to great dusty ruts by many great carts and drays hauling
wine-pipes to the railway stations. The traffic is enormous, for it
is the wines of Roussillon that are shipped all over France for
blending with and fortifying the weaker vintages, even those of the
Gironde.

Dusty in dry weather, and chalky mud in wet, are the characteristic
faults of this hundred kilometres or more of Herault roadway which
one must cross to gain the shadow of the Pyrenees. There seems to be
no help for it unless cobblestones were to be put down, which would
be a cure worse than the disease.

Perpignan is the most entrancing city between Marseilles and
Barcelona. It has many of the characteristics of both, though of only
thirty thousand inhabitants. The old fortifications, which once gave
it an aspect of mediaevalism, are now (by decree of 1903) being torn
down, and only the quaintly picturesque Castillet remains. The rest
are--at the present writing--a mere mass of crumbled bricks and
mortar, and a real blemish to an otherwise exceedingly attractive,
gay little city. The automobile garages are all side by side on a
new-made street, on the site of one line of the old fortifications,
and are suitable enough when found, but no directions which were
given us enabled us to house our machine inside of half an hour's
time after we had entered the town. Our hotel, unfortunately, was one
of the few that did not have a garage as an adjunct of the
establishment. In other respects the Hotel de la Poste was a marvel
of up-to-dateness. The sleeping-rooms were of that distinction known
in France as _hygienique_, and the stairways and walls were
fire-proof, or looked it. One dined in a great first-floor apartment
with a marble floor, and dined well, and there was ice for those who
wanted it. (The Americans did, you may be sure.)

Perpignan is possessed of much history, much character, and much
local colour of the tone which artists love, and above all a certain
gaiety and brilliancy which one usually associates only with Spain.

There is what might be called a street of cafes at Perpignan, not far
from the Castillet. They are great, splendid establishments, with
wide, overhung, awninged terraces, and potted plants and electric
lights and gold and tinsel, and mixed drinks and ices and sorbets,
and all the epicurean cold things which one may find in the best
establishment in Paris. These cafes are side by side and opposite
each other, and are as typical of