“THE MARCH OF THE MEN OF GARLIC.”

  Men of Garlic—­large your numbers,
  Long indeed your conscience slumbers,
  Can’t you change and eat cu-cumbers? 
  Men of Garlic, say! 
  They are sweet and tender,
  Short and thick or slender. 
  Then, we know well your breath won’t smell
  And sickness’ pangs engender. 
  Men of Garlic, stop your scorning,
  Change your food and hear our warning,
  See the day of Progress dawning,
  Give three cheers—­
  Hurray!

Doubtless the fact of the verse being in English will militate against its efficiency, but before we had time to turn it into French, we had passed to the right of the quaint old town of Nay, and were entering Coarraze (10 1/2 miles).  As we bore off to the right across the river, the old castle—­where Henry IV. spent a great part of his childhood like any peasant child—­towered above us, and the scenery around became considerably more picturesque than any we had passed through that morning.  The banks of the river were more shapely, and the alternation of bushes and meadow, with the varying lights and shades on the distant peaks and the nearer slopes, would have seemed more than beautiful, if our wedged positions and the accompanying warmth had not somewhat evaporated our admiration.  Though the heat remained, the sun had disappeared behind huge banks of clouds, as we at length entered Betharram (15 miles), so, instead of pulling up at the hotel, we drove on to the beautiful ivy-hung bridge, a great favourite with artists.  This really belongs to the hamlet of Lestelle, which adjoins Betharram, and is so picturesque that the villagers ought to be proud of it; doubtless in the old days, when Notre Dame de Betharram’s shrine was the cherished pilgrimage—­now superseded by the attractions of N. D. de Lourdes—­many thousand “holy” feet crossed and recrossed this ancient bridge!

In order to reach the hotel we had to ascend slightly to turn the vehicle, much to the consternation of one of the party, who, clasping the back rail with both hands and endeavouring to look brave, could not withhold a small scream which escaped from the folds of her veil.

The dining-room of the hotel smelt decidedly close, so we spread our sumptuous lunch on tables outside; but Jupiter Pluvius soon showed his disapproval of our plans, and forced us to go within, where a fine specimen of a French soldier had done his best to fill the place with smoke.  However, we managed fairly well, in spite of some sour wine which we tried, under the name of “Jurancon vieux,” for the “good of the house” and the “worse of ourselves.”  As the rain passed off ere we had finished, we afterwards repaired to the “Via Crucis,” where there is a small chapel at every turn till the “Calvary” is reached at the summit.  The first chapel is beside the road, midway between the hotel and the bridge, and the view from the summit on a fine day is said to be very good; but when only half-way, the rain came down in such torrents that we were glad to return to the inn for shelter.  For two hours the downpour lasted, but it cooled the air and rendered the return journey a little more supportable; and when we arrived at the house, we also arrived at the decision that never again to a picnic, as far as we were concerned, should thinness and rotundity go side by side!