At dinner that night we noticed that there had evidently been some “goings and comings” among the guests; and doubtless the new arrivals were congratulating themselves on having succeeded in getting rooms in the hotel—­for be it understood this good house is nearly always full, as it deserves to be.  We missed with sorrow the familiar forms of Mr. and Mrs. Berecasque, who, with all their bigoted hatred for anything approaching to High Church notions, were as a rule exceedingly genial and good-natured, as fat people usually are.

The ladies certainly used to say that Madame had a perplexing way of putting leading questions as to why somebody’s daughter went with somebody else’s son, or what on earth could that nice gentlemanly young curate (Low Church of course) see in that fast young lady who was always working banners and such like enormities?  But we never noticed this; though that which on this particular evening probably no one could fail to notice was, that their places were now occupied by a couple of beings as strikingly thin as Mr. and Mrs. Berecasque had been fat.  We were told their name, but there was rather a buzz of conversation going on at the time, and we might not have caught it properly, but it certainly sounded like “Grouser.”  However, that does not matter much; what is far more to the point is the amusement that Mr. Grouser gave to those who had the privilege of sitting near him.  Apparently a self-made man, without any children—­who by better educations might have helped him to knowledge—­his acquaintance with the French language was like a peasant child’s with turtle-soup; perhaps “a lick and a promise” would best explain it.  But though only knowing a few words, which he pronounced with the vilest of accents, and then only when he had inserted his glass in his eye, he brought them out with ludicrous frequency whenever he had the chance.  Here are examples—­“Hi garsong! bring me another plate!” “Garsong poorquar don’t you fetch some bread when I’ve asked three times for it?” “Hi garsong! sil voo plate, where are those potatoes?” And so on all through dinner; while he appeared rather to enjoy the merriment he caused, thinking he must have said something really good, although of course he hadn’t the slightest idea what it was!

To sketchers and lovers of contrasts a visit to Fuenterabia cannot fail to prove a treat, and a better specimen of an old Spanish town it would be difficult to find.  The only convenient train in the morning thither leaves early, and although we preferred driving, we made an early start too, in order to spend a long day.  Having accomplished the eight miles and arrived at St. Jean de Luz, we had still a distance of 8 miles more before reaching Hendaye, the frontier town.  There were occasional pretty bits of country to be seen, especially in the vicinity of Urrugne (10-1/2 miles), a village in which the Spanish element is noticeable, but the succession of poplars along the