with dark herbage, but without a tree, was the valley, when the village consisted only of a few fishermen's cottages, clustering close upon the strand, just above high-water mark. Years and years ago, when Papal bulls were common, and church decorations in good taste, (for Europe as yet lacked her Rabelais and her Calvins,) there dwelt in Étretat a fair lady named Olive, who, though very rich, was not above washing her own linen down yonder at the fountain, and who, while so engaged one day, at low tide, was set upón by a band of Norman freebooters, heathens. Landing from their bark in search of plunder, and arrested by the vision of a lady so fair, the villains wanted to be rude; but Olive fled, calling on the Virgin. "Save me in this peril, O Blessed Lady!" she cried, "and I vow to build thee a church upon my land." Saved by a miracle, she kept her word, and erected "L'Eglise de Notre Dame," not here, in the Petit Val, but somewhere within easier reach of the sailors and fishermen. For the story goes, that the devil, disgusted at the state of affairs, conveyed the church by night to the spot on which it now stands, thereby hoping to cheat the poor folk out of a mass or two, and get a surer chance of their souls. The grass is deep in the churchyard. The ancient burial-stones lie broken, slimy, and streaked with green moss. I cannot stir a foot without stepping on the dust of the dead. Strangely in contrast with the old tombs are the modern graves, with their little railed-in patches of garden-soil, their headstones adorned with wreaths and crosses of beads, little paintings on glass and papiermaché beneath, and " Priez pour son âme" written under the chronicle of name and age. In one thick headstone is a glass door, through which is seen a memorial in white beads,—a round wreath, a cross in the centre, and a bunch of immortelles above. A mother's hands have fondly woven that simple circlet, and her baby-boy sleeps below, padded round with the dust of one who saw the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Here white and blue beads, and a little bright picture of a doll with wings, mark the resting-place of a maiden. Solemn black beads, and a black wooden crucifix, are placed yonder, above an old For some reason or other, the effect is not tawdry, in spite of the sombre background of the Petit Val. Frenchmen invest even death with nameless prettinesses, but they do this as no other nation of men couldsweetly, reverently, though without depth. They cover corruption with flowers and beads, and simple strewings, and write shallow little quatrains about the angels; and they do not pass out of the sunshine, but, shading their faces, look childishly at the threshold of the mystery. man. Finding that the service within Our Lady's Kirk is not fully over, I take a path up the hill-side, and wind my way meditatively until I stand on the north cliffs. Here, on the very pinnacle of the height, exposed to all the winds, open to the view of the whole village, and possessing a long prospect inland and seaward, stands solitary the tiny chapel of Our Lady of Safety, or "Notre Dame de la Garde." The simple design of the building was furnished by a clever Abbé at Yvetot; and in 1855, stones, bricks, pebbles, and clay, all things necessary for building, were carried up to the site by the sailors themselves. The Empress herself joined in the good work, contributing an altar-piece. No public service takes place here, but now and then the bell tolls, and special masses are said for the dead, for the sick, or for a friend or sweetheart at sea. The chapel is chiefly used for private prayer, and seldom a day passes without the visit of one or more pious parishioners. Just now, as enter, a young girl kneels before a chair close to the door, burying her face in her hands, and sobbing silently. Yonder, within the rails, is the altar-piece-a company of haggard, shipwrecked sailors upon a raft, raising eyes of mute appeal to the good Virgin, who appears among the clouds. Here, to the left of the altar, is the statue of Our Lady, crowned and gentle. Strewing the pedestal, and hanging round her feet, are the simple, childish offerings of the sailors and fishermen and their wives, with some costlier gifts of people richer in the world's goods,-wreaths of coloured beads, such as adorn the graves in the churchyard; garlands of flowers deftly cut in white silk and satin; little rude pictures of the Virgin; rosaries, with crosses carved in wood, and one tiny piece of china, representing a little angel standing over a font of holy water. All these are pious gifts, bribes that the sailor at sea may reach home safely, tokens of gratitude for preservation during a long voyage, mementoes of those who sleep fathoms deep under the motion of the great waters. A white cameo, in a black ivory frame, betokens some wealthier donor. It represents a fair young girl, with a sweet, quiet face, and vision-seeing eyes. Is it a portrait ?-of the living, or of the dead? Has some weather-beaten mariner placed here the likeness of his true love? or does some father plead by this picture for a daughter who has been wafted to the shores untrod by mortal foot? The little chapel is open night and day, but these gifts are sacred. The most hardened villain from the galleys would scorn to touch them. Jean Valjean would bare his head and glint up at the plaster Virgin, and hobble away hungry and athirst. It would need another revolution to imperil the little chancel and its contents, and even in that event, the sans culotte element would be small in Etretat. As I walk homeward, the streets of the little village are still full of people, shouting and singing; but all is still by the time I open my garden-gate. Only one couple pass by, a man and a girl, and the man's arm is where the arm of a lover ought to be, and the Norman girl is singing to this effect: "Soldat! vois-tu ces eaux dociles though he who embraces her is not a soldier, but a sailor just returned from the cod-fishing in Newfoundland. Christmas morning comes, dry and chilly. The streets are crowded with gay promenaders, the men in their dark-blue blouses, the women in their coloured skirts, red hoods, and high Norman caps. All are laughing and singing. But my thoughts are otherwhere. My chubby friend, Christmas, with his hand upon his heart, appears before me in the shadowy proportions of a ghost. "Epicuri de grege porce !" he exclaims, sadly. "Instead of rosbif and plum-pudding, I can only offer you a pot-aufeu." Such is the decree. For have we not already tried to roast beef on our stove, and have we not given up the attempt in despair? and have we not discovered that, even if we could procure the proper ingredients for a pudding, we could not cook it decently? There is no help for it, and we soon resign ourselves to circumstances. A pot-au-feu to a man with an appetite is by no means a contemptible meal. So we leave the preparation of dinner to our bonne, and sally forth for a promenade on the cliffs. Climbing the northern height, and passing by the chapel of Our Lady of Safety, I walk along the grassy edges of the cliffs, carefully picking my footsteps, since a false step might be fatal, and ever and anon pausing to peer down at the shore. The brain turns dizzy at the sight. The large pebbles look like golden sand below, the large patches of sea-weed are as faint stains on the water, and the sea-gull, wheeling half-way down, is little more than a speck. Here and there on the brink of the cliff, the loose grass and earth have yielded, and rolled down; and ever and anon I hear a low rumbling sound, made by the pieces of rocky soil as they loosen and fall. But here is La Valleuse-a precipitous flight of steps, partly built in on the soft soil above, and partly hewn out of the solid rock. As I descend, the roaring of the sea comes upon my ear louder and louder. Now and then I come to a point from whence I can gaze downward-on the bright beach spotted with black sea-weed, over which the tide crawls in foamy cream. The steps are slippery with rain and mire, and the descent is slow. |