those of Marechal
Soult's attack on the English at Pampelune.

Considering that St. Jean-Pied-de-Port boasts of only fourteen
hundred inhabitants, and is almost hidden in the Pyrenean fastness,
one does very well within its walls. There is a railway to Bayonne,
the post, telegraph, a pharmacy, and a Red Cross station, and the
wants of the automobilist are attended to sufficiently well by the
local locksmith. The Hotel Central, on the Place du Marche, is
vouched for by the Touring Club. It has a _salle des bains_ and other
useful accessories often wanting in more pretentious establishments,
a dark room for camera fiends, a pit for automobiles, and electric
lights. For all this you pay six franc a day. "_Pas cher!_"

Bayonne, through the Basque country, is fifty odd kilometres distant,
a gentle descent all the way, down the valley of the Nive.

The Basques are a picturesque and lovable people, and they have kept
their characteristics and customs bright and shining through many
centuries of change round about them.

They love the dance, all kinds of agile games like the _jeu de paume_
and _pelota_, and will dance for three days at a fete with a passion
which does not tire. Even to-day the Basque thinks more of a local
fete than he does of anything else, and will journey fifteen or
twenty kilometres afoot--if he can't get a ride--to form a part of
some religious procession or a _tournee de paume_.

Cambo, midway between St. Jean-Pied-de-Port and Bayonne, is a tiny
spring and bath resort trying hard to be fashionable. There are many
villas near-by of wealthy "Basques-Americains," from the Argentine.

The Basques, at least the Basques-Francais, are a disappearing factor
in the population of Europe. It is said there are more Basques in the
Argentine Republic than in the Republic of France, and all because of
the alienation of the Basques by Louis XIV. when he married
Marie-Therese and her 500,000 ecus of _dot_. Since 1659 the real
Basque, he or she of the fine teeth, has been growing beautifully
less in numbers, both in France and in Spain.

A certain fillip was given to Cambo by the retreat here of Edward
Rostand, the author of "Cyrano" and "L'Aiglon." In his wake followed
litterateurs and journalists, and the fame of the hitherto unworldly
little spot--sheltered from all the winds that blow--was bruited
abroad, and the Touring Club de France erected a pavilion; thus all
at once Cambo became a "resort," in all that t