You may stop, if you will, to look at the tall Spanish houses,
with their piazzas and jalousies, and the motley populace, French,
Basques, Spaniards, Jews; and, most worth seeing of all, the lovely
ladies of Bayonne, who swarm out when the sun goes down, for air and
military music. You may try to find (in which you will probably
fail) the arms of England in the roof of the ugly old cathedral; you
may wander the bridges over which join the three quarters of the city
(for the Adour and the Nive meet within the walls), and probably lose
your way--a slight matter among folk who, if you will but take off
your hat, call them Monsieur, apologize for the trouble you are
giving, begin the laugh at your own stupidity, and compliment them on
their city and their fair ladies, will be delighted to walk a mile
out of their own way to show you yours. You will gaze up at the
rock-rooted citadel from whence, in the small hours of April 14,
1813, after peace was agreed on, but unhappily not declared (for
Napier has fully exculpated the French Generals), three thousand of
Thouvenot's men burst forth against Sir John Hope's unsuspecting
besiegers, with a furious valour which cost the English more than 800
men.
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