slope down its steeps; but in the suburbs you
see thread factories, and comfortable villas
inhabited by Englishmen. There is something in
its combination of the ultra-feudal with the
ultra-modern which makes one think of Scotch
Paisley; but Paisley is not so happy in its site.

We may drink our fill of old memories in
these Norman towns. At Rouen, besides the
graves of Rollo and of his son, they show the
very dust of the heart of CÅ“ur-de-Lion—a
few ounces of white ashes, like ivory shavings,
in a glass case, and indubitably the remains of
the warm heart which beat so high in Syria. At
Lizieux, Thomas à Becket lived in exile, and
heard mass a score of times in yonder cathedral,
where, as usual, they are cleaning and restoring;
where there is a bran-new wreath of artificial
roses on the head of the Virgin; and where you
never enter without seeing a few old women
dipping their skinny fists in the holy water, or
a smug priest sneaking out of the confessional
where he has been hearing the sins of a blooming
young damsel in silk. But why talk of
these people? Henry the Second of England
was married before that altar to beautiful and
high-spirited Queen Eleanor, whom the French
chroniclers accuse, in their jealous way, of
having flirted with a Paynim prince during
the Second Crusade. Turning from the cathedral's
grey towers, you will do well to descend
the Rue des Fèvres, where the quaintest of
quaint old wooden-built gabled houses nod to
each other over the narrow stony way, threaded
as it is, in the centre, by a trickling gutter.
A foul, green, quasi-river, haunted by sick
willows, crawls through the dense houses of old
Lizieux; yet, foul as it is, the women squat on
punts in it, to wash and beat clothes in a
primitive style.

Leaving Lizieux on our journey, we proceed
to Caen, one of the centres of feudal civilisation
in old times. In the church of Saint Stephen
here lie the remains of William the Conqueror.
Caen is a populous cheery Norman town, set in
a beautiful low-lying country, and fringed with
a border of woody and leafy public walks. It is
connected with the sea, and a decent sprinkling
of small craft employed in the coasting trade
may generally be seen alongside its modest
wharves, looked down on by the Abbaye-aux-
Dames founded by the Conqueror's Queen. Our
countrymen much affect Caen, and have a little
colony there, attracted by good air, cheap house-
rent, and cheap schooling. For myself, I never
sympathised with this genteel but ignoble kind
of exile, to which nothing short of outlawry will
ever drive me. Poor Brummell died at Caen,
and, though hardly knowing why, one visits his
grave after William the Conqueror's! They
were both kings, at different times (with some
difference of significance in the fact), of the
great world of London. He ought to have an
epigram for his epitaph, the dandy; but he
slumbers under a common-place "George
Brummell, Esq."

From Caen it is but a half-hour's run to
Bayeux. The Cherbourg railway has only a
single line of rails, we may remark as we go.
An English engineer who knew it well observed
that it created an endless fluster among the
railway officials to have to convey sixty or
seventy cattle, deducing therefrom satisfactory
inferences as to the job they would find it to
undertake the transport of some thousands of
troops.

Bayeux is another famous old Norman city
connected with our history. Here is the world-
renowned tapestry, which an English lady whom
I met in travelling fancied (O shade of Queen
Matilda!) had been that on view in Leicester-
square! Here is another cathedral of antique
dignity and beauty. But above all (as hinted
before) Bayeux and its district was the most
Danish part of Normandy. Beyond this station
lies a part of the country from which came to
our own the races of Bacon, of Bohun, and of
Bruce. What great things—what a variety of
great things—that sea-blood has done! Is it
the salt in it, I wonder, that keeps it so fresh
and wholesome?

While wandering thus from town to town, the
tourist meets a constant succession of French-
men to study, batch following batch, like the
plats at the table d'hôte. Does he encounter
personal civility, notwithstanding the fury which
is supposed to rage against us, peculiarly, at the
present time? My experience says decidedly
yes, and I shall give some emphatic instances of
it by-and-by. The nations differ too markedly
ever to love one another; and there are memories
which they can never reconcile themselves
to; and just now France feels very strong and
fidgets under our great freedom of public
comment. But it is a gross exaggeration to say of
Normandy, whatever may be said of Paris, that
an individual Englishman or Scotsman sees overt
signs of national hostility. Things are not come,
happily, to any such pass, and it is your own fault
if you encounter anything but politeness, a
readiness to exchange civilities, and even to
form casual acquaintanceships, marvellously like
friendships. The men of business are all pacific,
as you may learn from the invariable
"commercial traveller." The French bagman wants,
indeed, that solidity of political conviction, as
he wants that appetite for bottled stout, which
distinguishes his British rival. He is a more
frivolous man, and throws away the intellect
which in our land pronounces on parties and
statesmen, upon the levities of the feuilleton
and the theatre. When he dabbles in la chasse
he goes out for five hours and brings home a
brace of larks. He is vain of his personal
appearance, and will chat to a man whom he never
saw before about his amours. Doubtless, he
fancies himself ready to rush (if needed) upon
her Majesty's troops. But it would be unjust to
deny that he is courteous in his manner and
pacific in his views as a general rule. Then,
again, turn into the little cottage—a comfortable
one, I am glad to say, for the most part—
of the Norman peasant. There is a shower of
rain, or you want to ask your way, and you step
across his humble threshold into a little room