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Updated: June 12, 2025
At Pointe au Pic stood a substantial stone house. This was turned into a hotel and known some fifty years ago as Duberger's house. There were besides a few other houses for summer visitors. Thus, long ago, was there tolerable comfort at Murray Bay. In any case visitors soon found that the place had abundant compensations even for discomfort. They came and came again.
In three days Pic arranged a ballet; the costumes, the scenery, the music, the dancers all were ready, and Tomatis put it on handsomely to please his generous master. The couple gave such satisfaction that they were engaged for a year. The Catai was furious, as Madame Binetti threw her completely into the shade, and, worse still, drew away her lovers.
We had a hard pull against a steady head-wind, and could only make two miles an hour, so that it was a little after three when we reached Pic River; and having run the boat on to a sandy shore, carried up our things and prepared our camp. After eight more day's sailing, we reached the Shingwauk again, where a warm welcome awaited us.
Beyond the drowned vales and submerged ranges, which they knew lay beneath the watery floor, before them, rose the heads of the Pic du Midi, the Pic de Ger, the Pic de Bigorre, the Massif du Gabizos, the Pic Monne, and dozens of other famous eminences, towering in broken ranks like the bearskins of a "forlorn hope," resisting to the last, in pictures of old-time battles.
To the same class and subject of satire belongs the "Pic Nic Orchestra" and "Dilettante Theatre" this last a Green-room scene which seems reminiscent of Hogarth's print of a similar subject. Interesting, however, though much of Gillray's social satire certainly is, it scarcely reaches the same level as his political work.
In which we are told how Honey-Bee saw her mother again, but could not embrace her Honey-Bee, a crown on her head, was now more often sad and lost in thought than when her hair flowed loose over her shoulders, and when she went laughing to the forge and pulled the beards of her good friends Pic, Tad and Dig, whose faces, red from the reflected flames, gave her a gay welcome.
Pic looked to her like one inspired, and yet very innocent, and perceiving that all these little men were full of compassion for her, she said: "Little men, it is a pity you are so ugly; but I will love you all the same if you will only give me something to eat, for I am so hungry." "Bob," all the dwarfs cried at once, "go and fetch some supper." And Bob flew off on his raven.
Even the stouter-built dwelling of M. Baridon at Les Ribes was nearly carried away by one of such inundations twelve years ago. It stands about a hundred yards from the mountain-stream which comes down from the Pic de la Séa. One day in summer a storm burst over the mountain, and the stream at once became swollen to a torrent.
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.
It was very curious, very interesting; above all, it was very pic- torial, and involved perpetual peeps into the little crooked, crumbling, sunny, grassy, empty Cite. In places, as you stand upon it, the great towered and embattled enceinte produces an illusion; it looks as if it were still equipped and defended.
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