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Street," as the French have it, is bright | native. At Calais I had found out that

and parti-colored, and the lines pleasantly broken, owing to the houses being built one by one. We are led on gradually until we come to the beautiful cathedral, which is at one side of the street, only lying a little back; its charming tracery and lacework seem as though wrought in sugar. It is true Flamboyant, and on to the flanking towers are encrusted small corner ones. It must be an education for the natives to have such an object always before them -not put away, or out of the way in a close, but actually within their touch as it were. I at once feel the truth of Ruskin's description: "The very threads of the now thin and nervous stonework catch an ague of mingled wantonness and terror, and, Flamboyant with a fatal glow, tremble in their ascent as if they were seen through troubled and heated air, over a desert horizon; and lose themselves at last in the likeness, no more as the ancient marbles, of the snows of Olympus, but of the fires of condemnation."

Perhaps this is a little too troubled an image, where all seems perfect repose, but it is true and forcible, and also poetical. Entering, however, there is a sad shock; it seems like passing into some ruined old shanty. Only a portion, that to the front, has been completed, the rest has been patched up and covered in somehow. It is, indeed, a disastrous spectacle of neglect, and the contrast to the outside is extraordinary, and even painful.

I had a pleasant three-quarters of an hour's stroll through this scenic town, which at every turn glinted with color, and suggested the perfect truth of Prout's delightful water-color drawing. There was the grand "Place of Arms," half filled or blocked up by a monstrous marble monument to Admiral Courbet, a worthy sailor of whom the world knows little. He is perched aloft, giving orders from his deck, on a sort of marble épergne, while below him are a number of struggling figures expressing admiration. He is out of keeping with the whole place, of which he was a

the honest old street in which Dessin's is situated had had its name changed violently from that of Rue Neuve to that of "Rue Admiral Courbet." I wish he were away.

There is a fine old inn here, where I should have liked to put up-the "Tête du Bouf" or "Bull's Head" it was called. It had been an old mansion belonging to some great lord, and had a charming courtyard with an archway for entrance, and many handsome chambers. I lingered long before it, and could fancy the worthy natives trooping in at one or two o'clock for dinner every day, as is the custom in these primitive towns, and as I had seen it at the capital "Chapeau Rouge" in Dunkirk-the snuggest hotel I wot of, and I wot of many; the wine and fowls superlative. I remember asking the host for some of his wine to take away, which he declined in a rather suspicious fashion.

I found myself next in an old street where was a framed house with carved doorway, and covered with vines apparently; the mansion or residence of Francis the First, it was said. It was framed in black and white, tottering over the street in a decrepid way, as was natural in one of its great age. In these old French cities there are always forlorn, retired streets, rows of sound private houses with gardens behind, and quaint old doorways. These have a sort of solemn attraction, as though life were closing in for those who live in them. At the end you see the trees and rich greenery of the open country. At the bottom of one of them was an imposing old church which I had not time to explore. There is a quaint and pleasing belfry here beside the Town Hall, of the fifteenth century or thereabouts, which gives note of the Flemish origin of the place, for we are in French Flanders. The shops here have that gay, sparkling look which we often see in these old towns. I was tickled with the name "Prudhomme" over a shopone which I had never seen out of the famous novel. I noted, too, that every butcher's shop was adorned with a

pair of well-modelled golden bulls' heads.

Had I had time I should have liked to wander, on this fresh sunny day, in the outskirts, crossing the little bridges, getting views of the town from the back, playing hide-and-seek with the fairy-like towers of the cathedral, but I had not many minutes to spare, so I turned back to the station.

It was now 2.47 P.M., and certainly it will be admitted I had not been losing time. The train now came up, and we flew on our way, reaching the great cathedral city of Amiens at 3.30 P.M.

This was rather a change; here we were among the "up-to-date" moderns. There was the Grand Avenue-an attempt at a new boulevard-and in rather a raw condition. There was the savor, too, of the manufacturing town. The streets as I made my way up seemed rather dirty and uninteresting. Not very acceptable either were the new trim squares, close to the hotels, where the natives were sitting, trying to imitate the Parisians. The glory of the place, our old friend the cathedral, contrives to hide itself in the most successful way. In nearly every other town the towers or spires are always deliberately asserting themselves. You cannot shut them out. Here you would not find them even on looking hard. It is, of course, a noble, overpowering thing-vain to praise and idle to condemn. I relished much the Bishop's Palace and its fair gardens, and that quaint brick building in the Close, very old-fashioned and piquant. But within, how noble and superb! the first glance taking in the whole interior. Something novel always strikes you on every fresh visit to such places, and on this occasion I was impressed by the sense of its being richly and variedly furnished, as it were. Here there were compartments framed off with nine brass and iron grilles, paintings, marble altars, and the rest. I once heard a mass here betimes of an ordinary morning, when the cathedral was shown at its proper function. It was a dramatic sight, the honest natives scattered about-the general stillness, the devout

air. Some of the violet-caped canons were in the superbly carved stalls. The richly carved and decorated altar was put to its proper use. The cathedral seemed to come to life and movement. The starers or travellers who come in at noon with their guides never see the cathedral. It is then, as it were, covered up and at rest. Who that has seen the glorious Antwerp, or the still more glorious S. Gudule, at Brussels, at such an hour, when the richlycolored panes, the carved columns, the oak and the shadows all fall into a sort of background for the ceremonial, will ever forget it? Even the old Flemishfaced sacristan-who comes and looses a rope under the tower and pulls-adds to the picturesque effect. You hear the tone of the great bell, muffled as if high up, and lost in the clouds and shadows of the tower. Outside in the town one notes the full clang.

When service is over the canons get up and go home. Some are very aged and decrepid, and totter as they lean on some younger brother. I watched some one or two enter what seemed their little poorish lodging in the Close. Their stipend, some forty or fifty pounds a year, would make our canons of York and Westminster smile.

I now wandered about for some time, not very much recreated. The Town Hall, where a "great treaty of peace was signed," is a heartless building enough, tamely modern, and dispiriting. I turned away, and sought the station. This Amiens station has a nightmare sort of existence, and never goes to bed; the buffet seems to be eternally open, trains are always coming up, and the English perpetually passing to and fro. I note a lady and her daughters getting out her boxes, and directing a porter in true Stratfordat-Bow French, which he respectfully accepts. She finishes with "Own poo | marcher?"—that is, to the hotel: as who should say, Can one use one's feet to get to the hotel? Aller à pied, I presume, would be more correct, but he understood her. I liked, however, her air of perfect self-satisfaction, and fancy her saying, "One should know

French to go abroad." Seated in the | my way up the street, "on speculation,"

carriage, I noted also a bluff old redfaced colonel-was it?-who was seeing off his dapper, bright son, in gay uniform, with whom he talked jovially to the last moment, and then embraced him cordially.

By 4.18 P. M. we are hurrying southwards. No longer on the "beaten track and through route," we jog along, stopping comfortably at every station in a very tedious fashion. Every station seemed the same as the last, and at every station one or two persons get in or out. Still, I like the provincial, "out of the world" tone of our progress. At one halting-place a stoutish, elderly matron, in deep black, and with strongsmelling baskets, is hoisted in, and begins almost at once, in querulous strain, to ask, "When, O when, sir, shall we get to Beauvais?" By and by she weeps to herself, and breaks out with exclamations, "Oh, the sad voyage, the sad voyage!" I begin to fancy that if there be anything "triste," it is "le vin," as our lively neighbors are fond of calling it when describing this maudlin, sorrowful stage. But I did the worthy woman wrong, for she told me her whole story, which was

pathetic

enough. She had been burying her daughter, beyond Paris, and was now returning to a desolate household. As we were over two hours together, I had every detail, and seemed to have assisted in person at the departure of the poor girl.

Not until a quarter past eight did we reach Beauvais. It was now the gloaming, which I did not regret, as it lends a picturesque atmosphere for the first acquaintance with an old town. This seemed a fine, impressive, "fat-looking" place. Between it and the station was a belt of trees and canals, which I found entirely surrounded the town, making a charming promenade. I could see perfectly where the old walls had been, the place of which had been taken by this verdant promenade. These old cities can never quite obliterate the mark of their fortifications. Now, this was to be the most enjoyable visit of the day. It was all a novelty. I took

as it were, that opened before me, and saw that I was in a very old and picturesque place indeed. The street was narrow, and wound a little, but every step was a surprise. The houses were all mysterious and melancholy, broken up into shadows-most of them capped by heavy "dormers" of an odd pattern. They were in the shape of deeply recessed hoods, and had a curious shadowy tone about them. I strolled on and on, and at last debouched in the noble, astonishing Place of Arms, a most truly picturesque expanse, quite like the opening scene in an opera, of vast size and variety, of irregular shape, and intruded on by projecting buildings. Here was many a striking house, with gabled roofs; the Town Hall-modern it seemed-jutting out in the centre, and a bronze heroine in the middle. Numerous little dark bystreets led off from it in all directions. The scene, too, was full of associations -numbers were crossing the Place, or stopping to talk in groups, a regular va-et-vient. The lights were beginning to glitter. It seemed the old provincial France all over. All were honest country-town folk. I could not make out a single restaurant, and, indeed, as Mr. Penley used to say in the play, "I wanted that badly." For during this long day I had only been able to snatch something at stray buffets. On lightning tours you must eat as you can.

I was delighted with this dramatic scene, and could have lingered, but I followed a turning that led me straight to the literally overpowering cathedral. It was the most astonishing thing of the kind that I have ever seen. It is difficult to furnish an idea of this mass of stone-a mere fragment of a cathedral, which rises like some huge cliff or crag. The effect was more astonishing and vast from its being seen through the shadows. There was something original in making its acquaintance in this fashion. Astonishing, too, were the enormous crags that did duty as buttresses-perfect buildings, and seeming themselves to require to be buttressed-which gave it support. It was

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scheme, like other ambitions, "o'erleaped itself," and the work stopped short on the favorite church-building excuse, "lack of funds." Encrusted on to it I found a gloomy, frowning building an ancient, stiff, and unadorned church of the eleventh century, which is called La Basse Œuvre: I have no doubt a great curio. Its simplicity contrasted strangely with the elaborate work beside it. I was more interested by the curious old building which rambled away to the back-a low, antique structure, with vast and huge blackened eaves-a genuine antique, full of shadow and color; it is really piquant, and is, it seems, the Town Museum.

Time was passing away rapidly in these entertainments, so I took my way down one of the winding streets, in the direction of the station, trusting that something would "turn up" on the road -and it did. I came suddenly into a large open place, and found myself confronted with a magnificent abbey church, which stretched right across from end to end. The Place was the Saint Stephen's and the church that of the same saint. The variety of detailsthe broken lines, the towers, spires, and gables, were all in profusion. I could have liked to have lingered and gazed and walked round it; but I must push on. I came to the Promenade, which circled the town, and here were abundance of trees and flowers and grass and flowing water, all, too, lit up with lamps; behind, the shadowy old town. I passed the large building, which I was told was the great Tapestry Works. I came to the station. I had made friends with a burly tickettaker during the process of passing in and out several times, and asking questions. He showed me about, and also

the way to the restaurant, where there was a dinner at "fixed price"-wine included-neither wine, nor dinner, nor fixed price very good. At the side next the platform little tables were set out, where you could have your coffee, chasse, and cigar, and look on at the passengers passing and repassing-not a bad idea. As I sipped and smoked I recalled all I had seen in this busy day. Now the train was ready, and I set off on my return journey through the | night.

It was about 9 P.M.; there was nothing eventful, and I had the carriage to myself and my thoughts. I find them generally not very bad company, and might say, as the old Dumas did at a party, "Je me serais bien embêté sans moi." Here, at half past ten, was Amiens again, and the railway-station, with the devouring tunnel at one end. I paced the platform patiently until the Paris express came clattering in. Then we flew on and on in right good style, until at 1.30 A.M. good old Calais was once more reached. I always relish that half hour's wait on the pier, as the trunks are being got on, the moon shining, the sea calm, the electric lights competing with the moon, the pretty station as background.

The hotel here, brilliantly lit and comfortable, seemed to woo you to stay. But the word is "on and yet on, through the night, away with a shriek, a rattle, and a roar," as poor Boz used to write it. There was a crowd of passengers, and very welcome was the gentle doze after the long and what ought to have been fatiguing day. It seemed but the usual "forty winks,' when with the dawn we were entering Dover Harbor

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the slate-colored sky breaking with gold and purple. Here were the two ponderous trains waiting to welcome us. It was just four o'clock. So long and leisurely was the packing into the two trains, that being unburdened with luggage I set off to walk it up to the town, and a curious promenade it was.

There is, of course, a certain section of the Dover community always awake and moving at these small hours. I passed numbers of living beings.

Lights were everywhere. Here was Diver's "Dover Castle Hotel" right in the way, its door hospitably open, and all lit up ready to capture any one like myself that passed. The crowded vessels seemed to be slumbering in the harbor. There was a perfect stillness, and the air and light were clear and inspiring. On the way I had a rather bizarre encounter, and met what was perhaps the last thing one would have thought of meeting at such a time-a young fellow on a bicycle! He stopped to ask, "Which was the road to London?" I told him, and we fell into talk. He had come over, he told me, in the boat, had been "riding" in Belgium. He had an appointment on business in town at noon. He did not know the number of miles which he would have to cover. He then mounted his machine and set off cheerily. It was a curious feeling to find oneself in that lonely station, where, however, the restaurant and other offices were all duly open, lights flaring, the tea and coffee getting hot, and waiting girls bustling about. They seemed to be taking things leisurely down at the Pier, for it was long before the well-laden trains at last came rolling in.

At half past four o'clock or so we set off, the day being now well declared and bright. We flew through the pleasant Kentish country. I looked out for Canterbury—always inviting, and saw the elegant snowy-looking cathedral, revealing afar off a thing of grace and pleasure. Cathedral town it is called, but it is so placed as always to seem a little village, clustered round the feet of the cathedral. The green luxuriant country seems to come up to it quite close. This was the eighth cathedral I had seen in the twenty-four hours: Westminster, Rochester, Calais, Boulogne, Abbeville, Amiens, Beauvais, and Canterbury! Finally, a little after six we were entering Victoria Station-only a few minutes after the train I had departed by on the day before had started; and thus my lightning tour of twenty-four hours came to an end.

PERCY FITzgerald.

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From The Contemporary Review. REMINISCENCES OF LORD BATH.

In the premature death of Lord Waterford and Lord Bath within six months of each other, the House of Lords and the Conservative party have sustained a greater loss than the world in general is aware of. It is true that failing health had for the last few years withdrawn both of them, to some extent, from active participation in public affairs. But they continued to exercise considerable influence in the counsels of the party. Lord Waterford was practically the leader of the Conservative party in Ireland, and his influence was generally exercised in favor of moderation. He was singularly free from personal prejudices and political animosities. Thoroughly honest himself, he was ever ready to give his political opponents credit for honest intentions. To the surprise of not a few of his political friends in Ireland, he entertained Mr. John Morley as an honored guest at Curraghmore; and, much as he differed from Mr. Gladstone as a politician, he was far too largeminded not to recognize the greatness of the man. Strong Conservative as he was, too, he did not believe that loyalty to his party was inconsistent with taking an independent line when he conscientiously differed from the leaders of his party; and he never hesitated to practise what he believed. These qualities, combined with great abilities, high rank, and fine estate, made Lord Waterford a greater political force than appeared on the surface, even after the accident which disabled him for active political life.

In character and general tone of mind, Lord Bath was a very different man from Lord Waterford. But they had this in common, that neither ever held any position commensurate with his Parliamentary talents and territorial influence. Lord Waterford, I think, never held any office. Lord Bath held one or two subordinate offices early in his political career, and then dropped out of official life. Probably this was partly due to his independence of

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