mystery in the matter. Everything was clear and obvious. As the father advanced in the progress of the scene, the ground was closed up behind him, step by step; and to increase the appalling depravity of the design, it was contrived that the wife and mother should suspect the revolting liaison, deliberately watch its course, and finally detect it. Great was the consternation of the inviter and the invited; some excuse luckily came to the rescue, and before the plot had reached its climax the party made their escape from the house. III.-UP THE SEINE. The sweep into the picturesque Seine out of the broad sea-waters is a welcome relief from the pent-up drudgeries of Havre. The freshness of the river air, and the calm pleasant scenery that rises on its margins as you ascend the stream, have a refreshing effect after the stifling turmoil of that prosperous den of commerce. the The Seine is dotted all over with traditions; in this respect it resembles the Rhine, but the traditions are of a different order. There is very little mediæval romance in them; you never come upon ruined castles of great land pirates, mouldering in a legendary atmosphere of love and rapine; the chivalry of the Seine is of a more respectable class. We have here to do with knights who won their spurs in legitimate fields, and who, in spite of the vicissitudes of civil and foreign wars, transmitted honourable names to their posterity. The knightly traditions of the Seine belong to the camp and the court, and derive little dramatic variety from the oubliette and the donjon. But the Tancarvilles, the De Meluns, and the Longuevilles, are not the persons who make the principal figure in the legends of the Seine. In this region the monastery reigns paramount over the château. After passing Honfleur on the left bank-a pretty dash of white houses in the lap of the hills, which exults in one great memory, that William the Conqueror passed a few days here a short time before his death-the next point of interest is the abbey of Grestain, where the said Conqueror was born. A small village is seen here; the abbey itself has been long since swept away. Even in their dust the monks exercise an ascendancy all along this river over the whole train of kings and warriors who, from century to century, have left their banners or bones amongst its crags. We have the earliest glimpse of this power in the popular traditions about this abbey of Grestain, which owes its local fame not to the birth of the Conqueror, or the tomb of his mother who was buried here, but to the fact of having possessed the richest larder in Normandy. The monks lived gloriously in this abbey; they had fountains for fattening fish, and a long gallery for keeping their meat cool, and a thousand contrivances to improve the means and sustain the zest of good living. Their memory is accordingly embalmed in the profoundest reverence in these valleys; and, as we get higher and higher up the river, the influence which they wielded in this country becomes more and more obvious. We have traces of them at every step; the number of monastic remains scattered about among the hills, and bleaching at the brink of the stream, attest the extent to which they spread themselves over the soil. The entire district was a camp of monks, living upon the fat of the land, and drawing around them a large population wherever they went. But all that is gone by; their houses are now in ruins, and there is not a monk to be seen. If something has been gained in more directions than one by the extinction of a class of great idle feeders, the peasantry at least must have missed their bounties. If there was excess in the refectory, there was a set-off in some sort against it in the hospitality at the gate. The castle of San Kerville is a striking object, pitched on a bold ledge of rock in a gorge of the mountains. Lebrun shut himself up here in the "Eagle" tower, where he composed two of his tragedies, the most memorable incident in its history. The legend attached to the castle falls so short of the interest inspired by the ruin itself, that it is a pity, having no better, it should have any legend at all. Tancarkille a huge pile yawning out of the depths of a forest at the foot of the mountains-makes a formidable contrast to the strong eyrie of San Kerville. Except, however, that the castle is a structure of vast magnitude, placed in a picturesque position, it presents no other attractions to repay the curiosity of the visitor. A. M. Deville has been at great pains to compile a history of Tancarville, but, with all his zeal, was unable to extract the slightest romantic interest out of its archives. The castle appears to have been a stronghold throughout all the wars that agitated the country from the beginning of the twelfth century. It passed successively through the hands of the Tancarvilles, the De Meluns, the Longuevilles, and the De Harcourts, and after many vicissitudes, came at last into the plebeian hands of one John Law, a financier. Castlenau, the author of the memoir, and the confidant, of Marie Stuart, was appointed commandant of the fortress by Catharine de Medicis, in 1563; a little fact in the history of the place which has been seized upon by the young French poets, who go about the woods here invoking the shade of that unfortunate princess, as if she had actually inhabited these shattered towers in the flesh. In the drama of Marie Stuart, the lady is made to exclaim, Vois-tu cet horizon qui se prolonge immense ? Ils descendent du nord; ils volent vers la France. Thus, for lack of more effective traditions, the poets commit a forgery upon the archives. Yet they might have found an available subject for a song or a ballad in the legend of the Lion's Tower, called by the country people la tour de Diable. This is the only bit of the marvellous which the most industrious of the Tancarville chroniclers has been able to exhume. There is a little cachot souterrain under the tower, in which the devil is said to have taken up his residence, very much to the horror and scandal of the pious neighbourhood. A grand procession, with cross and banners, was got up to expel him. Holy water, and other powerful agencies, were resorted to on the occasion. When the procession approached the tower, the good people, who had marched bravely up to this point, halted all of a sudden, not out of fear, of course, but to make room for the priest to proceed. The holy man advanced alone into the tower, crossing himself three times, in the midst of the most solemn silence; and, after a few minutes, he returned, and announced to the people, with an air of triumph, that he had seen the devil, that he had exorcised him, and ordered him on the instant to quit the premises; and that the devil had at last slunk away, but not without making a horrible grimace, that shewed how reluctant he was to depart. Whoever, therefore, chooses to descend into the cachot now need have no apprehensions of meeting its satanic inmate. Law conceived the design of converting the château into a manufactory, and, unable to accomplish his plans, was obliged to leave France. The ancient manoir thus reverted to the Montmorency family, and is now in the possession of the descendants of Madame de Montmorency-Fosseux, who died in 1828. Quillebeuff, noticeable chiefly for its shifting sands, so dangerous to navigators, is a village whose ambiguous aspect presents a curious intermixture of comfort and decay. It is partly falling to pieces, partly sitting in the sun with a solid and bright serenity, and all huddled up into an incongruous whole. The details would make a strange picture, but nobody would care to approach much nearer to the reality. Your attention is next challenged on the opposite side by a Roman town buried in a mass of foliage-the Juliobona or Julia Bonna of the Romans, now called Lillebonne. It was founded by Augustus Cæsar, and named in honour of his daughter Julia; and an amphitheatre, which was discovered not many years ago, seems to indicate that it was formerly a place of some importance. William the Conqueror (the haunting genius of these scenes) built a palace here, in which he frequently resided. The pedestrian who finds himself wandering in the woods hereabouts would do well to visit the Château de Lillebonne, or, as it is more commonly called, the Château d'Harcourt. It is one of the most remarkable monuments of the kind in Normandy; the interior consists of a great court surrounded by numerous salons in ruins, the remains of a drawbridge spanning the fosse, a stone staircase, a lofty tower, and a keep, from the summit of which the pastoral valley of Lillebonne may be seen to great advantage. At this point of the river there is a perilous bar, caused by the driving back of the waters of the Seine by the tide. The danger is not exaggerated by the caution with which the practised mariner approaches the spot. This is the incident to which the name of the river is so prettily traced in one of St. Pierre's prose idylls. He tells us that Seine, a nymph of Ceres, and daughter of Bacchus, having been in attendance on the goddess in her search after Proserpine, begged that these charming meadows might be bestowed upon her; a request which was granted, with the power to make corn and fruit grow wherever she trod. She accordingly took possession of the country, and the nymph Heve was specially charged with her guardianship, that she might protect her against the dangerous advances of her neighbour, the god of the sea. Seine was one day very innocently amusing herself on the beach, and sporting with the waves, when Heve caught a glimpse of the white hair, dark face, and azure mantle of Neptune advancing among the billows. She immediately warned Seine of her danger; but it was too late. Neptune urged forward his sea-horses, and caught the fair creature as she was endeavouring to escape into the meadows. Seine called for help upon Bacchus and Ceres, who immediately interposed, and the moment Neptune seized her, she dissolved into that river which now flows through the meadows in which the nymph loved to disport herself. But notwithstanding this metamorphosis, by which it might be supposed she had effectually evaded her impetuous lover, Neptune still continues to chase her, and she to fly from his dripping arms. Twice a day he comes panting and roaring up to this spot, and each time Seine retreats to take refuge in her meads, the stream rushing back wildly towards its source, in utter disregard of the natural laws by which the course of rivers is usually governed. The approach of the sea-waters at flood-tide produces a tremendous effect at this place. The surface of the river is lifted and scattered into the air, and the consternation of the collision supplies a picturesque image of the terror of the nymph, in her struggles to get away from the stormy embraces of her pursuer. The navigation of the Seine is a service of some danger, arising from the shifting of the sand-banks, and the inequalities of the bed through which the current flows. In some places the river becomes suddenly narrowed between ridges of hills, and in others it expands as suddenly into a broad lake. At Quillebeuf it forms an extensive bay, and such are the perils of the passage at this place, that a mole has been run out into the river, terminating with a lighthouse, to guide the course of the nocturnal mariner. At the very entrance to the river, on a height above Honfleur, we are warned of the difficulties we have to encounter by a tall tree, with a naked branch stretched out, like the arm of a pilot, to point the track of safety to approaching vessels. This tree is called Le bonhomme Richard, and the legend attached to it informs us that on that spot, which commands the sea-board, a fisherman used to stand to make signs to the ships as they sailed into the mouth of the Seine, and that, falling dead there one day, the tree miraculously sprung up in his place. The good fisherman was canonized, and the tree to this day is known by his name. The town of Caudebec on the right bank aspires to the dignity of a port, with miniature quays, skeleton warehouses, and a grille or two that are intended to look like municipal barriers. But the maritime transactions of Caudebec for a whole twelvemonth might be effected in a couple of hours in a dark corner of one of the countinghouses of Havre. The quay is a commercial delusion, available only as a promenade for the enjoyment of a very charming view across the river. The town is prettily situated, forming an amphitheatre of houses dipping into the water at the base of a hill richly wooded to the summits. The cathedral, whose filigree spire may be seen shooting up far above the houses in the middle of the valley, is an exquisite specimen of Gothic architecture. Notwithstanding its present decadence in the way of traffic, Caudebec was once a place of some consequence; the remains of its ancient walls flanked by towers, said to have been erected so far back as the ninth century, are still referred to as proofs of its early strength and power. In the fifteenth century it held out for six months against the English, who garrisoned it for thirty years, and then evacuated it. The English are as much mixed up in the history of these Norman towns as the Normans themselves. The pedestrian who explores the wooded gorges in this neigh bourhood will have some advantages over the steam-boat tourist. The scenery about Candebec is full of enchanting varieties, the road winding through green dells and rocky solitudes, with frequent openings upon rich pastures and terraces of sward fringing the base of the forests. At every turn you come upon a fresh picture; and half up the side of the hill, after you leave Caudebec, is one of the most interesting of the old monastic ruins-the Abbey of St. Wandrille. The chapel was long since demolished for the value of its materials, by some vandal who bought the place at the time of the revolution; but the monastery, said to have been founded in the seventh century, still remains, shut in on all sides by woods. The situation was admirably chosen for the purposes of study and seclusion to which the first abbot dedicated his life. St. Wandrille accumulated a large library here, and sent forth from his scholastic retreat some of the most learned ecclesiastics of that age. The château of La Maillerie on the opposite shore is, perhaps, the most perfect specimen of the true French style to be found even in Normandy, so famous for its châteaux. The formal green walks, with the clipped trees overhead, and the smooth lawns buttoned up with vases, the straight lines, and alleys, and statues, and the mathematical precision with which the angles and sides are made to correspond with each other, carry this method of laying out ornamental grounds to the last extremity. The prim beauty produced by the regularity of these arrangements, has a peculiarly fantastic effect. We naturally look for a touch of artificial sentiment in such a scene, in the shape of an inscription, or a group to represent some event in the family history, or something that shall fairly publish to the spectator the egotism of a meretricious taste. And we have it here at the termination of the lawn. It appears that the Duchess de Berri breakfasted at the château in 1824, and in commemoration of that remarkable circumstance the proprietor has erected a marble pillar, on which the fact is duly registered. Yet he might have discovered a better excuse for frippery of this sort in the antecedents of the château, if it be true, as it is said, that the Duchess de la Valliere was one of its former inhabitants. The broken walls of the ancient abbey of Jumiéges, gleam mournfully through the trees, higher up on the right bank. The sight is interesting, from the remarkable splendour of the architecture, of which nothing now remains but a mass of ruins, and its connection with the history of the beautiful Agnes Sorel. She died at this place, and her heart is buried here, her body at Loches. Close in the neighbourhood, at a little village called Menil-sous-Jumiége, they shew you a small gothic house, where, according to the tradition, she lived while her royal lover was at the abbey; and they even point out the stone sill of a window on which she used to lean of an evening, as she looked out to watch for his coming. Nearer to Rouen, the famous Madame du Bocage, the "tenth muse," so grossly ridiculed by Voltaire, lived at la Vacherie, a small wooden house on the verge of a meadow, at the foot of the castle of Robert le Diable. The interest associated with the recollection of Madame du Bocage is absorbed at once by the name of the remarkable profligate, who is supposed to have carried on his mysterious orgies in the château, whose ruins may yet be seen on the top of the mountain. The peasants in the surrounding districts firmly believe in |