at us now. Let me lose the impression again,
as soon as possible. Call her in, out of the
dreary moonlight—pray call her in!"

"Mr. Hartright, you surprise me. Whatever
women may be, I thought that men, in the
nineteenth century, were above superstition."

"Pray call her in!"

"Hush, hush! She is coming of her own
accord. Say nothing in her presence. Let this
discovery of the likeness be kept a secret
between you and me. Come in, Laura; come in,
and wake Mrs. Vesey with the piano. Mr.
Hartright is petitioning for some more music,
and he wants it, this time, of the lightest and
liveliest kind."

                         CHERBOURG.

                    I. THE WAY THERE.

THE reader who may have accompanied me
this autumn to Portsmouth, or who shares my
interest in Ships and Crews, and in our Training-
Ships,* will not be surprised to hear that I have
just accomplished a visit to Cherbourg. The
bustle in that Norman port was beginning to
oppress my imagination. One heard so much
of it, that it seemed better to face the reality
and ascertain what it was like, than to be
always haunted with the idea of the place
flitting before one in exaggerated proportions.
Normandy, too—historical old Normandy,
which has so profoundly affected our history!—
seemed worthy of a little quiet but accurate
overhauling, when the question was of a new
stronghold on its most advanced promontory.
So the beautiful weather of the first week of
October found me steaming down the Southampton
Water (time, evening; a reddish-yellow
moon hanging over the land on our starboard
side) on my way to the "French Liverpool,"
the important seaport town of Havre. Let us
see, in this first paper, what there is of interest
in the journey itself, before beginning with
Cherbourg, its position and resources.

* See pages 517, 389, 557.

Havre, then, is the French Liverpool, and
though small for a Liverpool, disputes the first
place as a French commercial port even with
Bordeaux and Marseilles. In general aspect, it
has, of course, those usual French characteristics
with which so many readers are quite familiar.
We will look at it, as is natural, chiefly with
reference to its naval interest. Entering the
harbour, you find good spacious basins crowded with
shipping. Conspicuous for size and appearance
are the thumping Yankees, whose great French
port Havre is. There they are, from New
Orleans (New Orleens, nauticè), from Baltimore or
Charleston, or other American cities, and the
mighty bales of cotton or casks of sugar which
they bring swarm on the quays. Naval fact
first:—The Emperor is not sorry to see the
Yankees prospering in sea trade—whether
"carrying" or other—since the neutral flag now-a-
days is to cover the cargo, and he may be at
war with Britain and get his cotton, and many
other goods, all the same. This our cousins feel
the advantage of, and are not slow to express it.
But French ship-building and foreign commerce
increase also on their own account. There is a
good deal of trade carried on by French ships from
Havre with South America. They take out
luxuries and bring back necessaries: hides, for
instance. A curious and picturesque result of
the South American trade in Havre is the
number of parrots—grey, green, or mixed—
that one sees about. They are not the only
foreigners for whom special cages are provided,
by the way, since, opposite the American ships,
"lodgings for coloured cooks and stewards" are
particularly announced. Everywhere, in this
world, we meet the materials of comedy, and
the most business-like towns furnish no exceptions.
Should you put up at Spiller's, the
English hotel at Havre, by all means go into the
back parlour and hear the views of our
Transatlantic friends on the "nigger." "Is he human?"
That is one great subject of debate there.
Sometimes it is varied by demonstrations of
England's downfal next war. A stout
English skipper was almost overwhelmed with
prophecies which the United-Statesmen hurled
at him, as to the combinations against us.
But the stump oratory washed off him like
spray. He drew his pipe out of his mouth
quietly, and only ejaculated, "Let 'un come
on!" It is characteristic of the queer relations
between us and the Americans (for they cannot
hate us; yet cannot love us either, somehow) that
they were delighted with the exclamation, though
it was opposed to their own argument.

Havre is a thriving place, with all this
importation and exportation. A bran-new "Hôtel
de Ville," all white, and prettily carved, faced
by those nice public gardens so agreeably French
—is one symptom of this. A surer symptom is
the spread of private houses, white villas, walled
and gardened, all up the heights of Ingouville,
which overlook the town, and from which you
get a grand view of the embouchure of the
Seine, where it mingles with the sea. Havre
is modern from an historic point of view. Its
importance is of yesterday, compared with
the venerable Rouen, which reeks (in all senses)
of the middle ages. But it stands on a site the
most significant in its associations of all
Normandy; and strange memories rise before one, in
gazing down on it from the heights. The Seine,
there, was the highway which carried old Rolf,
Hrolf, Rollo, or Rou up to the heart of the
France of the ninth century, and enabled him to
plant his great colony (long-haired, horse-flesh-
eating, wolfskin-clad, most indomitable men!)
in the pleasant Norman land.

Verses from the antique Sagas come to one's
lips in watching the placid roll of the blue water,
and thinking of those days:

      The Norseman's king is on the sea,
      Though bitter wintry cold it be,
      On the wild waves his Yule keeps he.

Or,

     The Norseman's king is on his cruise,
         His blue-steel staining,
     Rich booty gaining,
         And all men trembling at the news.