A great river always exercises an attraction upon a certain class of people, and when that river is lined by historic towns and flows through beautiful country, it cannot fail to be attractive to everyone. As we have said, the Seine belongs to France rather than Normandy; very French are the views of its olive green flood, with the blue-green fringe of poplars, and the cliff-like scarred banks to be seen so continually in its course; but yet in some of the towns we shall pass, especially the smaller ones, there still lingers the breath of things Norman.

The mouth between the two similarly named towns of Harfleur and Honfleur is very wide, but not good for navigation, for it is filled with perpetually shifting sandbanks, which try the mariners’ patience to the utmost. For this reason there was made that canal from Havre to Tancarville which ensures at all events a certain passage. The wide funnel-like mouth narrowing suddenly near at the corner by Quilleboeuf, and again below, is the cause of the great mascaret, or wave of the high tide which sweeps up occasionally as far as Caudebec; this is a great wall of water, higher or lower according to the force of the wind and the strength of the tide, which together combine to produce it. The bar or line which sweeps up first is the advance-guard of an unusually high tide, which will carry destruction to all small or badly managed boats. The mascaret is regularly reckoned among the sights of Caudebec.

It is magnificent in its impetuous flow, coming on in irresistible force, the water turning, writhing, and twisting under the impetus, with a fringe of foam outlined on the indigo slopes—a strenuous thing, living, growling, hungry for its prey.

As the wide mouth of the river contracts a little, the ruined castle of Tancarville is seen standing on its precipitous cliff. This belonged to the Sires de Tancarville, one of the proud Norman families who held the hereditary chamberlainship of the dukedom of Normandy. The last of the line was killed on the field of Agincourt, and the name, disguised as Tankerville, is held by an English peer. The chateau as it is now, consists partly of the ruins of the ancient chateau, to which is attached the new chateau, so called. The older parts date from the twelfth century, the newer from the eighteenth. The gateway is still imposing, with its two flanking towers; and the small dungeon-like rooms with iron-barred windows, in which the unhappy prisoners were kept, can be seen. Most of the building is, however, of the later date. The towers, by their name, suggest the wild, stirring days of old; we have la Tour de l’Aigle, la Tour du Diable or du Lion, and la Tour Coquesart. In the keep is a well three hundred feet deep. Quilleboeuf, from its position on a rock stretching out into the flood, was at one time a place of no small strategic importance.

Opposite is Lillebonne, charmingly situated amid woods, and owning one event of historical importance which gives it dignity. It was in the castle of Lillebonne that William held the celebrated council, in which it was finally decided he should attempt the subjugation of England. That Lillebonne has been of importance from very ancient times, is shown by its splendidly preserved Roman theatre, which is celebrated throughout all the world of antiquaries. The ruins are now overgrown, but that the place could easily accommodate 3000 spectators is apparent. Near the theatre are the remains of William’s castle; but ruins of this sort are so common in Normandy, that they hardly provoke comment. After this the river takes its first great bend before Caudebec; nothing is more curious than the amazing sinuosity of the Seine, which forms loops and horseshoes of extraordinary length.

Caudebec is one of the most charming of the small Norman towns, and is beloved of artists; unfortunately, as it advances in fame it loses that unsophisticated innocence which was one of its delights. The church is so magnificent that it merits the designation cathedral, and the quaintness of the ancient timber houses leaning over the narrow street, down which, as in all mediÆval cities, a stream runs to carry off the refuse and drainage, is part of the delight of this little place.

The forests that line the Seine, sometimes on one side and sometimes on another, from this point onward, merit a special word. Wonderful are they, rising high on wooded slopes or stretching over acres of flat country. Some, as those opposite JumiÈges, are of beech almost entirely, with a sprinkling of dark evergreens; others are varied. There are forests of firs penetrated by “rides cut as straight as rulers” through a chunk of solid tree-growth; there are others so mixed up with intertwining creeper that to penetrate them would be impossible.

JumiÈges is in exactly the place where you would expect to find an abbey. They loved a broad encircling river those old monks, they loved to be surrounded by wide forests, to build on low ground: their idea was defence, not aggression; the peace of those who are passed by, not of those whose strength defies invaders.

We must cross the Seine somewhere, and we cross it at JumiÈges, in an open boat, for there is no bridge. And not long before the crossing we have caught our first glimpse of those twin towers, so unlike anything we have seen before. And when we reach the abbey and walk in that grand ruined nave, the feeling is rather one of increased exaltation than of the disappointment nearer vision so often brings. If we had to choose one word to express the quality here wrought into stone, it would be stateliness. The abbey stands roofless and serene, a mighty nave with two western towers, which, beginning squarely, end by being octagonal, with the walls in four stages, and with a chancel arch which, for height and grace, has hardly ever been surpassed.

Long before the days of the mighty William whose name overshadows the land, before the time when his ancestors had taken root in the country, a monk named Philibert settled in this place with his small following, to lead a life of peace and order, amid the wildness and ignorance of the ninth century.

But even this well-chosen spot was not secluded enough to save him from the marauding northmen; the very river, which had seemed a safeguard, was its undoing, for the pirates came up the river and found the spot, and utterly destroyed all Philibert’s labour. But as the years passed, and the northmen settled down, no longer as pirates but landholders; as Christianity claimed their king, William Longsword, the abbey was rebuilt on a much grander scale. Edward the Confessor spent his exiled boyhood at JumiÈges, and when he came to the throne he made the learned abbot Robert, Bishop of London, and subsequently Archbishop of Canterbury, an appointment that did not prove a success.

In the fourteenth century the library at JumiÈges was one of the most notable in the land. Till 1790 this abbey continued whole, and sheltered a household of five hundred persons, including monks. It is now the property of a French lady, who permits visitors to see over the ruins with a caretaker. Not far off is Duclair, and the greater part of Duclair lies along the front of the river. It certainly lacks beauty, and after Caudebec the contrast is striking; but Duclair has interest. Its high chalk cliffs are imposing in their sheer precipitousness, and the deep, dark caverns, used as dwellings which are made in their sides, are weird and uncanny. One of these cliffs, from its size and shape, is called the Chair of Gargantua. With another immense dip southward, and corresponding rise, we come to Rouen, with its islands, and its bridges, and its busy life.

The end of the next horseshoe brings us within a few kilometres of the preceding one, and once more we double back on our tracks to reach Pont de l’Arche, an attractive place, much patronised by artists, above which the Eure joins the Seine. On the former river, only about nine miles away, is Louviers, with a magnificent church, celebrated for its decorated porch, which rivals those at Rouen. Continuing in the main stream of the Seine, we come soon to the range of chalk cliffs which leads up to Chateau-Gaillard. Many of these might be castles themselves, so curious is the effect of the rough, grey rock, outcropping suddenly from the green turf. The even strata look remarkably like lines of stonework laid by hand, and the general ruggedness and hoariness are just that which ruins gain by time and exposure, and at first it is difficult to distinguish the castle itself, so closely does it resemble the rock on which it stands.

Chateau-Gaillard was built by Richard I., as an outpost or defence on the Seine below Rouen, and it was instantly recognised by the King of France as being the key to Normandy; while the castle stood untaken, no one could hope to approach Rouen with any chance of success. Standing as it did on the borders of Normandy and France, it was many times a meeting-place for the two kings, when fair words were spoken and promises made, only to be broken and renewed. It was not until after the death of Richard, when John’s dastardly act had alienated from him all who were not dependent on him, that Philip advanced against it. It was held by Roger de Lacy, a man of known courage, and it was well prepared for a siege. Among the defences were a stockade across the river and a fort upon the island in midstream. But by encamping on the further shore of the river, Philip managed to break down the stockade, and replace it by a pontoon or bridge, thus he could surround the island fort; but even John the Shifty could not see one of the noblest castles in his dominions so attacked without an effort at succour. He planned well. A part of his force was to fall by night upon the French camp on the left bank of the Seine, and at the same time a flotilla of boats was to attack the pontoon. Unfortunately the ebbing tide, combined with the strong current, prevented the flotilla’s arrival in time. The land troops did their part, and so fiercely were the French attacked that they fled across their bridge, but they rallied and returned, and, overcoming their foes, were ready to meet the English boats when they appeared. It is a gallant fight to picture, under the clear sky of an August night. The first alarm, the scurried retreat, the stumbling, and slipping, and scrambling of the terrified fugitives. The straining into the darkness of the men on the island-fort, who could not conjecture what was going on. The clash of steel, the splash of water, the cry as one went down, the breathless expectation in the air. Then the pulling together of the demoralised Frenchmen by one or two strong officers, the reforming and recrossing the now swaying and half-broken bridge, the stringing up of those half-beaten troops to face the foe, the struggle, the sense of victory, the final rout; but that was not the end; after having reformed and repulsed the boats, the Frenchmen, drunk with the wine of victory, set fire to the island-fort, and seized it also, while the defenders fled in terror, and joined by the whole population of the little village, now left defenceless, demanded admittance and refuge at the castle gates. A desperate picture truly. And above, overhanging the flood on its rock, the saucy castle was watching, crouching, eager, expectant. Had friend or foe won the fight? Was relief at hand? There would be no eye closed within the walls that night, and then would come the hurried knocking, the parley, the admittance of the fugitives with their disastrous tidings, and with the first grey light would come the confirmation of despair, when the French bridge was seen repaired and intact; and alas, not the bridge only, but the island in the hands of the enemy!

After this one attempt—in which, however, he seems to have played no personal part—John made no effort to relieve his gallant castle; though he was at Rouen in November, and sent a letter to the commander in ambiguous language, a letter to chill the hearts of those who bore arms for him. Nevertheless, the garrison held out until March 6th in the next year, 1204, and with its fall the fate of Normandy was sealed. Chateau-Gaillard is the jewel that makes the fame of both Les Andelys, but there are other things to be seen here also, a fine church in each place, and at Le Grand Andely a splendid old sixteenth-century house, now used as an hotel. Poussin the painter was a native; he was born in 1594, and he must have had plenty of opportunity for the exercise of his talent in the scenery around his home.

It is impossible to mention Les Andelys without at the same time referring to Gisors, which lies some fifteen miles eastward, on a feeder of the Seine, called the Epte. Gisors is not in itself an interesting town; its main street is dull, its river is of the sluggish, canal-like variety, its streets lack pretty peeps; but all is atoned for by the beautiful ruin of its castle, which is well and worthily made use of. It stands high behind the main street, and is not readily seen. But the grounds enclosed by the still strong and perfect wall are open as a public park, and on the soft green grass, beneath many shady trees, countless hosts of children daily play. There is no attempt to keep the place too stringently; the grass grows long, and may be trodden underfoot. The grey hoary keep rises high, to give character and dignity to the scene; and behind, outside the walls, is a magnificent wood. The castle was built by Rufus, added to by his successor, and repaired by Henry II. It, with Chateau-Gaillard, was one of the castles on the outer line of defence of the duchy lying in that much-disputed ground, with the appropriate name of Le Vexin, and it stood many a siege. There were two surrounding walls to be taken before the stronghold; the keep could even be assailed, and Gisors must have been a tough nut to crack. The whole district is full of the ruins of castles showing the perpetual state of warfare and uncertainty which must have prevailed.

Returning to our river, we soon come to Vernon, the very last town in Normandy, chiefly known on account of its forest and its seven-arched bridge. With this we take leave of Normandy, over which we have wandered in so desultory a way, gathering impressions, examining some things in detail, leaving others aside, but all the while intent on gaining an insight into that character and individuality which marks the country. We have found it in the west still preserving traces of its rulers, who made its fame; to the east, almost wholly French. We have found it full of variety and delight, full of historical interest, and that mostly of a far past generation.