way it lay along its gleaming beach;
I had taken in imagination the long walks toward Spain over the low
cliffs, with the blue sea always to my right, and the blue Pyrenees
always before me. My only fear was that my mental picture was not
brilliant enough; but this could easily be touched up on the spot. In
truth, however, I was exclusively occupied in toning it down. Biarritz
seemed to be decidedly below its reputation; I am at a loss to see how
its reputation was made. There is a partial explanation that is obvious
enough. There is a low, square, bare brick mansion seated on the sands,
under shelter of a cliff; it is one of the first objects to attract the
attention of an arriving stranger. It is not picturesque, it is not
romantic, and even in the days of its prosperity it never can have been
impressive. It is called the Villa Eugenie, and it explains in a great
measure, as I say, the Biarritz which the arriving stranger, with some
dismay, perceives about him. It has the aspect of one of the "cottages"
of Newport during the winter season, and is surrounded by an even
scantier umbrage than usually flourishes in the vicinity of those
establishments. It was what the newspapers call the "favorite resort"
of the ex-Empress of the French, who might have been seen at her
imperial avocations with a good glass at any time from the Casino. The
Casino, I hasten to add, has quite the air of an establishment
frequented by gentlemen who look on ladies' windows with telescopes.
There are Casinos and Casinos, and that of Biarritz is, in the summary
French phrase, "impossible." Except for its view, it is moreover very
unattractive. Perched on the top of a cliff which has just space enough
to hold its immense brick foundations, it has no garden, no promenade,
no shade, no place of out-of-door reunion--the most indispensable
feature of a Casino. It turns its back to the Pyrenees and to Spain, and
looks out prettily enough over a blue ocean to an arm of the low French
coast.

Biarritz, for the rest, scrambles over two or three steep hills,
directly above the sea, in a promiscuous, many-colored, noisy fashion.
It is a watering-place, pure and simple; every house has an expensive
little shop in the basement, and a still more expensive set of rooms to
let above stairs. The houses are blue, and pink, and green; they stick
to the hillsides as they can, and being near Spain, you try to fancy
they look Spanish. You succeed perhaps, even a litt