CHAPTER IX.

THE HEIGHTS OF CANTELEU.

It was a project of the Marshal de Vauban - and we rather think its execution was actually commenced to dig a canal across the neck of the peninsula of Jumièges, and thus abridge the navigation of the Seine by five leagues. Even had this been accomplished, however, it would not have changed our route; and we should not the less have traced the line of the land till we arrived, after walking nearly a league, at an obscure, modest-looking château, shaded by mysterious woods, and retiring consciously, but not awkwardly, from the gaze of the world.

The little manor of Menil is not by any means remarkable in its appearance; and the traveller, unacquainted with its associations, would in all probability pass by without even asking its name. Let him enter, however, at our invitation; and, after wandering through the long corridor which intersects the interior of the house, proceed with uncovered head into the small chapel he will find at the end. There, beneath the Gothic window, is the tribune of the châtelaine-the very bench where she sat, on silken cushions, listening to the holy word, which she disobeyed, perhaps, in fewer points of importance than most women of her day and generation. If the traveller is a Protestant, let him bend his/

head reverentially, in honour and memory of virtue alas! human virtue; if a Catholic, let him whisper a prayer for the soul of Agnes Sorel.

Lounging lazily along the deserted banks of the river, we at length left the peninsula of Jumièges behind us, and plunged into the high road leading to Duclair. On one side every body was at work in his fields and orchards; and on the water some fishingboats with rods and nets kept up the animation of the scene. It was like coming out of a tomb into the business of the world. By and by, we passed an amateur angler, who seemed to us the only absurd and incongruous figure on the whole landscape. This patient, treacherous, and cowardly pastime is only fit for the hours of relaxation of an ancient Jesuit. Look at him as he crawls along the bank, fixing his cat-like eye upon the water! There is a jerk of the rod, but no bite. Now he tries again—it is nothing! Now he withdraws his line, not fretfully, however, but as patiently as an ass, and examines the hook. All is right, and he commits it again to the stream. If you return two hours hence, and ask after his day's sport, the philosopher will tell you that he has had a most glorious nibble!

But, hold! there is something more than a nibble; he has hooked a fish! Why, then, does he not draw it in at once, and put an end to its torment by dashing its head against a stone? Because he is a human cat, whose appetite for cruelty is not glutted till he is wearied of playing with the agonies of his victim.” He gives the creature the line; and, forgetting the pain of

its lacerations in the feeling of liberty, it darts away into the deep, when a sudden jerk brings it too, as if by the heart-strings. Away it is allowed to fly again— more feebly, less hopefully, but still instigated to fly, even in the midst of despair, by the common instinct which animates fish and men. The sport continues; its tortures increase, but their physical expression diminishes; and the amateur, meeting no longer that resistance to his power which constitutes the delight of cats and anglers, lands his victim upon the bank. See the calm fingers with which he detaches the hook from its bleeding entrails-the glassy eye with which he counts the gasps of its parting breath, and the throes of its mortal agony! He at length puts it carefully into the basket at his back; and if, in a quarter of an hour after, he still feels the convulsions of life, he is overjoyed at his prowess in conquering so fine and lively a fish!

Hunting and shooting have at least the excitement of exercise for an apology; but still we cannot allow them, as they are practised in this country, to be manly amusements. For our part, we would rather shoot a man than a bird; and to this day we are haunted by the idea of a wanton assassination which we committed when a school-boy upon a sparrow.

Duclair is a little town built upon the water's edge. It is protected behind by lofty steeps, while on the opposite side of the Seine there seems to be a continuous marsh. This alternation of heights and plains - one bank falling as the other rises-has continued almost all along, and forms a peculiarity of the Seine which we

have not noticed in the same degree in any other river. It adds greatly to the extent and variety of the prospects. In the annexed view near Duclair, the land is seen swelling again to a formidable height, soon after you pass the town. The singularly shaped rock is called by tradition La Chaise de Gargantua, in honour of which personage, no doubt, the lightning is playing.

The line of falaises continues for some distance beyond Duclair, and their summits repay the difficulty of the access by a series of superb views.

In some

places these rocks are excavated into cellars, and even houses, similar to those noticed in the first volume of this work on the banks of the Loire near Tours. The opposite bank, in the meantime, presents a still more singular appearance. It is a complete marsh, but apparently a very fertile one; and at this moment we see extensive and luxuriant pastures, with only the blades of grass above the water. These are intersected by rows of fruit-trees; and on every little spot of comparatively dry land, there is a thatched cottage, half visible through the foliage which surrounds it.

At the hamlet of Fontaine there are the ruins of an ancient building called the Chapel of Saint Anne, the history of which, so far as we could learn, is altogether unknown.

We are now within a short walk of Rouen; but the Seine chooses to make a coquettish sweep of eight or nine leagues before touching the ancient capital of Neustria, and, what is worse, without offering any thing on our side of the water much worth the journey. We shall therefore, for the present, bid adieu to the