man—less frolicsome than other varieties of the
genus sailor, and when peculiar, peculiar chiefly
in his superstitions. All fishermen are believers
in runs of luck—in lucky and unlucky articles.

I remember that, shooting once on the Essex
coast, in a boat, the nipple of my gun fouled,
and a passing fisherman, whom I asked to lend
me a pin, replied that it was "onlucky" to have
such a thing aboard; and they are apt to have
more serious superstitions. The Church in
France—in its sagacious manner—does its
best to adapt itself to the nautical mind, as
for each variety of mind it has its special
treatment. Ascend that charming "Côte de
Grace," that woody, ornate, pleasant hill above
sea-born Honfleur, and, pausing to breathe in
the healthy air, turn in to the little chapel of the
Virgin among the trees. The chapel is all
nautical. Little ships dangle from the roof, and
seem sailing away over the altar. Votive tablets
(purely Pagan in origin, let me remark) are
there; pictures of vessels labouring in the
stormy sea, while the Virgin in a blaze of light
promises the safety which is there recognised
by the returned mariner. All this is to the
French seaman what Saint Nicolas is to the
Greek one. The British seaman, though not
without his own superstitions, yet believes
fervently in God and mainly in the Admiral. "I
hope your old commander is in heaven, Jack,"
said a gentleman to one of Nelson's men.
''Well, sir," said Jack, "I don't know who'd
keep him out!" This was no blasphemy, we
may be sure.

But we shall see the French matelot again.
Let us get upon the Cherbourg line. Shall we
go back to Havre, and take boat again to Caen—
three hours' sail? It will be better, I think,
to reach our railway across country, and see a
little more of the Norman land. The Cherbourg
line passes through the very flower of the old
Norman towns: towns odorous of history,
aristocracy, mediævalism, towns whose bells make
a reading man think of Duchesne's folio of
Norman chroniclers: of Dudo de St. Quentin,
Ordericus Vitalis, William of Poitou, the
Roman de Rou, and Sir Francis Palgrave. Like
a Roman road, the Cherbourg railway runs
through funeral monuments; and the soldier
who comes to Cherbourg to invade us may pause
to think that in doing so he has to pass over our
fathers' bones.

Out of the great routes in Normandy, you
have in nearly every case to be content with a
very rusty diligence. Off it reels (three ugly
horses abreast, jingling with bells, driver in blue
blouse and cap, cracking his whip and swearing),
over streets execrably stony: then past lines of
long, pale poplars, whose leaves shiver in the
light, into a country of hill and valley, of wood
and green field. It is a pleasant land this, and
no wonder our ancestors liked it—the venerable
Coke even insisting that Guernsey and Jersey
were still seisin enough (as the feudalists say)
for our claim to it! An Englishman, if he
confine himself to the Norman landscape, may still
fancy himself at home. Hill and valley are
clothed with the same wood. The friendly little
blue-bell peeps out of the roadside banks; the
vine which clings to the wooden houses is almost
as hungry-looking as in his own colder land.
But, chiefly, he is delighted with the orchards
which abound in Normandy, and sweeten the air
with their healthy smell; for thousands of red
apples are still on the trees, though thousands
are lying in rich heaps underneath them, and
though sixty wagons loaded with the same may
be counted at the Bayeux railway station this
fine October day. No wonder there is cider
everywhere, universal as red wine in the south,
and drunk at every table d'hôte both for déjeûner
and dinner.

It is a pleasant land, we say, and if we keep
our eyes and wits about us in towns and
villages, we shall find that it is pushing and thriving,
now-a-days, too. At mediæval Rouen, for
instance, there is an "Exposition" going on for
the encouragement of industry; though Rouen
is a great centre of industry, already, and sends
the smoke of a swarm of chimneys sailing over
the time-honoured towers of her unrivalled
churches. Then, there is a movement on foot
for the improvement of the breed of Norman
horses, and long reports fill the papers about
this. The Norman clergy, too, are active in
their peculiar way. Wherever I go in
Normandy, I find placards on churches and walls
regarding a certain "Bienheureux Thomas."
Who is Thomas, and why is he Bienheureux?
Thomas, I discover, is a holy Norman of some
centuries back, who, having remained all this
time in a pious semi-obscurity, has lately
received brevet-rank at Rome and been made a
saint. I do not grudge Thomas this promotion,
coming (like that of some of my naval friends)
very late in the day, and am sorry not to be
able to attend the ceremony which the
Archbishop of Rouen and other high grandees
devote to the poor man. That ceremony is chiefly
attended by the women, for the men, in those
regions, rather shrug their shoulders at the
clergy and their affairs.

I have mentioned the Norman women. I
cannot say that they strike me as pretty,
though their dress, with its high snowy cap, is
so picturesque. Sometimes you see a stately,
rather long, oval face, with dark eyes and fine nose:
a face that might be that of an Eleanor Bohun
or an Alice de Clare. But I vainly frequented the
markets, and sought among the gigantic yellow
gourds, and the heaps of small grapes, for the
Arlotta of Falaise who won the heart of old
Robert le Diable. They chatted over their
stalls, or they came jogging down the streets on
their rough ponies, between the panniers which
held their cabbages and eggs—and she was not
there. They are weather-beaten, too, les
Normandes; or, when not tanned by the weather,
have turned white and waxy in working over
lace.

We reach the desired railway at the ancient
spreading town of Lizieux. Like Rouen, this
town is at once mediæval and manufacturing.
Some of the quaintest old streets in Normandy