In the old time, men had a good grateful custom of blessing the brooks and fountains that met them and refreshed them on pilgrimage, and of late my friend-who hopes to be the other hermit

and I, pressed upon by the thought of all the little unblessed trickles of water in Puritan New Hampshire, have revived this custom; it induces in us a recollected spirit, and the water is always sweet afterward.

There are many of these little wells and water courses in our mountains, and the brooks we use as Theseus used Medea's ball of twine in the labyrinth-to find our way out. The people who live in the valley shake their heads and tell us these gently rising broad-topped wooded hills are dangerous; we hear of thirty miles of unbroken forest stretching back to Canada-of the inevitable man who went forth and never returned. And we sling a blue canvas bag over our shoulders, and smile up at the rock-crowned summit that shall be ours at high noon. We are never lost, the trees and rocks are too friendly. Sometimes we lose the mountain and do not know where we are, but that is a different matter. We lost one last summer; it hid its head, and we wandered disconsolate all day, up, up, through unremembered forests, seeing, close at hand in broken glimpses, huge unfamiliar heights which we never attained. In the afternoon we dropped into a brook and ran down with it to the valley, now beating through the underbrush along its banks, now treading its stepping-stones, now swishing ankle-deep through the soaked moss in its rocky bed. But we were not lost, for after a bewildering mile the brook, on a sudden, laughed down a waterfall, and we knew it for a friend.

But the days when we do not lose the mountain are the best days: when we follow the blazed trail through the woods, our eyes set on the green, tree-barred distance with a listening look, the smile of the explorer on our lips; when we grip the hardy twigs that grow out of the cracks of the ledges, and pull ourselves up hand over hand to the next little tree, and hug it, breathless.

On the bare gray summit we build a fire, perhaps, and toast our sandwiches, and lie under the sky, looking up and out, till the earth turns, and we are helplessly lying on the underside, looking down into blue depths, instead of up and wondering, drowsily, why we do not drop off.

*Atlantic Monthly.

We sit up, after that, and read Dante out of a little battered Florentine volume that has climbed up hither in the blue canvas bag. As we read we face the greater mountains which we do not climb. "They are very noble," we say, "these elder brothers," and we fall to gazing at them without more speech; till one of us, usually the other one, rises, scatters the ashes of the fire, stamps out the embers, and drops Dante into the blue canvas bag.

We do not always read Dante on our mountains, although he always climbs with us. Sometimes we read The High History of the Holy Grail, sometimes The Little Flowers of St. Francis, a bird book by John Burroughs, Travels with a Donkey, or Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess or Shakespeare's Sonnets.

We are very confidential with our mountains, our brothers; we tell them things; we are used to them. They are monotonous, maybe-we do not know this but we are told that they are. It is true that they seldom startle us, but so much else in civilization is melodramatic that it is good to feel that our mountains are only dignified, and serene, and very noble, and very, very old. The ones that Francis knew in Italy were more romantic, gray in the skirts with olive, looking out east and west to the bright sea-robber-haunted, with soft mellifluous names. There are no banditti on our hills, and the democracy has named them after Jones and Brown and Robinson, and a few other men; but they belong to us, we know them and love them. Sometimes we go on pilgrimage among them, as Francis went among his. In their solitudes it may be that one day we too shall see visions. Meanwhile, we wait, and trust them. When we make a pilgrimage on the Feast of the Transfiguration, or some other day, we like to think of how those earlier pilgrims read the Hours as they climbed: Prime beside a river in a valley, perhaps, under a bridge, where the chipmunks and the birds came to prayers; Terce beneath a pine tree facing the morning light on the hills and praying open-eyed before the glories of God. We think they must have read Sext on the summit, and Nones by the brookside after they had put their shoes from off their feet; and Compline a trifle early, on a great stone by the road, with the moon rising in the summer twilight and the mist drifting up from the river.

Why is it that Americans, in their search for novel places in Europe, wander to the wilds of Norway and Sweden, explore Russia and the Danube country as far as Bulgaria, or Roumania; search out every nook and corner of Switzerland, Austria, Italy and France, and yet ignore so completely one of the most beautiful trips in Europe -that magnificent stretch of highway running through the French and Spanish Pyrenees? All through the spring, summer and autumn parties of Americans are thronging through every watering place in Normandy, Brittany and the Riviera. They drive or coach, or cycle, over Austrian passes, along French boulevards and through England and Scotland; yet few of them realize that one of the most magnificent coaching roads in the world is the wonderful Route Thermale, a French military road, perfectly graded and kept, threading its way through the glorious valleys and mountain peaks of the Pyrenees. One finds delightful little hotels, quaint towns, interesting types of peasants, and views almost rivaling the finest Alpine scenery.

The English people know it well. In the historic town of Pau there is a large English colony, the members of which live there the greater portion of the year. They have cozy little villas, surrounded with gardens, with gravel walks, arbors, and the many flowers that thrive in the south of France. They have an English club, tennis, golf and hunting. Mr. James Gordon Bennett for a number of years was an enthusiastic member of this colony, among which were a few other Americans. He was the Master of the Fox Hounds, having organized the hunt, and was its spirited leader for many years. The Hotel Gassion is a four hundred thousand dollar structure, furnished in old, carved mahogany, rich tapestries, and brocades, and is maintamed on lavish scale. From the broad marble terrace one looks to the snow-tipped panorama of the Pyrenees, lying far across the green plain in the distance. Peak after peak, decked with glaciers and trackless fields of snow, arise, lofty and glittering to the sky, luring the traveler to explore their mysteries.

How does one get to the Pyrenees? It is the simplest matter in the world. Take the train some morning after breakfast from Paris, leave it an hour or so later at the medieval town of Orleans; wander about its rambling streets, see the fabled home of Jeanne d'Arc; leave again at

noon by train and spend the night at Biarritz, one of the most beautiful watering places in France. Located on the edge of the Bay of Biscay, it is a fashionable resort for French, English, and the few Americans who are fortunate enough to know about it. The Grand Hotel is equal to any in France-a handsome brick structure surrounding a court-with perfect service and appointments. A number of beautiful villas are in Biarritz, among them the large one of the ex-Empress Eugenie. An afternoon's trip by train brings you to Pau. From here the trip proper to the Pyrenees begins.

The first mountain hamlet to be reached is Laruns, two hours by train from Pau; and one here finds it hard to realize that he is not in the midst of the Alps. You have ordered from Pau the brake to be ready for you, and four strong, mettlesome horses with plumes and bells, a driver in resplendent livery, with leather helmet and gilt-trimmed coat and trousers; a comfortable brake, holding eight, a little group of wondering children-this is the sight that greets you as you leave the train. Suit-cases and wraps are stowed away, you mount to your high seats, the whip cracks, the horses prance, the walls of the little village resound with the hubbub, and away you go out along the great white road that is to carry you to far-away Luchon.

As you have not started to drive until afternoon, you spend the first night at one of the delightful little hotels at Eaux Bonnes, where you discover that you are not a pioneer in an unknown land, but one of the many visitors in a cozy watering place with well-kept hotels, fascinating shops, and mountain excursions of all kinds awaiting you. An hour or two away is Eaux

Chaudes. This little hamlet is tucked into a narrow valley between giant walls. A noisy brook babbles down the center of it, and perched just above it is the Hotel Baudot, where Madame Baudot presides in person and looks after your every comfort. From this place trips are made to the extraordinary little colony of Basques, boasting to be of a race by themselves and numbering in this little village but a dozen families. One may, if ambitious enough, climb one or two of the peaks. The Route Thermale goes from here over the splendid pass, the Col d'Aubisque, which, from the summit, descends in zigzags to the little town of Argeles, where the night is spent. From here one may, if he wish, make a trip by train to Lourdes and visit the miraculous

grotto and the church, to which go so many pilgrimages. From Argeles the route continues to Pierrefitte and Cauterets, which is quite like a little Paris, with its handsome buildings, streets, massive architecture and luxurious hotels. After this a stop should be made at Luz, and a trip to the Cirque de Gaverine, a magnificent amphitheatre of precipices rising ten times as high as Niagara, down which cascades pour, and on the summit of which rest the eternal snows. There are few views in Switzerland that can surpass this.

So day after day the horses and the brake wind through valley and mountain, past village and town and watering place. The scenery is always new, always inspiring, and the journey ends at Luchon, the Interlaken of the Pyrenees. You drive up the shaded Allee d'Etigny, which is the main promenade of the town, draw up before the Hotel Richelieu, and the drive is at an end.

Three weeks! Three superb weeks have gone since we left Pau, and we feel that we have explored a new land of delight. History, romance and legend have cast their spell over these peaks and valleys of the Pyrenees. The sun and the clouds, the rain and the mist, give them ever changing aspects. The Route Thermale, stretching like a broad ribbon from one end to the other, has given us a drive never to be forgotten, and the Pyrenees are no longer a name to us, but a very real land of wonder and delight.

The rapid multiplication of sky-scrapers throughout New York has developed a race of modern American cliff-dwellers, whose habitat is the lower end of Manhattan Island. A visitor to the city never would guess their presence, and even the bred-in-the-bone New Yorker seldom stops to give them a thought, for the Twentieth Century cliff-dweller, though located in the busiest part of the great city, is quite apart from all the bewildering noises and activities that make a bedlam of this section of the metropolis during the business day.

Perched high up in mid-air, atop the lofty office buildings of the city, are little homes as quiet and secluded as though they stood beside some country lane, instead of directly above throbbing, hurrying, maddening Broadway. Quaint little houses they are, with ample dooryards, many of which are filled with brightly colored flower-beds. To one who is hungry for a glimpse of country greenery they are as oases in the great stone desert that constitutes the business section of New York. These are the dwellings of the modern cliff-men, most of whom are the janitors

and superintendents of the great sky-scrapers. Several years ago some inventive architect devised the plan of locating the caretakers and their families on the roofs of the buildings of which they have charge. The plan was so satisfactory in every respect that it has been very generally followed. Within an area of a few blocks in the downtown district dozens of families are living thus, above the eaves of the tallest buildings in the world. They form a quaint and interesting colony.

The little dwellings which form the homes of the roof-dwellers are regular cottages, quite separate and distinct from the great structures on which they are built. They are constructed of wood or brick and they nestle on the great skyscrapers like Swiss chalets on as many mountain peaks.

At first thought it might seem that the life of the roof-dweller must be a lonely one, but he has his own diversions, and he enjoys many advantages not to be obtained by other residents of the city, not even by the wealthy householders of fashionable Fifth avenue. Sunlight and fresh air-the nectar and ambrosia of city life—are enjoyed by the residents of the roofs, in unstinted quantities. They are not crowded by their neighbors; they enjoy a delightful seclusion; while at their feet is spread the vast and ever-changing panorama of the city and its glorious harbor.

From his aërial home the new cliff-man can look down upon the streets below, with their swarming crowds of what, from his lofty perch, look like scurrying ants. He can see the elevated trains puffing along, looking almost like toys. Around him rise the rival sky-scrapers-modern towers of Babel, pulsating with the hurrying life within. The great metropolis stretches away to the northward, between its confining rivers, as far as the eye can reach. Here and there its uniformity is relieved by some great building looming high above its fellows. Southward the harbor's broad expanse, alive with craft of every sort, invites his eye. Here pass the gigantic ocean greyhounds-the ferries of the Atlantic; here, too, are tramp steamers from all the ports of all the seas; busy little harbor-tugs; huge ferryboats that float along like great turtles; highmasted schooners of the coasting trade and whitewinged yachts on pleasure bent. Liberty, with her uplifted torch, stands boldly out to view near at hand, while the horizon to the south and west is bound by the hills of Staten Island and New Jersey's busy shores. On the other hand-scarcely more than a bowshot distant, it seems from this great height-lies Brooklyn, the city of homes and churches, with the mighty span of her con

necting bridge like a ribbon of steel across the stream. The roof-dwellers too, can see the tremendous forces of nature at work in all their magnificence. When a summer thunderstorm sweeps the city, they can observe the full beauty of its display; the black clouds veiling the sky, the great curtain of rain walling out everything around and the blinding glare of the lightning, with, perhaps, some huge building outlines against it. Or, again, they can watch the fog stealing down to veil the city and harbor in gray.

No more beautiful sight can be imagined than is to be witnessed from some lofty roof of lower New York on a clear summer evening. The red and green and yellow gleams from the harbor craft go dancing hither and thither like so many fireflies.

The enterprising housewife among these denizens of the roof is able to brighten her home with many delightful features. She may have her flower-gardens and even a little patch of vegetables reared in soil brought from below. Trailing vines may be trained along the cottage walls, and with shrubs and plants disposed about the borders of the roof it is possible to transform the whole into a charming hanging garden.

In the long summer evenings the tables can be moved out into the yard, and here the roof dwellers can sit and take tea amid the coolness and quiet. Here, too, they can entertain their less fortunate friends who are condemned to live in stuffy flats or apartments. Hammocks may be swung to give added comfort and pleasure to life, and awnings put up in summer to keep the place cool through the mid-day hours.

When we rose in the early morning our ship had already passed the reef, and we were in the harbor of Papeete. There was the usual enchantment of the land, a light blue sky and a light blue sea; an air that felt cooler than that of Samoa, whatever the thermometer might say; and when we had landed, a funny little town, stretched along the beach, under many trees. From under their shade the outside blue was still more wonderful, and at the edge, where the blue of sky and sea came together opposite us, the island of Moorea, all mountain, peaked and engrailed like some far distance of Titian's landscapes, seemed swimming in the blue.

Near the quay, neatly edged with stone steps, ships lay only a few rods off in the deep water, or their yards touching the branches of the great trees. Further out, on a French man-of-war, the bugle marked the passing duty of the hour. But everything else was lazy, except the little horses

driven by the Kanakas. Natives moved easily about, no longer with the stride of the Samoans, which throws out the knees and feet, as if it were for the stage. People were lighter built, more "effacé"; but there were pretty faces, many evidently those of half-breeds.

White men were there with the same contrasting look of fierceness and inquisitiveness marked in their faces, which now that we see less of them, look beaky and eager in contrast with the brown types that fill the larger part of our sight and acquaintance.

We were kindly received by the persons for whom we had introductions, and set about through various more or less shady streets marked French-wise on the corners: "Rue des BeauxArts," "Rue de la Cathédrale," etc.; first to a little restaurant, where I heard, in an adjacent room, "Buvons, amis, buvons!" and the noise of fencing; then to hire furniture and buy household needs for the housekeeping we proposed to set up that very day, for there are no hotels. The evening was ended at the "Cercle," where we played dominoes, to remind ourselves that we were in some outlying attachment of provincial France. By the next morning we were settled in a little cottage on the beach that is shaded all along by trees; we had engaged a cook, and Awoki was putting all to rights. As we walk back into the town there are French walls and yellow stuccoed houses for government purposes. A few officers in white, and soldiers, pass along.

A few scattered French ladies pass under the trees; so far as we can tell (for we have been long away) dressed in some correct French fashion, looking not at all incongruous, because already we feel that this is dreamland—that anybody in any guise is natural here, except a few Europeans, who meet the place half-way, and belong neither to where they came from, nor to the unreality of the place they are in. There is no noise; the street is the beach; the trappings of the artillery horses and the scabbards of the sabres rattle in a profound silence so great that I can distinctly count the pulsation of the water running from the fountain near us into the sea. The shapes and finish of the government buildings, their long spaces of enclosure, the moss upon them, remind us of the sleepiest towns of out-of-the-way bits of France.

The natives slip over the dust in bare feet, the waving draperies of the long gowns of the women seeming to add to the stealthy and undulating movement which carries them along. Many draw up under the arm some corner of this long, nightgowny dress, that it may not trail, or let their

Most of the native men wear loose jackets, sometimes shirts, above the great loin-cloth which hangs down from the waist, and which is the same as the "lava-lava" of the Samoans, the "sulu" of the Fijians, and is here called the "pareu."

Many of the women have garlands round their necks and flowers behind their ears. Occasionally we hear sounds of singing that come back to us from some cross-street, and as I have ventured to look, I see, in a little enclosure, some women seated, and one standing before them making the gestures, perhaps of a dance; and, I grieve to say, looking as if all had begun their latest evening very early in the day. But this I have noticed from sheer inquisitiveness.

I feel that in another hour or so I shall not care to look for anything, but shall sit quietly and let everything pass like the turn of a revolving panorama. In this state of mind, which represents the idleness of arrival, we meet at our Consul's an agreeable young gentleman belonging to a family well known to us by name-the Branders, a family that represents, though mixed with European, the best blood of the islanders. They speak French and English with the various accents and manners that belong to those divisions of European society; they are well connected over in Scotland. Do you remember the Branders of Lorna Doone?

In the evening, with some remnant of energy, we walk still further than our house upon the beach, passing over the same roads that Stoddard wearily trod in his South Sea Idylls. We try to find, by the little river that ends our walk, on this side of the old French fort, the calaboose where Melville was shut up. There is no one to help us in our search; no one remembers anything. Buildings occupy the spaces of woodland that Melville saw about him. Nothing remains but the same charm of light and air which he, like all others, has tried to describe and to bring back home in words. But the beach is still as beautiful as if composed for Claude Lorrain. Great trees stand up within a few feet of the tideless sea. Where the shallows run in at times, canoes with outriggers are pulled up. People sit near the water's edge, on the grass. Outside of all the shade, we see the island of Moorea, further out than the far line of the reef, no longer blue, but glowing like a rose in the beginning of the twilight.

At night we hear girls passing before our little garden; we see them swinging together, with arms about the flowers of their necks. They

brings the odor of the gardenias that cover their necks and heads.

In the night the silence becomes still greater around us, though we hear, at a distance, the music of the band that plays in the square, which is the last amusement left to this dreary, deserted village called a town. In the square, which is surrounded by many trees, through which one passes to hidden official buildings, native musicians play European music, apparently accommodated to their own ideas, but all in excellent time, so that one just realizes that somehow or other these airs must have been certain well-known ones. But nothing matters very much.

A few visitors walk about; native women sit in rows on the ground, apparently to sell flowers, which they have before them. People of distinction make visits to a few carriages, drawn up under the trees. Occasionally, in the shadows, or before the lights, in an uncertain manner, natives begin to dance to the accompaniment of the band. But it is all listless, apparently, at least to the sight, and just as drowsy as the day.

In the very early morning we drive to the end of the bay at Point Venus, to see the stones placed. by Wilkes and subsequent French navigators, in order to test the growth of the coral outside. And we make a call on a retired French naval officer, who has been about here, more or less, since 1843, the time of Melville. We drive at first through back roads of no special character. We pass through a great avenue of trees, over arches, the pride of the town, we cross a river-torrent, and the end of our road brings us along the sea, but far up, so that we look down over spaces of palm and indentations of small bays fringed with foam, all in the shade below us. On the sea-outline always the island of Moorea, and back on Tahiti the great mountain, the Aorai, the edge, apparently, of a great central crater; a fantastic, serrated peak, called the "Diadem"; also an edge of the great chasm; and, on either side, long slopes that run to the sea from the central heights, and recall the slopes of Hawaii. But all is green; even the 8,000 feet of the Aorai, which look blue and violet, melt into green around us, so as to show that the same verdure passes unbroken, wherever there is a foothold, from the sea to the highest tops. This haze of green, so delicate as to be namable only by other colors, gives a look of sweetness to these high spaces, and makes them repeat, in tones of light, against the blue of the sky, chords of color similar to those of the trees and the grass against the blue and violet of the sea.