Nivernais, with its souvenirs of Vert-Vert and Mazarin, or, rather,
Mazarin and Vert-Vert, the Department of the Allier made from the
ancient province of the Bourbonnais.

A wanderer in France should never be without his Arthur Young. That
"wise and honest traveller," of course, had been before us, but
travelling in a contrary direction. "From the hill that descends to
Pougues," he wrote on his way from Nevers to Fontainebleau, in 1790, "is
an extensive view to the north, and after Pouilly a (_sic_) fine
scenery, with the Loire doubling through it." But the great farmer made
this journey in mid-winter, thus missing its charm. And Arthur Young was
ever too intent upon crops and roots to notice wild flowers. Had he
traversed this region earlier in the year, he might have missed an
exquisite feature, namely, the sweeps of autumn crocus. Just now the
rich pastures around Pougues, as well as suburban lawns and wayside
spaces, were tinted with delicate mauve, the ground being literally
carpeted with these flowers. It was as if the lightest possible veil of
pale purple covered the turf, the same profusion being visible on every
side.

One final word about this sweet and most unmusically named place. On no
occasion and nowhere have I been received with more cordiality than at
dear little Pougues, a place I was told there utterly ignored by my
country people. I do honestly believe, indeed, that myself and fellow
traveller were the first English folk to wander about those delicious
gardens, and taste the incomparable waters, cool, sparkling,
invigorating as those of Spa.

One enterprising proprietor of an excellent hotel was so anxious to
secure an English _clientele_, the best _clientele_ in the world, so