the ancient craft has been heaving up and
down; and the boyish mind which relished
this motion a good deal on deck, as more or
less partaking of "fun," hears the bell for
dinner, and rushes down to enjoy the luxuries
of that meal, set out at the public cost, all of
which may be partaken of unchecked by
maternal restraint—maternal restraint at that
moment being miserable in the ladies' cabin with
every other lady. The swinging of the soup-
tureen was yet more fun, but not the sudden
sting that seemed to shoot through the boyish
frame—that sharp megrim in the head,
precursor of ignominious rout, of the wild rush
for the door, the temporary relief in the fresh
air, and the final striking down and more
sustained agonies that went on day and night on
the little shelf that was called berth, until a
steward was heard betimes saying that "we
were coming in," and that it was Sunday
morning. There was a soft gliding motion in
the old craft that told of smooth waters;
there was the pattering of heels and flopping
of ropes sounding overhead; presently a
stoppage, then a going on, and at last wearily,
and with a head that seemed as if it were a
churn, with a dozen dairymaids churning hard
and fast—the boy, that is now a man, crawled
up the brass-bound stair, and saw that "we
were in."

Sunday morning, indeed—sunny, bright, blue,
glittering; no longer the weary sea all round,
with its heart-sickening monotony, but a great
port crowded with shipping, threads and shrouds
on all sides, gay snowy white and yellow houses
rising all round, busy yellow quays, crowded
yellow quays, quays mixed up with a blue
sea, blue sea mixed up with quays, and on the
quays men all in cheerful blue cobalt frocks
and scarlet nightcaps, and women with coloured
petticoats and no bonnets, but in caps, and with
a great deal of gold, and rather copper-
coloured. It was bewildering, and, with dairy-
maids still churning hard, I note, with a boy's
special curiosity and even interest, in spite of
the churn, that there is a huge wheel turning
on the quay, which is somehow lifting a great
block of stone, and, what is more wonderful, it
is turned treadmill-fashion by more men in
easy blue frocks, crawling on the wheel, which
at that moment appeared to me to be a most
delightful mechanical operation. At this moment
I have the whole of this scene, like a picture
before me, and recal my placid wonder at this
being Sunday morning, and such operations
going on, when, in spite of the dashing of the
churn, I hear some one say again that this is
France, and that this gay Sunday morning
scene is Havre. Then we go ashore, and look
back at the heavy lumbering monster which has
brought us, without pleasure or regret leave the
port behind, and get down a narrow street
where there are no pathways. And above this
is a house that seems all mirrors, and golden
clocks, and white shining doors, and gorgeous
crimson-velvet chairs and sofas, on which we
lie down and case the churning head, and get
much better in reply to the affectionate question:
"How do you feel now, dear?" when breakfast
sets in, with a long loaf of mysterious and
wonderful bread made into a gymnastic club.

This is Sunday morning in the French town.
Much restored by the meal, we go out.
We come to a huge yellow cathedral, all
yellow aisles and altars, and innumerable long
candles, and wicker chairs enough to furnish
fifty houses. And all this crowded to the
door; and most wonderful of all, here are a
corps of soldiers clattering into the aisle, making
their guns rattle on the pavement, and, wonder
of wonders, their band striking up with rich
effect the popular Sonnambula air, "Vi ravviso."
This was accepted with present delight, and
without questioning.

Connected with that jacket (or perhaps frock
era—for more correctly speaking the transition
took place then) are some more Sunday
mornings. I see as distinctly now, as I do the
house opposite, the villa on the pleasant hill
that overlooked the town, and which was the
true French villa, with the green blinds, and
grapes growing over it, and a garden
behind, delightful of summer days. The scent
of that garden comes in through the window at
this moment. And in front was the great green,
where there used to be terrible and sanguinary
combats between English gentlemen boys and
French lads in blouses (the French boys always
driving at their hereditary foes' stomach with
their heads, and the English boys putting those
heads into chancery); and where more kites
were flown in a week than in any English
county in a year. A scene, in which a
benevolent but dirty French master, who always
said of sultry days without restraint, "O
madame! comme je sue! comme je sue! " took
secret delight, and on a disengaged evening
would come and construct scientifically a
gigantic kite six. feet in length, with a tail in
proportion. On a triumphant Sunday evening
it made its first successful ascent, and rose
to an enormous height above the level of
the sea; it was a no less disastrous evening,
though not a Sunday evening, when it suddenly
broke away, and was believed to have fallen
into the sea some miles off. It was never heard
of again, but its loss was looked on as a public
calamity; for, sinking national differences, the
French boys stood and looked on in crowds
whenever the time of an ascent came round.
I never was so much affected as by that blow,
and through the night literally roared with
grief.

Across the fields, a little path led, for
about a mile, to a village called Sanvic, I think,
in which parish we were included. It was no
more than a village, but it had its church,
which aimed, as French churches do, at being
cathedral-like. With Sanvic are some Sundays
associated—festival Sundays, during the month
of May—with great wealth of white roses, and
young girls, and candles, and processions.
There was a curé, a good and simple man,
handsome and Italian-looking, and glistening