prattle he listens to and answers with urbanity and patience.

needle till they acquired a kind of artist's touch. The forms are rude, and often grotesque, indeed; but they live and There is, indeed, not much doing. move, and, having seen them, you feel Sometimes an elderly gentleman comes that you know the men and their times in to read the Revue des Deux Mondes. ever so much better than you did before. Sometimes a learned duc of the old régime The story is told, too, with much simplic- looks in with a little paper of notes and ity and directness, and you feel at once queries to be resolved in some old MS. that the nobly born women who worked or early edition; it is chiefly with the on this elaborate epic with the needle old aristocracy of France that any taste must have known the heroes of it in their remains for archæology. lives. Harold is the chief hero, and Har- We have been talking of Alan Charold is treated with a sympathy and re-trier, the poet of the fifteenth century who spect that suggest something like affec- was born here at Bayeux in a house that tion for the gallant, kingly man. And is still in existence, and Hilda wants to then we see why this tapestry is appro- see an early edition of his works, which priately placed at Bayeux, rather than at the grave librarian courteously looks out Westminster, or York, or Winchester. for us. For the central incident of the plot is not either shipwreck or battle, but the terrible oath that Harold took in the cathedral here at Bayeux upon the relics of the saints and in face of the high altar; the oath which he swore to William, and which he broke for the sake of England's crown. Next to Harold, Odo is the favorite with the women of those days Odo, the warrior-bishop, who spent the revenues of this fat diocese in arms, and horses, and soldiers' trappings.

The old lady, who sits tranquilly in the doorway, kindly leaves people alone to study the tapestry at their leisure; only interfering to turn the visitor round the corner at the right moment to investigate the inner side of the screen; and it is pleasant to find that the tapestry is freely accessible to strangers all day long and every day in the week.

At ten o'clock precisely a footstep sounds upon the staircase that leads to the library above, and a grave, pleasantlooking librarian mounts and opens the big door. The library is a pleasant, quiet room lined with books, and there the grave librarian sits over a big volume, a learned-looking skull-cap on his head. No doubt he is diving deeply into the history of old Bayeux, and some day, perhaps, we shall see an exhaustive and learned work from his pen, beginning with the deposition of the Bajocien oolite, and ending with the introduction of gas-lamps and the new pavement.

Meantime, he shows with pride a presentation copy from "Sout Kensington of a work on the Bayeux tapestry, and sundry seals and charters which have been presented by English people. Perhaps there is not very much to interrupt his studies except the inquisitiveness of English people like ourselves, whose

"Faicts et dictz de Maistre Alain Chartrier à Paris par Philippe le Noir en la rue Sainct Jacques à l'enseigne de la rose blanche couronnée." Here we have the lament of a noble dame, whose lover was slain at the battle of Agincourt, and much amorous poetry of a grave, and dignified, and highly proper character. But one little distich pleases me, which I show to Hilda:

I

which lest she French, ill."

Aymer je vous vueil Par joye ou par dueil, freely translate for her benefit, should be puzzled by the old "Love you I will, for good or

At this moment Tom Courtney comes along to whip us up for the omnibus to Port en Bessin. Madame la directrice is uneasy at being so long away from her director, and we are to start at once, trusting to getting breakfast at Port. For everybody calls the place Port- it is the port of the district, and the people of the Bessin still hang together, a little clannishly.

We are to meet at the bureau in the Place aux Pommes-for there is a place for everything in roomy Bayeux; we should not be surprised to find a separate place for shrimps and watercresses. And so we find ourselves at a little glass office in the middle of a yard, where omnibuses and diligence are stored, with much poultry, and an occasional hearse. On the walls outside many colored bills are to be seen, announcing excursions, to the British Isles among other places, and inviting us to assist at the solemnity of the "Exposition industrielle de la pêche."

The omnibus is pretty well packed with our party, and a newly married couple, the bride looking rather frightened and not

empty, and that the seigneurial pigeons no longer plunder the furrows for miles around. Then through a gap in the range of hills we catch sight of the little port beneath us, and the sea spread tranquilly far and near. Our coachman has kept back a gallop for the avenue, and we dash wildly into the little town, where there is some gentle stir in the way of ship-build

particularly happy. Just in front of us starts another omnibus, smaller and even rougher-looking than ours, for Asnelles, the roof loaded with flowers, and one fat, rosy, happy-looking curé inside. We leave Bayeux by the top of the town, where there is an old convent turned into a gendarmerie, and a vast market-place lined with a double row of trees, and with ancient-looking stone benches for the but-ing, and where a few fishing-boats are lyter-and-egg women to stand their wares upon, where Henry Plantagenet may have come to chaffer with the pretty marketgirls. All tells of ancient times, and of a life which has known no violent disruption since those days of old. And the sleepy old chimes ring us out of the town, as if it were as much as they can do to get through their bar of feeble harmony.

And then we travel along a straight road lined with poplars, and looking back there is always the cathedral to be seen at the end of the avenue; for there its towers stand out without appearing to become more distant for mile after mile - at least for kilomètre after kilomètre. A fertile country lies around, well-wooded, and with rich pastures, the cows lying half concealed in the rich herbage. The farmers' wives are driving out in their little donkey carts for the midday milking, their noble brass milk-cans glittering and clanking; or sometimes with a hotte -a rough wooden framework on the donkey's back, that holds eight of these grand milking-pails-four on a side, and the good dame in the middle, sturdily astride the donkey's neck. The donkeys are fine and reasonable-looking beasts, with hearts to be touched by objurgation and reproval, and consequently, knowing little of the stick, fat, comfortable-looking animals, of no great size, but decidedly clever goers.

ing high and dry in the inner harbor.

In the port itself great works are going on, digging and excavating, with ballast-wagons and a ballast-engine running noisily about. Till recently there was a little établissement here under the cliff, for the bathers who came during the season, but that has been swept away by the harbor works. The place is a brisk and pleasant one, with rocky cliffs rising on either hand, and layers of limestone rocks forming the sea-floor, while the harbor piers make a breezy, quiet promenade.

The "Sea-Mew" is lying a good way out at sea, for the tide runs low, and the bottom is rocky; but she is coming in as soon as the tide makes. And already the water is stirring, and the sturdy masts of the fisher-boats begin to topple to and fro. So we take our second breakfast comfortably outside the inn, in full view of all that is going on, and with the sea shining before us. The tide rises, the fishing population is astir; the fisher-wives, loaded with nets and baskets, pitch their burdens on to the boats. Sails are hauled up, and everybody shouts and pulls, often leaving off pulling to shout more freely. Meantime one or two boats have come in with the tide. The bell over the neat little fish-market rings lustily. Baskets of fish are landed. The bell rings again, and they are all sold. When more boats come in, the market begins again; the bell ringing to announce its opening. The dealers, mostly women, flock together; and again the bell jingles, and the market is closed. And so on all day long, and well into the night.

Here we pass a château, or the site of one rather, with nothing left of its original grandeur but stables, which are good enough for the farmer to live in, and some grand-looking barns and the seigneurial pigeon-towers now converted into cart- By this time a fishing-boat is ready to sheds. As we approach the coast the start from the inner basin. "La porte, hills rise to an edge-hills not so rich-ouvrez !" cries the fisherman's wife, who looking or so thickly wooded as the coun- is managing matters on shore. And then try we have just passed through, but everybody puts his or her back to the covered with good crops of grain. This lever of the dock-gate- douanier, womis the edge of the Bessin, the great milk en, idlers. The gate opens, and the boat basin of Normandy. What pastures passes through, her big mainsail shaking there are within it, what cattle, and what in the wind. Away they go, the crew prosperity! Hundreds of little homesteads lie scattered about, filled with cosy, comfortable people, who have cause to rejoice that the seigneurial barns lie

bustling about, and the master bawling lustily. There are four men on board, and a mousse, a little sailor boy, the cleverest of the party, who speaks up as if he

were the head of them all. As the boat | countenance, neither pleasure nor sorrow, scuds through the harbor, the 'master's wife runs after her along the pier, and pelts the receding boat with anything she can pick up. It is all for luck, no doubt, like our old shoes in England, and the master shouts back a cheery adieu.

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growth and of foliage more luxuriant, bent | tween the leaf or flower or fern and its gracefully forward over the dark, deep reflected counterpart; in a word, to draw waters in Gothic arch-like form, while the line between earth and water, recallparasites and flowering creepers of varied ing to one's mind the words of Pope: hues clustered or hung about in rich pro- Grove nods to grove, each alley has a brother, fusion, some in careless festoon fashion, And half the garden but reflects the other. or as if in loving pity and compassion for some decayed and fallen or ancient mon- Among other of nature's beauties in this arch of the forest mantling it all over paradise of artistic pleasure, grew the with a new garment of richest verdure. Victoria Regia lily, so courted on its first introduction to England some thirty years ago, when placed in the waters of Kew, where, as its name doth verily import, our gracious Majesty the queen stood godmother for it, and when thousands ran from London town and its vast suburbs to see it, marvel, and admire. In Kew Gardens not many of these beautiful aquatic flowers "are born to blush unseen," whereas out here the poet's words are better verified - profusely growing unobserved, and often never seen at all, losing their delightful fragrance, I know not where.

There too the orchid family felt quite at home, fresh and ever flowering, trespassing on every sturdy branch or stem or ancient stump. Begonias were there, with their soft, dark, velvet leaves, such as Kew or Chatsworth might well be proud of, and there too grew, half-hiding itself, as if in disgrace, that curious specimen of the wild arum, with bright bloodcolored spots upon its leaves, as if guilty of some dark deed or wicked crime.

And what lent so much to the strange artistic beauty of the picture spread out before us, and in itself formed one of the strangest features, was the numerous long string and rope-like pendent hangings from the lofty trees above. Some of these rope hangings, cable-like in size, hung from a height of eighty feet or more, and as some of these ropes or cables, call them what you will, trailed downwards and touched the mother earth below, they asserted at once an independence of their own, struck out vigorous roots and shoots from their downward heads, and then reversed 'twould seem their growth, and grew to all appearance upwards, and in time swelled out to the size of slender trees. Some of these long pendants were playful, nay, malicious in their downward growth, clinging to some poor young tree or struggling sapling, and squeezing it to the very death by twisting round it in cruel corkscrew fashion, forming at the time, it may be, a pretty fantastic object in the wood for travellers to point at and admire, or perhaps providing now and then, if a woodcutter passed that way or was wandering there in quest of gums, a crooked, twisted walking-stick for some curiousminded man.

As just hinted above, the waters of the creek are dark they are dark indeed, of a true coffee color, but like unto the qualities of real good coffee are as clear as well could be, so bright and clear that every green leaf or tender leaflet, every flower or fern, or root or moss, twig or broken branch, is strongly reflected there as in the brightest boudoir mirror. So charming was the effect, and yet so puzzling too, and so hard it was to distinguish be

The specimens of Kew are, if memory fails me not, larger than those out here, but wanting in that bright freshness natural to plants in their native earth or element.

Besides this majestic queen of water lilies, our watery way was overgrown in places with another species, much smaller and of peculiar habits, for, as if jealous of its queenly rival, this lily expanded its pure white petals only at dead of night, emitting a perfume pleasant enough at a distance, but in its essence too strong for Rimmel, Truefitt, or their trade.

During the daytime we did boyish violence to several of its young buds, and were surprised to find in almost every one we forced open two large beetles of sable hue. How they got there, or what they did, and how they stood their strange confinement was our puzzle, though perhaps naturalists have written in a book some five pages or more, telling us the why, the how, and all about it, for aught we poor missioners may know.

Flowers and trees, curious creepers and orchids, roots, blood-stained leaves, and strange roots, and hanging ropes, have charmed and interested us much, but one thing has, with reason, disappointed us, and we marvelled at it; it was the total absence of the feathered tribe, for we heard no song, no warbling, no merry chirping, nor did the bell-bird sing out a tune or toll its bell, or the mocking-birds, so numerous, favor us with their deceptive notes, or even the humming-bird "fit by ever then so merrily." Green parrots