As I said, I think, before, the country between Rouen and Dieppe is not striking. But yet it is, in its way, full of picturesqueness; of beautiful little miniatures; of delicate etchings, exquisite as to colour and form; and all this is visible even to the traveller passing rapidly through by train.

There broods over the quiet meadows, over the stiff lines of poplars, over the cool soft-toned colours in blouse, skirt, or apron, the true spiritual atmosphere of the heart of the land, if one may so call it,—its deep simplicity, its own interpretation of life. The peasants seem to belong to the land upon which their hard-working days are spent, and, in working, to drink in, in effect, the divine secret of the earth, which only men possessed of true inner perceptions, like Jean FranÇois Millet, R. L. Stevenson and others like them in mental calibre, can apprehend.

Nearer Dieppe we came upon numerous farm-houses, many of which are built upon trestles, and all of which are covered with the usual soft green embroidery of moss and nestling cosily in the midst of beautiful orchards, or clustering vineyards.

In Normandy the street cries seem to be all in the major key. I noticed this especially at Rouen, and here again at Dieppe; the minor key is absent in them. They are, too, a distinctly musical sentence in themselves. A sweet little melody was being sung up one street in Dieppe along which I was passing, by two fish-women carrying a basket of fish between them. One man who came along playing bagpipes, from time to time, to notify the approach of his wares, paused to cry out in a loud tone what sounded like: "I have not got it to-day, but I shall have it to-morrow!"

Dieppe has the same sort of blank-Casino-stare-of-sightless eyes, as had Arcachon; only the former place, being a town on its own foundation, as it were, and not brought into prominence by the parasitical growth in its midst, of the Casino, is not so dominated by it. The two venerable round towers, with their conical, red-tiled peaks stand alone, unaffected by the modern hotels and buildings on the front, which surround them. Somehow, though, I could never understand exactly why they should so insistently suggest Tweedledum and Tweedledee, yet they did again and again bring those worthies into my mind whenever I looked at them. They stand at some little distance from the grand old castle which has seen the things that they have also seen in those far-away bygone ages. The castle, stands greyly aloof and apart, high on its hill, banked up by serrated chalk cliffs and grey expanse of wall.

The hotel at which we put up in the town was a charming old panelled house, dating two or three hundred years back; perhaps longer even than that. The ceilings slanted, and the walls contained those delightful deep cupboards which are such a joy to those who possess them. Also there were the little steps up and down leading from one room into another; steps which project the unwary into the future, sometimes too soon for their comfort.

Opening out of the first floor was an outside promenade, with balcony which led one out among a perfect wilderness of roofs; steep roofs of ancient, well-worn red tiles, whereon the soft velvet feet of the moss climb down step by step to the edge of sudden precipitous gables, crowned with white pinnacles, all backed by a venerable-looking red brick wall which had lost a tooth here and there of its first row, and never had others to fill the holes. Then, further along, through a gap in the wall, one caught sight of the splendid, deep, wavy red brick roof of the house opposite, with three little holes pierced above, two tiny dormer windows, and, below these, two larger ones. Below them, again, the soft yellow-cream cob wall.

It was quite an ideal spot in which to dream on a hot summer's day; but though to admire, yet not to linger in during a November one.

The town crier here is a wonderful personage. He is dressed in official black cape and square cap, and he beats an imperative tattoo, as a summons to the citizens, on a big drum which is slung round his neck. But when that was performed and when, presumably, he had gained their attention, he only mumbled a few indistinct words and then hurried on, or rather more correctly, shambled on into the next street.

The market at Dieppe is one of the most picturesque affairs I have ever seen in France, barring that at Poitiers, which was quite unsurpassable in its varied pageantry of colour. The peasants at the Dieppe market all stand on the pathway of the principal street, their baskets in front of them on the curb. The unfortunate animals for sale, as usual, I saw over and over again taken up, with no regard to their feelings, or as to which side up they were in the habit of living, and dangled, or swung, head downwards ad lib. Then bounced—literally bounced—up and down by intending purchasers (who dumped them down to test their weight), and by doubtful purchasers also. One woman held a number of fowls in one hand—their legs all tied together—as unconcernedly as if they were some parcel out of a milliner's shop. It is not an inspiring sight. People's stomachs pitted against their hearts, and winning by an easy length in each case. In one instance it was not a case of the lion lying down with the lamb, but of the hen being forced to lie down with the duck, who, profiting by her propinquity to the other, curled her long neck and pillowed it on the hen's shoulder.

In the afternoons the merry-go-round was in full swing just in front of the church, but instead of our predominant and wearisome fog-horn effect, it was soft, and with a hint of brass instruments in the distance, and the tinkling "rat-tat-tat," of the drum was distinctly realistic.

One of the prettiest little incidents that I have seen for a long while occurred when I was passing through one part of the market here. An old shrivelled, but apple-cheeked, market woman came by, and as she turned the corner of a stall she found herself face to face with a Sister. The latter, instantly recognising her, gave her the most courteous bow and smile I have ever seen, and I shall never forget the pleased, elated expression on the old woman's face as she passed on, after receiving the salutation. Once before, I saw courtesy and respect shewn as unmistakeably, and that was in England.

I was on the top of a city omnibus, and as another omnibus was just passing us, our driver—an old, red-faced, weather-beaten man—lifted his hat and swept it low, with such a profound air of reverence—such an unusual thing to see now-a-days—that I turned hastily to see who was the recipient of this obeisance. It was a hospital nurse; and I caught sight of the pleasant smile with which she greeted, as I supposed, one of her former patients. A minute or two later my conjecture was confirmed, and I heard our driver relating to his left-hand neighbour the story of how splendidly she had nursed him through a serious illness.

On Sunday afternoon we went to the catechising in church, and were treated to a long dissertation, of quite an hour's duration, on the early divisions and heresies of the church. Through all this recital, the "world" outside was infinitely distracting. Bursts of "Carmen," or some popular waltz, came in alluringly from the windows in gusts of melody, enough to interfere very seriously with the thread of so dry and stiff an argument as was M. le CurÉ's, even had his congregation been composed of grown-up people; much more so in the case of children.

But these children, one and all, were irreproachable in their behaviour. Not a movement, not a fidget, not a sound broke the perfect quietude with which they faced him. There were but three or four Sisters in charge of them and these sat facing their respective classes. Perhaps one of the secrets of their absorbed attention and utter alienation from the distracting sounds from without, may have been that each child—even the little tinies—had a notebook and pencil and was busily engaged, from the beginning of the disquisition to the very end of it, in taking down word for word the preacher's lecture (for after meditation?) Yes, even to the jaw-breaking names of some of the heretics, which were spelt over carefully and slowly once or twice, as they occurred, by M. le CurÉ.

And when at last the long discourse was ended, there was no music, no singing of hymns to assist in lifting up their hearts after the past depressing hour! Each class filed out of church, sedately, quietly, composedly; first the girls, and then the boys. These last had a mind to start a little before their time for filing out had arrived, but their idea was promptly sat upon, and squashed, by one short severe word from the figure in the pulpit, which stood solemn and upright until the last boy had left the church.

It struck me, in connection with this service, that we English might possibly find one of the plans in this catechising at the church in Dieppe, useful in our own children's services. Everyone who knows anything at all of children knows well how keenly most of them enjoy the simple fact of writing down notes in a notebook. Why should not we use that aid to attention in our services? Something to do with their fingers is a wonderful preservative of attention for children, and even if the notes are not of very much use afterwards, (as might very possibly be the case with the younger children!), still it would be an interest to all. For the very handling of pencil and book, would certainly take away a very remunerative employment from someone who is reputed to be always ready with graduated mischief suitable for small hands that are folded aimlessly on the lap.

Later on in the day we met a Sister escorting out a battalion of boys who, tired of going tramp-tramp regularly and in order along the road, had broken step and were careering all over the place after their hats, which a gust of wind had just whisked off. I saw, a minute later, that the joy of each boy was to lay the hat when rescued from the gutter, or wherever it had chanced to light, very lightly and gingerly on his head, to court the gusts in the hope—not altogether vain—that the gusts would catch—the hats, and thus inaugurate of course, a fresh chase along the road. This went on until the poor Sister was almost distracted, and at her wits' end; for the facts were equally undeniable, that the hats must be recovered, and that the gusts of wind could not be prevented. After vainly endeavouring to collect the forces at her command—which consisted, I am sorry to say, of only three or four of the steadier boys—she changed her tactics, and instead of pursuing her way up the street, she sounded a recall and retraced her steps down a less gusty street, followed, after some delay, by the rest of the boys.

On the beach, after some rough gales, we found crowds of men and women picking up huge black stones, and putting them all together in the large chip baskets which the peasants carry. These baskets are pointed at the bottom and, when filled, are slung over their shoulders, being strapped under the arm. Before they filled them we could see the men placing them about at intervals on the beach, each on a sort of easel. I found out that the town authorities give about twenty-five centimes for each basket of these stones—galÉes as Madame at our hotel informed me they were called.

Talking about Madame reminds me that I have never mentioned how small was the size of the very diminutive water jug which we were given in our bedroom here. When I first saw it, it brought vividly back the story of an old friend's experience in an out-of-the-way town in Germany of many years ago, when, finding in the bedrooms water jugs the size of a fair sized tea-cup, inquired if a bath was procurable and was met with amazed and blank countenances. They had never even heard of such a thing. Tea cups had always amply satisfied their own requirements. Dirt did not settle so readily upon them as it apparently did on the skin of Englishmen. But they could perhaps have it made at the expense of the Englishman, and so a drawing was given of the sized bath required, and eventually, after many searchings of heart, this implement of water warfare was constructed.

Our water jug, it is true, was larger than a tea cup, but it stood not so very much higher than my sponge.

The last glimpse of France that one carries away with one, when the land grows ever dimmer and dimmer from one's standpoint on board ship, as one leans over the taffrail, are three landmarks—the domed spire of St. Jacques, the castellated tower of St. Remy, and, further to the north, the old castle, standing apart and grey, towering above its ramparts. Finally, even these fade away into a soft mystery of grey-blue haze, and one regretfully realises that one is severed from the land of sunshine and fair vineyards.

THE END

The Anchor Press, Ltd., Tiptree, Essex.

Transcriber's Note:

Obvious typographical and punctuation errors repaired.