orthree hours, while the vine-covered hills on either side glide backwardwith their many steeples and towers. 

I left the steamer at a place called Castres, some fifteen miles belowBordeaux. My motive for stopping here was to see the castle whereMontesquieu was born, and where he spent the greater part of his life. The map told me that it lay some five or six miles from Castres in thedirection of the _landes_, and as the day was already far spent, I reckonedupon passing the night at the small town of La Brède, which is very nearthe castle. The sun's rays were as yet but little calmed as I turned fromthe broad, blue river. 

I had to follow the highway, on which the white dust lay thick. This roadwas carried up the hills. In the vineyards were crowds of men and women, many of whom had been drawn out of the slums of Bordeaux. Some of them wereforlorn-looking beings, whose faces told that they were glad to seize thisopportunity of earning for a few days a sure wage. Those who wish to feelthe poetic charm of the vintage should not go into the district of Bordeauxto seek it. Here only the legend remains. It is not that the vines arewanting. The Bordelais, except in the sandy and pine-covered region of the_landes_, has again become one immense vineyard; but whether it be from thestruggle to live, or the lust of prosperity, the people fail to impress thetraveller with that communicative openness and joyousness of soul which hewould like to find in them, if only that he might not have the vexation ofconvicting himself of laying up for his own fancy another disillusion. 

Although the hills were not steep, the long ascent was wearisome in thesultry air that no breath of wind freshened. At length the sun went down ina golden haze, where the vine-leaves spread to the horizon like the sea. Then I descended the other side of the range of hills that follows the lineof the river. The vineyards gradually fell away, and scattered pines gave atouch of sadness to the darkening land. By these signs I knew that I was onthe outskirts of the _landes_ of the Gironde. But the sand was still somemiles away, and the country here was well cultivated. A church spire thatlooked very high in the clear obscure, as I saw it through an opening oftrees, led me to La Brède. 

Here I thought I should have no difficulty in finding night quarters, forthere was at least one good inn, which in its own estimation was a hotel. But the way in which I was scrutinized when I wearily set down my knapsackon an outside table and took a seat under the plane-trees told me that Iwas not welcome. Since I had been in the Bordelais I had become rather toofamiliar with such signs. The hotel-keepers here have but very slight faithin the respectability of travellers who do not come in the usual way--thatis to say, by train or omnibus, or something with wheels, though it be buta bicycle. To them the walking traveller, whether he carries a bundle overhis shoulder on a stick, or a knapsack on his back (the latter is veryrarely seen), is merely a tramp. If he speaks with a foreign accent, he isdoubly deserving of suspicion. These people of the Gironde are, perhaps, all the more doubtful of the morality of others because of the littleconfidence that they are able to place in their own. 

My request for a room at this inn was not refused immediately. There wasa consultation indoors, the result of which was that I was presently toldthat every room was already engaged. There was nothing for it but to walkon to the next inn, and hope for better luck there. It would seem as ifthey had been prepared here for my coming, and had already made up theirminds how to act. Two women stood in the doorway, and did not move an inchto make way for me. I had hardly asked the question about the room, whenthe answer came emphatically 'No. ' At the next house to which I went I metwith the same answer; but in spite of the unpleasantness of my position, Iwas almost thankful for it, such a villainous-looking place it was. Therenow remained but one small auberge at La Brède. If I was denied shelterthere, I should have to go to Bordeaux that night, and I was five milesfrom the nearest railway-station. The prospect had become sombre, and Ibegan to regret that I had allowed the Château de Montesquieu to entice meamong these too civilized savages. 

The last inn was a little outside the town. A dark man, whose face, even inthe feeble light, I could see was deadly pale, was seated outside the door, breathing the freshness that now began to be felt in the evening air. As myprevious negotiations had been with women, I was glad to perceive now aninnkeeper of the other sex. My experience of the French provinces hadtaught me that, wherever people are suspicious of strangers whoseappearance is not such as they are familiar with, and where the measure ofprosperity has been sufficient to produce a cautious disinclination to moveout of the daily trodden track, it is far better to deal with men than withwomen. 

The pale-faced man, after looking at me fixedly for a few seconds, said:

'Yes, I have one spare room, and it is at your service. '

I crossed the threshold, and took a seat in the kitchen and general room. The surroundings were not very cheerful; but no other people would haveanything to do with me, and therefore my choice of accommodation had to bewhat is termed Hobson's. After all, it would not be the first time that Ihad passed the night in a little roadside inn. 

The pale man's wife did not look in a very sweet temper at her husband forhaving put extra work upon her without consulting her, and there was anexceedingly obnoxious boy of about fourteen who sat upon the corner ofa table and, with the assurance of a mounted gendarme, put all sorts ofquestions to me in a voice that would change suddenly from a bark to ableat. I was seized with such a longing to knock him off his perch that Ipresently kept my eyes fixed upon the frying-pan so that I might not betempted beyond my strength. The father was evidently too weak to contendwith his horrible offspring. My interest in the man was at once awakened. He told me that he was from the Lot-et-Garonne, where he owned land, andhad been a tobacco-planter, until a disease of the spinal marrow compelledhim to seek an occupation that required less exertion. Thus he came to bean innkeeper. He had spent much money upon doctors, who had done him littleor no good. The only treatment that had given him any relief was _lapendaison_. 

'Hanging!'

'Yes, hanging. I have passed hours hung up by the neck. '

Then he explained the apparatus that is used for stretching the spinalmarrow in this manner, and how it differs from the method of hanging thatis best known in England. When I learnt what he had undergone in order toget cured, I could understand why he looked so pale and sad. A melancholyJacques was he, indeed, in appearance, and he was certainly not the mostcheerful of hosts whom one might hope to find at the end of a weary day;but I knew that I was in the house of an honest man, who was also brave andpatient, while he looked out upon the world through darkening windows. 

Before going to bed I had some talk with my host about my adventures at LaBrède before I applied to him for a night's lodging. There was actually asparkle of mirth in his melancholy dark eyes, and his sunken cheeks werepuckered up with a sort of smile. 

'If you had been dressed in a black coat, ' said he, 'like a _commisvoyageur_, they would have all found room for you. '

This was my opinion, too. The Bordelais believe in the respectability of notravelling motives under heaven that are not commercial. 

My bedroom that night had much the character of an outhouse or fowlhouse. It was on the ground-floor, and the rafters overhead sloped rapidly towardsthe exterior wall. A small low window opened upon the garden. The wallswere white-washed, but the floors were very black, as all these southernfloors are. Upon the single table a heap of raw wool waiting to be spun hadbeen pushed back a little to make room for the doll's washing-basin andtowel that had been placed there for me. Besides the bed that had beenprepared for me, there was another, which happily was to remain unoccupiedthat night. The traveller should always be thankful when he has a room, however poor and plain, that for the few hours which he needs for rest hecan call his own. If he snores himself, he will sleep through the noise, and have, perhaps, pleasant dreams; but if anybody else snores in the sameroom, he may lie awake with clenched fists, and be tortured by the foolishdesire to throw something. 

The next morning I believe I was the earliest visitor who in modern timeshas troubled the serenity of the Château de la Brède. A mist--one of thefirst of the falling year--lay white and dense upon the land. It was afine-weather mist, such as in the opinion of the wine-grower helps to ripenthe grapes. 

I had entered the park about half a mile beyond the town, and then betweentwo rolling banks of vapour I saw the high walls and higher towers of thecastle looming through the grayness. A little later I distinguished thedull water of the very wide moat, and the three connected bridges, whichwere formerly blank spaces between low towers, unless the drawbridgeshappened to be let down. 

[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE MONTESQUIEU. ]

Over these the visitor must now pass in order to reach the castle. As I wasso early, I killed time to my own good by trying to fix some impressions ofthe vast pile of masonry that stood here in the middle of a little lake. It is an extraordinary block of architectural patchwork, quite withoutsymmetry, and yet the mass is imposing. The ground-plan approaches thecircle more than any other geometrical figure, but it is a circle withslices cut off, and composed of angles so irregular as almost to implya fantastic motive. But the motive was purely utilitarian. The feudalfortress which was built here in the thirteenth century underwent insubsequent ages so many modifications and additions with a view more to thecomfort of the dwellers therein than to their protection from enemies, thatin course of time little of the mediaeval buildings remained besides thegreat hall, the basement, and the keep. These became jumbled up with lateGothic and Renaissance work. 

Jean de Secondat, who purchased the old fortified manor-house out of hissavings as _maítre d'hôtel_ to Antoine de Bourbon and Jeanne d'Albret, wasprobably responsible for most of the sixteenth-century work that onenow sees. When his descendant, Charles de Secondat de Montesquieu, tookpossession, the building was almost identical with that which existsto-day. It has been exceptionally favoured, for it has remained in thefamily, and for at least two hundred years it has undergone none of thosealterations which in previous times had so changed its appearance. The eyemay not be delighted with its symmetry, but the mind has the satisfactionof knowing that this was verily the birthplace and home of him who morethan any other man made political science popular. 

The present owner of the castle, recognising the duty that the descendantof a great man owes to society, receives with the most liberal courtesy allthose who make a pilgrimage to this spot. 

The relics of Montesquieu are numerous, and they have been preserved withadmirable solicitude. The room where he slept and wrote is almost thesame as when he finally left it; with this difference, that time has madeeverything look dingier. Even the white linen curtains which hung at thewindow hang there still, and they are by no means so yellow as one mightexpect them to be. On the plain little table at which he washed himselfstand his basin and ewer. The basin would be called to-day a dish, for itis not more than two inches deep. It held quite enough water, however, toserve for the ablutions of a baron a century and a half ago. Much the samenotion of what is fit and proper in a washingbasin remains to this dayamong the French peasantry, and even among the middle class in theprovinces the growth of the toilet crockery has been far from rapid sincethe time of Montesquieu. 

The bed in which the political philosopher slept is a broad four-poster, not with slender and finely carved posts, like Fénelon's, but severelysimple. Indeed, in none of the furniture of this room is there anyindication of the love of the ornamental. On the contrary, everythingtells of a mind that set no value upon aught but the strictly needful. Montesquieu's small writing-case, divided into compartments, the bordersof the leather covering embellished with dingy, half-obliterated goldornament, was perhaps the finest bit of property he had before his eyesas he sat and worked there. He always carried it about with him when hetravelled. No doubt it went with him to England, and he probably wroteletters to his friend Lord Chesterfield upon it. And here is his travellingtrunk. It still looks fit to bear many years' rough usage; and yet, ifrailway porters had to pull it about, they would not know whether to laughat its strange appearance or to swear at its weight. It was built for wear, like Noah's ark, and it is entirely covered with leather, elaboratelydecorated with patterns, composed of the round heads of small nails. Thehigh stone chimney-piece, plain and solid like the character of the manwho did so much lasting work in this room, remains, together with thefire-dogs, as it was in his time. 

Montesquieu formed the habit when thinking alone of leaning back in hischair before the hearth and resting his feet against one of the jambs ofthe chimney-piece. The stone was much worn away by his feet; but themarks would pass unobserved if the knowledge of their cause had not beenpreserved in the family. A bust of Montesquieu made in his life-time showshim with closely-cropped hair, and without a wig. It is a remarkablyCaesar-like head, every feature indicating the decision and positivism ofthe Roman character--such a one, indeed, as ideally became the author ofthe 'Considerations. ' But how the face is altered when we look at it inanother portrait--a painted one, representing the writer in a great wig asPresident of the Parliament of Guyenne! A head becomes another head if thecoiffure be but changed. 

A little room adjoining this one was where Montesquieu's secretary worked. He was the drudge of a literary man, who was probably not exempt from theconstitutional irritability of those who carry a whirling grindstone withintheir brains for the sharpening and polishing of thought. The unrememberedscribe may have done good service to literature while undergoing hispurgatory in this world. 

Distributed throughout this suite of apartments on the ground-floor is muchfurniture of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, most ofwhich was here when Montesquieu was _châtelain_. 

A spiral staircase leads to the great hall of the old castle. It hasbeen very carefully preserved, and although the walls are now lined withbook-shelves, it keeps the air of baronial grandeur and simplicity. Montesquieu made it his library, and had reading-desks set up all down themiddle. His books remain, as well as some of his manuscripts, includingthat of 'Les Lettres Persanes. ' This long hall is covered by a plainbarrel-vault, and at the far end is an immense chimney-place, the chimneybuilt out at the base several feet from the line of the wall, and slopingback towards the ceiling. On the plain (not conical) surface of thismediaeval chimney are painted figures, said to be of the thirteenthcentury, but probably later. One can distinguish a king, a cardinal, and apage on horseback. The mediaeval fireplates are still in their old place atthe back of the vast hearth. 

I have little more to add to this story of my wanderings. From La BrèdeI went to Bordeaux, where I found much to admire that I had not noticedbefore. The architecture of this city is incomparably richer than that ofParis by the diversity of style and the good fortune that has protected somany of the buildings from the destructive influences of war, fanaticism, and the presumption of those who in all ages would abolish the past if theycould, and refashion the world according to their own ideas. The Romanperiod is only represented by a fragment of the amphitheatre, now calledthe Palais Gallien. But what a picturesque fragment this is, and how wellit introduces the visitor to the study of the Romanesque, the Gothic, and the Renaissance buildings, of which he will find such characteristicexamples here! The interest of the Englishman will be increased by theknowledge that some of the most notable of the Gothic edifices were raisedwhen to his countrymen Bordeaux was a continental London, and a well-knowntendency of his will probably lead him to attribute much of their gravestateliness to the influence of the Anglo-Saxon character. 

[Illustration: THE GARONNE AT BORDEAUX. ]

The people of Bordeaux are supposed to have derived not a little of theirkeen commercial spirit from the English. If this be so, they may takecredit for having in some respects surpassed their teachers. By the giftof persuasiveness and the abundance of words, by aplomb, combined withastuteness, they are fitted by nature to be the most successful traffickerson earth. But in return for a little work they expect a great deal ofenjoyment, and more than most industrious cities is Bordeaux given up tothe worship of pleasure. 

[Illustration: THE PALAIS CALLIEN AT BORDEAUX. ]

From Bordeaux I continued down the river until I saw the Dordogne join theGaronne, where both are lost in the Gironde. Here the two beautiful andnoble streams, one flowing from the Auvergne mountains, and the other fromthe Pyrenees, no sooner embrace than they die on the breast of the saltwave. They and their tributaries caused one of the sternest, and yet oneof the most smiling, of regions--a country where Nature seems to have thepassion of contrast, and where she brings forth all the best fruits ofthe earth--to be named by the Celts the Land of Waters, and by the RomansAquitania. A little reflection explains why the English of the Middle Ages, having once possessed it, should have clung to it with such tenacity. Lesseasy is it to understand why so few of their descendants of to-day feel thepeculiar spell that almost every rood of this broad land should cast uponthem, apart from the charm of old story and of the picturesque that appealsto all. 

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING THE ITINERARY of 'TWO SUMMERS IN GUYENNE' and'WANDERINGS BY SOUTHERN WATERS']

INDEX. 

AGRICULTURE in the Corrèze, in Périgord, Albigenses, The, Ales, Angelus, The, Angling, Architecture: Byzantine, Gothic, Renaissance, Roman, Romanesque, Argentat, Arnaud (Arnaud Daniel, troubadour), Artaud, The (River), Aspic, The, Aubeterre, Aulaye, St. , Auvergnats, Descent of the, Barthélemy, St. , Bastides, Bazas, Bazile, St. , Beaulieu, Beüne, Valley of the, Beynac, Boëtie, Etienne de la, Boleti, Bordeaux, Bordelaises, Born, Bertrand de, Bort, Bourdeilles, Brantôme, Abbey of, Pierre de Bourdeilles, Brède (La), Buckwheat, Buisson (Le), Bureau, Jean, _Cacolets_, Cadouin, Abbey of, Cadurci, The, Caesar at Uxeliodunum, Carthusians of Vauclair, Castillon, Battle of, Castres (Gironde), Cazoulès, Cemeteries, Rural, Céou, The (River), Cépes, Chandos, Château d'Aubeterre, de Beynac, de Biron, de Bourdeilles, des Eyzies de Fâges, de Fénelon, de Grignols (Talleyrand), de Gurçons, de Hautefort, de Marouette, de Montaigne, de Montesquieu, de Nabinaud, de Villandraut, Chavannon, Gorge of the, Christy, Mr. , Clement V. , Pope, Coiffure at Mont-Dore, in the Bordelais, in the Corrèze, in Périgord, Coligny, Condé, Madame de, Court-Mantel, Henry, Coutras, Coux, Crayfish, Cyprien, St. , Denis, St. , Domme, Dordogne, Valley of the, Double, The, Dovecots, _Droit Seigneurial, _Dronne, Valley of the, Échourgnac, Églisottes, Les, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Émilion, St. , English, The, at Bordeaux, at Castillon, at Domme, at Les Eyzies, at Libourne, at Martel, at Montpont, at St. Émilion, at St. Cyprien, at Sarlat, at Tayac, Eyquem. _See_ MontaigneEyzies, Les, Fâge, La, Fénelon, Frogs, Fronsac, Front, St. , Cathedral of, Funeral Customs, Gallien, Le Palais, Garonne, Valley of the, Gipsies, Gironde, The (River), Girondins, The, Gorge of Hell, The, Goth, Bertrand de, Grand-Brassac, Groléjac, Guyenne, English rule in, Hautefort, Huguenots, Ilex, The, Implements, Flint, Isle, Valley of the, Jongleur, The modern, Knolles, Robert, Landes (of the Gironde), Langon, Laplau, Leaguers, The, Leopard, The English (Heraldic), Libourne, Limeuil, Lisle, The Lord, Luxège, The (River), Macaire, St. , Madeleine, La, Malaria, Man, Prehistoric, Marcillac, Martel, Charles, Master and servant, Méré, Poltrot de, Messeix, Métayage, Michel-Bonnefare, St. , Miremont, Cavern of, Modières, Mondane, St. , Montaigne, Michel, Montesquieu, Montpont, Mothe-Montravel, La, Moustier, Le, Nabinaud, Neuvic, Normans, The, in Périgord, Orgues de Bort, Oriel, The golden, Owls, Pantaléon, St, Peasant-proprietor, The, Périgord Noir, Périgueux, Plantagenet, Henry, Plateau, Great Central, of France, Plough, Ancient form of, Poaching, Politics, Local, Port-Dieu, Puy d'Issolu, Raymond II. , Viscount of Turenne, Religious Customs, Riberac, Roche Canillac, La, Chalais, La, Romance Language, The, Roque-Gageac, La, Rue, The (River), Salignac, François de. _See_ Fénelon, Sarlat, Saut de la Saule, Le, Sauterne, The vintage at, Sauve, St. , Savennes, Sébastien, Dom, Secondat, Charles de. _See_ Montesquieu, Servières, Shroud, The Holy, Siorac, Snail-eaters, Songs of Périgord, Souillac, Spinning-wheels, Superstition, Taillefer, Talbot, Tarde, Jean, Tayac, La Roque de, Church of, Tocane St. Apre, Tocsin, The, Tour de Mareuil, de Vésone, Trappists, Troglodytes, Truffles, Turenne, Tursac, Uxellodunum, Vauclaire, La Chartreuse de, Vayrac, Verdelais, Vérère, Valley of the, Victor, St. , Villandraut, Villefranche de Longchapt, Villeinage, Vin de plaine, Vins du pays, Vintage, The, In the Bordelais, Viper, The Red, Wages, Wolves, THE END.