dusky house. First comes one note of inquiry,
then another, from fresh young voices, or
from early birds in the dawn. Nurse and
under-nurse reply. There is rapping at
chamber doors—a few low bass notes after the
opening treble—then a sort of rapid
allegretto movement up-stairs and down-stairs.
Nurse telegraphs to housemaid, housemaid
to cook. Heavy boxes roll along the floors
with a muffled mysterious sound, that
partakes both of kettle-drum and trombone;
while the repeated clang of fire-irons below
does proxy for cymbals. After a time the vocal
department of the concert overwhelms even
this powerful orchestra, and volleys of juvenile
delight, that astound the early market-
gardener, and discompose the grave policeman,
welcome us to breakfast, and in one
loud crash conclude the overture. A brief
pause, and cab, railway whistle, and train,
begin the opera in earnest, until finally the
sea joins its million voices in a chorus that
ends the first act, and brings the curtain
down with acclamation on the Custom House
at Calais or Dieppe.

Listen: the second act commences. You
are threading streets so lofty, that you seem
a mere pigmy at their base; streets narrow,
curved, and grey; yet bathed in a sky so
vivid, that they look like fissures cleft in a
vast rock of sapphire. Here and there you |
discover how blue that sky is by the relief
of scarlet or crimson streamers pendent from
tall attics in sign either of trade or trophy.
Here some mutilated statue of poet or hero
presides over a fountain. The spring leaps
bright and fresh as at first, though the statue
is a ruin. Past yon dim archway runs a
venerable wall, clad with half-effaced bas-
reliefs of the meetings of kings, the processions
of cardinals, and the tourneys of
knights. You would walk in time rather than
in space. Old Chronos, the consumer of
things, has played strange pranks with the
handiwork of the sculptor. The legate's face is
gone. The white-stoled boy, who bore the
torch before him, remains; but the flame so
cunningly chiselled is extinct. The prostrate
knight lies yet more perfect than the maimed
and headless victor who rides over him.
There is no respect of persons here; Time,
who has been so ruthless with these tablets
of art, has written on them, instead, his own
fantastic but solemn moral. On again, through
the winding street, till you emerge into the
spacious square, and stand awed before that
vast cathedral, the height of whose very
porch strains the gaze when near, while far
aloft glows mullion window beneath the
mighty arch of the nave—that arch itself
but a rest-point, from which the dizzy eye
sees those massive towers run sheer into the
solitudes of ether. You pass noiselessly
through the side-door, and a burst of organ
music, potent as if it were substance, arrests
you between the Titan shafts. See how they
tapering till they fade almost into
aerial beauty in the vaulted roof. The
organ ceases; a funeral procession enters,
and moves slowly on to the high altar.
The obsequies are those of a nun. Slender
tapers are lighted, and shed a weird gleam
over the spangled pall. A dirge-like
chaunt, through which the deep tones of a
trombone are heard, rises like the wail of
mortality over its transient estate. We are
of few days, it says, and full of trouble. As
the flower that is cut down and the shadow
that fleeteth, so we abide not, and our days
are withered like grass. The strain expires;
soon from some unseen loft breaks an angelic
response. With soft clear melody it floats
downward, and fills the dim pile with
consolation. The early toil, the late vigil of time,
it tells us, are over. The bread of sorrows
shall be eaten no more, for so He giveth
His beloved sleep. The memory of the
just is blessed. They rest from their
labours and their works do follow them. And
then, with a heart chastened but hopeful,
you follow the retiring mourners. Nor does
the bright day outside seem strange or harsh:
the thoughts that point to the goal of rest
cheer while they dignify the road. Those
gay flower-stalls, crowded with their glowing
and odorous burden, have for you a new
pathos and meaning. Though brief, they are
ministers to you of beauty and love. They
are the food of sympathies—influences that
pass into the soul; and so the breath of a
rose that fades in a maiden's hand may blend
with her being—share her immortality.

Fix that bud, therefore, tenderly in our
button-hole, good dame. Fold up those seeds
of china-aster, sweet pea, and double carnation
with a fond revei*ence. You are selling
us thoughts and feelings in those tiny packets
which you so gladly exchange for a few sous
each. Heaven be with you! May the same
airs, beams, and dews that foster your flowers
light kindly upon you! May gentle spring
ever be to you an ethereal mildness. An
aspiration this which, though absurd in
England, may be reasonable enough in Normandy.
But we must hasten, or we shall lose the
diligence.

No, there it stands. The horses are emerging
from the courtyard of that quaint auberge,
whose pointed towers and long corridors
proclaim that it began life, ages ago, as a
castle. That cold salle-à-manger shut out
from the sun, where the temperature of your
coffee so rapidly abates, was part of the old
baronial hall. Yon high carved mantel-piece
around whose fire of wood, country farmer
and town burgher group in the clear winter
days, has been circled by seneschal and
henchmen, and the old gallery outside, where
Fanchette—the light just glinting on her tall
cap and ear-rings—leans forward and coquets
with M. Antoine, the bloused voiturier—has
trembled beneath the tread of the man-at-
arms. But the conductor summons us;
the horses are put to; the rope harness is