And so you go to rest, content to say, with the wise American, 'It
takes all sorts to make a world.'
The next morn you rise, to roll on over yet more weary uplands to
Montrejeau, over long miles of sandy heath, a magnified Aldershott,
which during certain summer months is gay, here and there, like
Aldershott, with the tents of an army at play. But in spring the
desolation is utter, and the loneliest grouse-moor, and the boggiest
burn, are more cheerful and varied than the Landes of Lannemezan, and
the foul streamlets which have sawn gorges through the sandy waste.
But all the while, on your right hand, league after league, ever
fading into blue sky behind you, and growing afresh out of blue sky
in front, hangs high in air the white saw of the Pyrenees. High, I
say, in air, for the land slopes, or seems to slope, down from you to
the mountain range, and all their roots are lost in a dim sea of
purple haze. But shut out the snow line above, and you will find
that the seeming haze is none, but really a clear and richly varied
distance of hills, and woods, and towns, which have become invisible
from the contrast of their greens, and greys, and purples, with the
glare and dazzle of the spotless snows of spring.
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