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for itself, the river ran at its own will for some two centuries or more, but was finally captured and returned to its original channel by the famous engineer Louis de Foix, and it was to guard against a recurrence of similar disasters that the embankment of both shores was undertaken in the beginning of last century. Nothing, however, can check the accumulation of sand, or render the entrance safe, even for small vessels, at high water, and under the guidance of tugs, the utmost precautions being necessary to prevent accidents. Nevertheless, it was across the fatal sandbar, and amidst all the violence too of an Atlantic storm, that the vessels destined to construct Sir John Hope's famous bridge of boats were run. The scene has been so graphically described for us by an eye-witness that it is worth recalling it to the reader's mind. "At this time," writes Mr. Gleig, "we were wholly in ignorance of the kind of bridge which was about to be formed. Our astonishment may then be conceived when, on mounting to an eminence, we beheld a squadron of some thirty craft bearing down with all sail set towards the bar; near which the waves were dashing in white foam, being driven inwards by a strong gale from the north-east. . . . . Down they came before the breeze with amazing velocity; but the surf ran high, and there seemed to be so little water on the sands that I, for one, felt a weight removed when I suddenly saw them put up their helms and tack about. The prospect from the sea was indeed, by all accounts, appalling, and even British sailors hesitated for once whether they could face the danger. But their hesitation was not of long continuance. A row-boat, Spanish built, but manned by Lieutenant Cheyne and five seamen from the 'Woodlark,' threw itself with great judgment upon a wave. The swell bore it clear across the shoal; and loud and reiterated were the shouts with which it was greeted as it rushed proudly through the deep water. The next which came was a prize-a large French fishing lugger, manned by seamen from a transport-closely followed by a gunboat under the command of Lieutenant Cheshire. They, too, were borne across; but the fourth was less fortunate. It was a schooner-rigged craft, full of people, and guided by Captain Elliot. I know not how it came about, whether a sudden change of wind occurred, or a rope unfortunately escaped from its fastenings, but, at the instant when the schooner took the foam, the mainsail of her hinder mast flapped round. In one second her broadside was to the surf; in another she was upset, and her gallant captain, with several of the crew, perished among the breakers. The rest were dashed by an eddy towards the bank and, happily, saved." Undismayed. by this disaster, the boats continued to advance, until at last VOL. CCLII. NO. 1813.

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twenty-four were safe inside the harbour, only one other sharing the fate of the unfortunate schooner; and over the bridge thus formed, not only the troops, but even the artillery, were eventually transported in safety.

From Bayonne to Biarritz, three routes lie open to the traveller. He may either avail himself of the railway; or he may follow the high road; or, if he prefer it, he may keep to the footpath, which will bring him down again to the coast, not far from the rocks of the Haitzai. Sixty years ago, not only no railroad, but no carriageroad, nothing but a mere bridle-track, lay between the great fortress town and its small and then unfashionable neighbour. The travelling at that time was all performed either on foot or en cacolet, namely, in a sort of double pannier slung across the back of a mule or donkey, the traveller and his effects being stowed away in one, the cacoletiera-a bright-eyed Basque damsel-seated in the other; and, wretchedly uncomfortable as such a mode of conveyance must have been, not a few, we are told, were found to regret the change when at length a road was made, and cacolet and cacoletiera alike vanished from the scene.

Now, at last, we are fairly on our way to Biarritz; but before arriving, there are still a couple of places where I must ask the reader to linger with me for an instant. The first of these is the Cave d'Amour, so called from a tradition that two unfortunate Basque lovers were here surprised by a high tide, which closed up the entrance of the cave, drowning them before they could be rescued. At present the interest is rather geological than sentimental; the marnes here abounding in fossils, and being delightfully easy to work. In numulites especially they are remarkably rich, no less than five species occurring; also Corbula, Lucina, Pecten, Pinna, &c., the latter all shells belonging to recent genera. The stratification is horizontal, or nearly so, the rocks being hewn by the waves into the semblance of rude amphitheatres, with crumbling ledges, upon which the spectator may sit and bask at his leisure. So industrious indeed have the waves been, and such a mountain of sand and débris have they heaped up, as effectually to put a stop to their own further encroachment; no second tragedy, such as that recorded in the name of the place, being ever again possible. Another interest which attaches to this little spot is, that here, at this low cliff, these unimportant-looking ledges of rock, is held to end (or, coming from the north, I ought rather, perhaps, to say, to begin) that long line of mountainous ground which, rising in the low rolling uplands around Biarritz, swells out into the high heath-covered hills of the

Basque country, until it culminates in the great snow-peaks of the Pyrenees. The beginnings are small undoubtedly-disappearing, in fact, altogether a few yards farther to the north; but that proverbially is of the nature of all beginnings.

Returning once more to the top of the cliff, and walking along the now steadily rising ground, we arrive at last at the Cape St. Martin, from which point, taking our stand beside the lighthouse, we look down upon the whole scene suddenly opened below us. There, on the farther side of the little bay, and whitening the bleak sides of the opposite côteaux, lies Biarritz, with its shops and its lodging-houses, its conspicuous hotels, and its yet more conspicuous casino; the coast-line dipping suddenly to the north of the town, and sweeping towards us in a low semicircular line of cliffs; the sands of the plage shining brilliantly in the sun below, and the dull walls of the Villa Eugénie rising grey and deserted above. Beyond, the eye hurries rapidly along the blue grey line of shore, stretching away in dim receding perspective, France gradually merging into Spain, but the moment of transition being indistinguishable; the whole filled in by a broad background of mountains -the "Rhune" and the "Bayonette" in France, the "Quatre Coronne" and the "Jaysquivel" on the Spanish side of the frontier; the pale blue line of the distant Sierras rising in a yet vaguer jumble of mountain summits beyond.

Bringing our eyes back from this wide-ranging panorama to the immediate foreground, we find that to the left of the Phare the cliffs sink down in a low shaggy slope, brilliant. in springtime with flowers-cistus, and lotus, and daphne; the thorny smilax of the south mingling with the golden blossoms of our own northern furze; and, loveliest of all, sheets of the brilliant deep-blue lithospernum, a blue unequalled by any spring flower we can boast, unless, perhaps, we except the little spring gentian, which is, however, at once too rare and on too small a scale to produce anything like a similar effect. Farther on, the cliff-though nowhere imposing-becomes steeper; the materials of which it is composed being very unequal, some extremely hard, some so soft as to crumble readily between the fingers. M. de Boullé, who has paid much attention to the geology of these falaises, and whose useful little pamphlet, "Paleontologie de Biarritz," ought to be in the hands of everyone who goes fossilhunting on these rocks, gives us at this point the following section: "1, Diluvium; 2, Sable des Landes; 3, Sable des Dunes; 4, Calcaire à Operculaire"-the last-named attaining a considerable thickness, but thinning rapidly out towards the north. Here, too, the rocks

are immensely fossiliferous, including numerous species of crustacea, notably one or two belonging to the genera Ranina, whose only living representative are said to be at present confined to India. Still more striking is the multitude and variety of the fossils in the low wave-worn cliffs of the Lou Cout or Côte des Fous, below and to the north of the Villa Eugénie, every minute fragment of rock being filled with still more minute organisms; while, at the other extremity of the scale, the huge Ostrea gigantea-an oyster as large as a warming-pan-may be seen protruding some half-foot or so out of the crumbling face of the cliff, or tossing about amongst its degenerate modern allies, the ordinary cockles, and winkles, and scollops of the shore.

Of Biarritz the actual place itself-I need hardly, I think, speak: partly because it is well known, partly because its salient points are in truth few. There is literally nothing but the rocks and the waves -both good of their kind, but hardly so terrifically imposing, at least in the eyes of a wanderer from the north, as they would seem to be in those of their local admirers. Owing to the constant roll and rush of the ground-swell, which sucks out the contents of every crevice and cranny, the marine zoologist will find the shore but poorly provided with his particular quarry. At one point, however, between the Vieux Port and the perforated rocks of the Atalaï, a number of small hollows, varying from the size of a teacup to a washstand-basin, have been worn, and these will be found to contain a fair sprinkling of the ordinary littoral species. Here, as also in the limestone districts of Cornwall and the west of Ireland, the holes appear to be all due in the first instance to the labours of the purple Echinus, thousands of which still stud the pools, mingling their dark spines with the dainty green and violet tentacles of the Antheas. Once a hole is begun, the daily inrush of the surf, and the constant hurry-scurry of small particles, whirling distractedly round and round, soon succeed in enlarging it, the retiring waters sweeping up and carrying away with them every fragment which they have succeeded in filching from the rocks. All along the falaise the waves are evidently gaining fast upon the land; the soft greensand subsiding rapidly into the sea, which in many places is encumbered with fragments, which roll over and over, rattling and groaning with every fresh attack of their tormentor, and which in winter-time are flung up again as projectiles against the cliffs from which they fell. It would be difficult, indeed, to say whether the waves do most harm here by what they rob or by what they bestow. At the little Port des Bateaux, formerly the resort of whalers, returning with their decks laden with the blubber of the huge (and

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now nearly extinct) Biscayan whale, the harbour has become so choked with sand that it is with difficulty that even the small smacks used in the sardine fishery are able to avail themselves of its shelter; while, on the other hand, go where you will, you find tokens of ravage and ruin, a helpless shore, and a devouring sea.

This is even more strikingly seen about three miles to the south of Biarritz, where the coast is retreating at the rate, it is said, of nearly ten feet a year. Rising out of the midst of the sand, and separated from the present cliff by a distance of over a hundred yards, may be seen a large block of pale green serpentine, streaked and veined with veins of pure white quartz. Forty years ago this block was united to the cliffs, the whole being embedded in a mass of gypsum, which, owing to its greater destructibility, has now almost entirely disappeared, leaving the serpentine to battle single-handed with the waves.

None of these cliffs rise to any great height, averaging generally from about seventy to a hundred feet. Owing, too, to their tooready destructibility, their forms are, as a rule, somewhat monotonous. There is little of that variety and mystery-those far-reaching promontories, and rocky bays, and narrow inlets, with more rocky bays, and promontories, and inlets beyond—which make up so much of the charm of other shores, luring us perpetually on and on to fresh and fresh surprises which lie beyond. Still, if wanting in these, it has other and hardly inferior gifts of its own. Its sunny shore, and brightly tinted rocks; the azure clearness of its gleaming water, which no amount of sediment seems able to sully-these alone are no small charms in themselves; while the long sweep of waves rolling incessantly in from the uttermost horizon, and the beauty of the mountains, which increases with every step we take to the south, would go far to redeem a shore much flatter and more monotonous than this. In the direction in which we are now going, the first place of any importance we come to is St. Jean de Luz; and at St. Jean de Luz this Biscayan stroll, for the present at all events, must end. It is: quaint and rather pretty old Basque town, dirty certainly, but none the less picturesque for that; and coming to it straight from the glare and modern spruceness of Biarritz, we find no small attraction in its narrow streets and its heavy old Cathedral, its shreds and patches of bygone grandeur, even in the very air of sleepiness and decadence which overhangs it. Glorious views of the mountains are attainable in all directions, and so sheltered as it is from the east and north, it would probably be found to be a far warmer, if in other respects a less luxurious, winter resort than Biarritz; that complete thorough draught which the latter enjoys, and upon which French

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