valleys--and of all such the valley of Vernet is perhaps the most
lovely--they cannot compete with the mountain scenery of other
tourists-loved regions in Europe.  At the Port de Venasquez and the
Breche de Roland in the Western Pyrenees, or rather, to speak more
truly, at spots in the close vicinity of these famous mountain
entrances from France into Spain, one can make comparisons with
Switzerland, Northern Italy, the Tyrol, and Ireland, which will not
be injurious to the scenes then under view.  But among the eastern
mountains this can rarely be done.  The hills do not stand thickly
together so as to group themselves; the passes from one valley to
another, though not wanting in altitude, are not close pressed
together with overhanging rocks, and are deficient in grandeur as
well as loveliness.  And then, as a natural consequence of all this,
the hotels--are not quite as good as they should be. 

But there is one mountain among them which can claim to rank with the
Pic du Midi or the Maledetta.  No one can pooh-pooh the stern old
Canigou, standing high and solitary, solemn and grand, between the
two roads which run from Perpignan into Spain, the one by Prades and
the other by Le Boulon.  Under the Canigou, towards the west, lie the