IF WAR SHOULD BREAK OUT.
"You don't mean to say it, my dear sir! You're absolutely jesting. I'm
compelled to believe that you are pleased to talk nonsense. To take the
boy! Impossible!"
"I never was more sober in my life, I do assure you, ma'am."
"The thing is incredible. No, sir, I cannot believe it. 'Tis bad enough
that you should be going abroad at all at this time, you and your wife.
But to place an innocent babe of eleven years in the power of that
wicked Corsican----Close upon thirteen, say you? Well, well, twelve
years old! 'tis much the same. My dear sir, war is a certainty. We
shall be embroiled with France before six weeks are ended."
"That is as may be. We intend to be at home again long before six weeks
are gone by. A fortnight in Paris; nothing more. The opportunity is not
to be lost; and as you know, all the world is going to France just now.
So pray be easy in your mind."
Colonel Baron adjusted his rigid stock, and held his square chin aloft,
looking over it with a benevolent though combative air towards the lady
opposite. Mrs. Bryce was a family friend of long standing, and she
might say what she chose; but nothing was farther from his intentions
than to alter his plans, merely because Mrs. Bryce or Mrs. Anybody-Else
chose to volunteer unasked advice. There was a spice of obstinacy in
the gallant Colonel's composition.
Despite civilian dress--swallow-tailed coat, brass buttons, long
flapped waistcoat, white frilled shirt-front, and velvet knee-breeches,
with silk stockings, the Colonel was a thorough soldier in appearance.
He had not yet left middle age behind, and he was still spare in
figure, and upright as a dart.
Mrs. Bryce, a lively woman, in age perhaps between thirty and
thirty-six, had bright twinkling eyes. She was dressed much _a la
mode_, in the then fashionable figured muslin, made long and clinging,
her white stockings and velvet shoes showing through it in front. The
bonnet was of bright blue; and a silk spencer, of the same colour, was
cut low, a large handkerchief covering her shoulders. A short veil
descended below her eyes. She used her hands a good deal, flirting them
about expressively as she talked.
Upon an old-fashioned sofa, with prim high back and arms and a long
"sofa-table" in front, sat the Colonel's wife, Mrs. Baron, a very
graceful figure, young still, and in manner slightly languishing.
Though it was early in the afternoon, she wore a low-necked frock, with
a scarf over it; and her hands toyed with a handsome fan. A white crape
turban was wound about her head. Beside her was Mr. Bryce, a short man,
clothed in blue swallow-tailed coat and brass buttons--frock-coats
being then unknown. His face was deeply scored and corrugated with
small-pox.
The wide low room, with its large centre-table and ponderous
furniture, had one other inmate; and this was a lovely young girl, in
a short-waisted and short-sleeved frock of white muslin. A pink scarf
was round her neck; dainty pink sandalled shoes were on her small
high-instepped feet; long kid gloves covered the slender round arms; a
fur-trimmed pink pelisse lay on a chair near; and from the huge pink
bonnet on her head tall white ostrich-feathers pointed skyward. Polly
Keene was on a visit to the Barons, and she had just come in from a
stroll with Mr. and Mrs. Bryce. Young ladies, ninety years ago, did
not commonly venture alone beyond the garden, but waited for proper
protection. Polly had the softest brown velvet eyes imaginable, a
delicate blush-rose complexion, and a pretty arch manner.
Upon a side table stood cake and wine, together with a piled-up pyramid
of fruit, for the benefit of callers. Afternoon tea was an unknown
institution; and the fashionable dinner-hour varied between four and
half-past five o'clock.
"A fortnight in Paris! And what of Nap meanwhile?" vivaciously demanded
Mrs. Bryce. "What of old Boney? That is the question, my dear sir. What
may not that wicked tyrant be after next?"
In those days even old friends and relatives used the terms "sir" and
"madam" very often one to another.
"Buonaparte has a good deal to answer for, ma'am, but really I do not
imagine that he will have the responsibility of hindering this little
scheme of ours," Colonel Baron replied.
Mrs. Bryce turned herself briskly towards the sofa.
"If I were you, Harriette, I'd refuse to go. Then, at least, you
wouldn't have it on your conscience if everything gets into a muddle."
Mrs. Baron's large languid grey eyes opened rather more widely than
their wont.
"My dear Harriette, wake up, I entreat of you. Pray listen to me.
Doubtless all the world is going to France. Nothing more likely, since
half the world consists of idiots, and another half of madmen. That is
small reason why you two need comport yourselves like either."
"Do you really suppose there will be war again so soon?" asked Mrs.
Baron incredulously.
"Do I suppose? Why, everybody knows it. Jim knows it. Your husband
knows it. There can't be any reasonable doubt about the matter. The
treaty of Amiens is practically at an end already. Nap has broken his
pledges again and again. And this last demand of his--why, nothing
could be more iniquitous."
"Dear me; has he made any fresh demand?" Mrs. Baron's eyes went in
appeal to her husband, for she had no very great faith in Mrs. Bryce's
judgment. The Colonel had no chance of responding.
"Even you can't surely have forgot that, my dear Harriette. He desires
that we should give over to his tender mercies the unfortunate Bourbon
Princes, who have fled to us for refuge: and no doubt in the end he
would demand all the refugees of the Revolution. He might as well
demand England herself. And he will demand that, in no long time. 'Tis
an open secret that he is already making preparations for the invasion
of our country."
"Boney doesn't believe that England, single-handed, will dare to oppose
him," remarked Mr. Bryce. "He thinks a nation of seventeen million
inhabitants is certain to go down before a nation of forty millions."
"Let him come, and he'll soon learn his mistake," declared Mr. Bryce's
valiant better half. "But you, Harriette--with public affairs in this
state--you positively intend to let your crazy husband drag you across
the Channel?"
"But I do not think my husband crazy, and I wish very much to go," she
said, slightly pouting. "I have never been out of England. The wars
have always hindered me."
"And you absolutely mean to take the young ones too!"
"We intend to take Roy," the Colonel said, as his wife's eyes once more
appealed to him. Children in those days seldom travelled, unless as a
matter of necessity; therefore the Colonel's voice was proportionately
determined.
"I never heard such a scheme in my life. To take the boy away from his
schooling----"
"No; his school has just broken up for some weeks. Several cases of
small-pox; so it is considered best. Roy has not been in the way of any
who have sickened; therefore he is all right. We mean to have him with
us."
"And Molly? Not Molly too?"
"No, not Molly. One will be enough."
Colonel Baron did not wish to betray that he had strenuously opposed
the plan, and had given in with reluctance to his wife's entreaties.
"I thought the two never had been parted?"
"That has been folly. It is time such fantasies should be broken
through. Roy must go to a boarding-school in the autumn; and this will
pave the way."
Mrs. Baron lifted a lace handkerchief to her eyes.
"My dear heart--a school five miles off. You will think nothing of
it when the time arrives," urged the Colonel, who till then had gone
against his own better judgment, keeping the boy at home and allowing
him to attend a day-school. He had won his wife's consent to the
boarding-school in the autumn only that morning, by yielding to her
wish that Roy should go to Paris. The Colonel's graceful wife was
something of a spoilt child in her ways; and resolute as he could show
himself in other directions, he seldom had the will to oppose her
seriously.
"Indeed, I should say so too," struck in Mrs. Bryce. "You don't desire
to turn him into a nincompoop; and between you and Molly, my dear
Harriette, he hasn't a chance. School will make a man of him. And
what's to become of Molly?"
[Illustration: THE MESSAGE OF THE MARGUERITES.
From the Painting by COMTE.
GIRL'S OWN PAPER. ORFORD SMITH, L^{D.} S^{t.} Albans. LONDON.]
Mrs. Baron was still gently dabbing her eyes with the square of lace,
and the Colonel answered--
"My wife's step-mother wishes to have Molly in Bath for a visit. She
will travel thither with Polly early next week."
"Too much gadding about. Not the sort of way I was brought up, nor you
either. But everything is turned upside-down in these days. And you've
persuaded Captain Ivor to go too?"
"He will go with us to Paris."
"And you're quite content to put yourselves into the clutches of that
miserable Boney!"
"My dear madam, the First Consul does not wage war on unoffending
travellers. Even supposing that hostilities should break out sooner
than may reasonably be expected, we have then but to hasten home."
"Boney doesn't care what he does, so long as he can get his own way."
"He will, at least, act in accordance with the laws of civilised
nations."
"Not he! Boney makes his own laws to suit himself."
"Well, well, my dear madam, we view these things differently. And
since I have fully made up my mind, all this discussion is a waste of
good breath. My wife has never been into France, and I desire that she
should go. We may not have another opportunity for many years to come."
"Likely enough--while the Corsican lives!" muttered Mrs. Bryce.
The end window opened upon a kind of verandah, and just outside this
window, which had been thrown wide open--for it was an unusually hot
spring day--a boy lay flat upon the ground, shaping a small wooden boat
with his penknife. At the first mention of his name, a fair curly head
popped up and popped down again. A recurrence of the word "Roy" brought
up the head a second time, and two wide grey eyes stared eagerly over
the low sill into the room. He might have been seen easily enough,
but that people were too busy to look that way. Then again the head
vanished, and its owner lay motionless, apparently listening for two
or three minutes, after which he rolled away to a short distance,
jumped up, and scampered off to the schoolroom at the back of the house.
It was a good-sized house, with a nice garden, in the then outskirts
of London--a much more limited London than the great metropolis of
the present day, though even then Englishmen were wont to describe it
as "vast." Where Colonel Baron's house stood, with fields and hedges
near at hand, miles of streets now extend in all directions. Trafalgar
Square and Regent Street were unbuilt; Pimlico and Moorfields alike
consisted mainly of bare rough ground; and the City was still a
fashionable place of residence. These facts serve to show how small a
London existed in those days.
Roy Baron was a handsome well-set-up lad of about twelve, and he
had on a blue cloth jacket, with trousers and waistcoat of the same
material. Knickerbockers were unknown. Children and bigger boys wore
loose trousers, while tights and uncovered stockings were reserved
for grown-up gentlemen. In a few weeks Roy would exchange his cloth
waistcoat and trousers for linen ditto, either white or striped. Boys'
hair was not cropped so closely in the year 1803 as in the Nineties,
and a mass of close little curls grew all over Roy's head.
The year 1803. Think what that means.
Napoleon Buonaparte was alive--not only alive, but in full vigour;
and he had entered on his career of conquest, and the world was in
terror of his name. Nelson was alive, and five years earlier he had
won the great battle of the Nile; two years earlier the great battle
of Copenhagen; though his crowning victory of Trafalgar had not yet
finally established British supremacy over the ocean. Wellington was
alive, but his then name of Sir Arthur Wellesley had not yet become
widely famous, and no one could guess that one day he would be the
Iron Duke of world-wide celebrity. Sir John Moore, the future Hero of
Coruña, was alive, and, though not yet knighted, was already "the most
renowned military character of his age."[A]
Napoleon was not yet Emperor of the French. He was only climbing
towards that goal, and thus far he had not advanced beyond being First
Consul in the Republic. By English people generally he was viewed with
a mingling of detestation and disgust, dread and disdain, varied in
some quarters by a certain amount of admiration.
The peace between England and France, lasting somewhat over twelve
months, had been hardly more than an armed and uncertain truce, a mere
slight break in long years of intermittent warfare. As the old king,
George III., remarked at the time, it was "an experimental peace," and
few had hopes of its long continuance. For the Firebrand was still in
Europe, and barrels of gunpowder lay on all sides. Both before the
peace began, and also while it continued, Napoleon indulged in many
speculative threats of a future invasion of England, and preparations
were at this date said to be actually begun.
England alone of all the nations stood upright, and fearlessly looked
the tyrant in the face. And Great Britain, with all her pluck, had then
but a small army, no volunteers, and few fortifications, while her
chief defence, the fleet, though splendidly manned, was weak indeed,
compared with the mighty armament which she now possesses.
Whether the peace should last, or whether it should speedily end,
depended mainly on the will of one man, an ambitious and reckless
despot, who cared not a jot what rivers of French and English blood
he might cause to flow, nor how many thousands of French and English
widows might break their hearts, so long only as he could indulge to
the full his lust of conquest, and could obtain plenty of what he
called "glory." Another and truer name might easily have been found for
the commodity in question.
Yet it is impossible not to accord admiration to this man's
transcendent genius, and even Napoleon was not altogether bad. Perhaps,
in the bitterness of incessant war, even he sometimes was more harshly
judged than he fully deserved. But if so, he brought the evil upon
himself.
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Sir W. Napier.
[Illustration]
THE MESSAGE OF THE MARGUERITES.
(_See Coloured Frontispiece._)
This "ladie fayre" ascending the stairway of the old Castle of Blois
in France gives us a glimpse of the prevailing fashion of towering
head-dress worn in the fifteenth century. Addison satirically remarks
that, "Women in all ages have taken more pains than men to adorn the
outside of their heads." This adornment surely reached its culmination
when ladies adopted these wonderful erections called _fontanges_,
which, we are told by an ancient writer, were "like pointed steeples,
with loose kerchiefs atop hanging down sometimes as low as the ground."
As we look at the cooing doves in the castle window, we see an
indication of a weighty matter which rests upon the lady's mind. She
is gazing out over the distant woods to catch a glimpse of her lover
returning from the chase. She would fain believe that her true knight
cares for no one but herself, but how can she be sure?
In the castle garden she has culled a bunch of marguerites, and now she
is on her way to her own secret bower there to try her fortune. As she
pulls to pieces the fateful flowers she will murmur softly, "He loves
me a little, he loves me much, he loves me passionately, he loves me
not."
Let us hope the message will be propitious, and that when she descends
the stairs it will be to receive her lover with a smiling trustful
face, and that he will prove worthy of one so fair and sweet.
ABOUT SOME NORMANDY DAIRIES.
BY LADY GEORGINA VERNON.
Soft grey days, with rolling misty clouds, southerly winds crooning
pathetic farewells to the departing summer; such is October in
Normandy, alternated with brilliant days, flashing golden glory over
the myriad tinted orchards, such a strange mixture of grey and gold, of
fading pasture and scarlet leaves, early mornings calm and still with
every blade of grass heavy with dew, while the burning mid-day glows
with summer splendour, and days like these in autumn have a brilliancy
and a power of touching one's heart that no summer day possesses; and
in Normandy Nature seems to paint her beauties with more lavish hand
than in our northern climes. Scarlet and amber, crimson and madder deck
each tree and hedge, and even if there are grey days they only seem to
bring out more vividly the autumnal glories. October is a busy month
for farmer and dairy-man here, because one of the chief industries,
that of soft cheese-making, can only be sparingly carried on during
the hot summer months; and in October the manufacture of Camemberts
especially is at its height.
[Illustration: MANOIR-FERME OF S. HYPOLITE, NEAR LISIEUX.]
I should strongly advise any one who is interested in dairy-work to
make a trip to Normandy during this month, for they could pass a
delightful time studying the various methods of soft cheese-making.
This is an industry I have long wished to see carried to greater
perfection in England. It is work so eminently suited for women, and
could be undertaken by any one with a dairy, of even eight or ten cows,
with very little expense. I have lately been making a very careful
study of this work, and visiting many of the largest dairies round
Lisieux, which is the centre of the Camembert and Pont Evêque cheese
factories, and I have been much struck by the simplicity of the process
and the slight expense that the plant would cost for the production of
these and kindred cheeses.
There are great difficulties in the way of thoroughly mastering the
subject, because as a rule the whole process is carried on by "rule
of thumb." There are no thermometers, and they boast that they never
use one. The very important subject of the heat of the milk at various
stages of manufacture, the temperature of the rooms for ripening
the cheeses, are carried out by guess-work and feeling, and I think
that this is one cause that these cheeses vary so much in different
localities. I should strongly urge that any one desirous of becoming
an adept at this work should endeavour to get herself taken as a pupil
at one of the smaller farms. They will not take pupils at the large
manufactories, as it is not worth their while, but at some of the
smaller places, I think, if a pupil was willing to pay a premium, she
might get taken on. I spoke to one farmer who makes about four hundred
to six hundred Camemberts daily in his small dairy, and he thought it
was quite a possible plan. An intending pupil should provide herself
with two thermometers, one to hang up in the dairy and one to test the
heat of the milk. My own feeling inclines me to advise the taking up
of the Pont Evêque cheeses more than the Camembert; they are not so
difficult to ripen, and I think are more suitable to English taste, and
should command a ready sale.
Now if any one feels fired by a spirit of enterprise to take up this
interesting work, I could promise her that much pleasure could be
derived from such a trip, and if such a one is a cyclist, it could be
carried out at a very small cost. The roads in Normandy are splendid,
with a surface that even after heavy rains dries quickly, and one
can always find little country inns or _auberges_, where good food
and cleanliness can be insured, if not luxury. And I think the
most agreeable way of making a cycling tour is not to make any very
hard-and-fast rule as to stopping-places, but let it depend on the
weather and one's own feelings, as some days a run of forty miles is
easily accomplished, and yet on another, with a hot sun and many long
_côtes_ to climb, one is sufficiently tired after twenty-five miles
to greet with pleasure the little brick-floored cool parlour of the
wayside inn, and relish the excellent coffee, even without milk, and
the rolls and lovely butter that are always provided.
[Illustration: FALAISE.]
To reach Lisieux, which I warmly advise as headquarters, a very
delightful route for a cyclist is the following:--
Go over to Dieppe by the day boat, reaching about 4 P.M. At the Hotel
de Paris prices are very reasonable (which is more than can be said for
some of the hotels). Next morning start early, before the heat of the
day, and take the road which leads by the station up a long hill and
then through a very pleasant country of green fields and high hedges
and running streams, past the villages of Longueville, Auffay and
Clères, which is twenty-five miles from Dieppe, and where there is a
nice little inn. This is the Rouen Road, and if a forty-mile journey
is not too long, then Rouen can be reached without difficulty, as
the roads are good and there are no long hills, but if a very small
village inn is not objected to, I should advise my cyclist to stop at
Malaunay (twenty-three miles) at the Hotel de la Poste, where, though
one has to pass through the kitchen to one's brick-floored little
bedroom, I think the sight of the charming methods carried on in even
such a modest French kitchen is quite enough to give one an appetite
for dinner, and a desire to possess just such a stove and such shining
pots and pans and delightful brown earthenware "marmites." We will then
suppose our cyclist elects to rest at Malaunay. Next day again start
early, as there is little to see there except a sight which filled me
with horror, namely, a "margarine fabrique," specially for export
to England; that wide mouth which seems ready to take all that other
countries will send, bad or good.
From Malaunay, take the road for Maremme, turn to the right up a long
steep hill, and then a pleasant road through woods and valleys brings
one to the Seine at Duclair (sixteen miles). Along this district,
one first makes acquaintance with the charming black and white
cottages thatched with straw, with the top of the roof bound firm
by iris planted all along the ridge. When I was there in May, these
purple-roofed cottages were most picturesque. I should advise any one
who has the time to turn off the main road two miles to Jumièges and
visit those grand old ruins which stand in one of the promontories made
by the winding Seine. From Duclair a flat road leads to pretty Caudebec
(nine miles); here the Hotel de la Marine offers inexpensive comfort.
Make an evening visit to the great cathedral, which seems so out of
proportion to the size of the small riverside town, and you will be
fortunate if you come in for such a sweet, solemn service as I did this
year. There were only a few scattered lamps here and there hung in the
great arches, the light barely illuminating the central aisle, but a
brilliant light just outside the altar rails brought into full relief a
group of maidens, who were pouring forth the sweetest cantique of love
and devotion to "Marie, notre Mère;" while far away in the half gloom
shone out the never dying lamp opposite the tabernacle, and then, as
the hymn died away, the priests' voices rose and fell, and the bell
rang at the sanctus, and on the whole congregation came the wonderful
peace and quiet of the hour of benediction. And later, as I passed out
into the dim silence of the spring evening, I noted how there were
rough men from the boats on the river, and gipsy women from a little
encampment close by, and white-capped mothers with their children and
the wooden sabots clattered down the dark streets, and all was quiet.
[Illustration: MARKET-PLACE.]
If the next day should be the market day, the picturesque confusion
of the great square under the shadow of the cathedral, makes a scene
not easily forgotten--white tents and big blue umbrellas sheltering
piles of red carrots and cartloads of green cabbages, while the stalls
are decorated with huge bunches of pale-blue forget-me-nots and sweet
white pinks. Here you will make your first acquaintance with a Normandy
cheese stall, and I must confess the cheeses one meets at the country
markets are not inviting, but to the intending cheese-maker they are
most interesting.
There are two routes to choose from by which to reach Lisieux from
Caudebec. The shortest is to cross the river by the ferry, and it is
only nineteen miles to Pont Audemer, but the prettiest road is by
Lillebonne and Quillebœuf, where one takes the ferry, and through a
rich pasture country one reaches Pont Audemer, about twenty-two miles.
Here the tourist had better rest for refreshment. The remainder of the
road to Lisieux, another twenty-two miles, is through rather a hilly
country, but there are no very steep hills, and one finishes by a
two-mile run down into Lisieux, which lies in a deep valley.
There are several good hotels here, but I can name Hotel d'Espagne as
comfortable and reasonable in prices, while the landlord is always
ready to give advice as to the best farms to visit and the nearest
roads.
When arrived at Lisieux, I advise that all the larger farms and dairies
should be visited. I met with the greatest courtesy, and I found none
of the extreme reluctance to tell one the secrets which I had been
led to expect. On the contrary, I was able to see each step of the
various processes of the making of Camembert, Pont Evêque and Livarot.
The simplicity of the work of making these soft cheeses is such, that
I can only attribute the great difficulty experienced in England to
produce Camemberts in perfection to the herbage and the difference of
atmosphere. One of the largest makers and exporters of all the various
kinds of these cheeses is Monsieur Brière, at Mesnil Guillaume, some
four miles from Lisieux. Here, if he will be good enough to show his
manufactory, as he did to me, the work can be seen to its greatest
perfection--from the first turning of the milk, through the various
stages of the drying of the cheeses, to the final business of packing
for export. Monsieur Brière in the month of May, which is accounted as
_la saison morte_ for Camembert, was sending away one thousand five
hundred daily.
He makes also Pont Evêque and every variety of these French cheeses.
I should, however, recommend that a visit be paid to one of the farms
nearer Pont Evêque, where this is made a speciality.
Pont Evêque lies about thirteen miles from Lisieux. A large quantity
of these cheeses are made on small farms and sent _en blanc_, that is
after three or four days, to some of the larger factories, where they
are finally salted and dried and packed for export.
A very excellent variety of Camembert is made by Monsieur Chiffeman,
but his dairies are not near Lisieux, although he is one of the largest
buyers and exporters, and a most kind and courteous adviser I found him
as to the best dairies to visit.
[Illustration: A SUNNY DAY.]
The whole neighbourhood of Lisieux is full of interest not only to the
would-be cheese-maker but to the lover of architecture. Its quaint,
narrow streets and houses, enriched with carving up every beam, and
its fine churches, make it one of the gems of Normandy towns, while
within easy distance on almost every side may be found delightful
specimens of old chateaux and of Manoir-Fermes surrounded by a whole
array of picturesque half timbered farm buildings, all so arranged
that the master's eye can be upon everything, the whole nestling in
rich orchards which are one of the greatest sources of wealth to these
proprietors, while herds of the handsome Cotentin cows graze knee-deep
in the rich grass--these cows are a breed of which the farmers are
justly proud, somewhat resembling large Ayrshires but stronger in make
and bone--they consider them better than the Channel Islands breeds
for their purposes. I must not omit to mention among other cheeses the
Livarot, which really haunts one in market, hotel, and factory, the
strong pungent smell being very disagreeable to our English ideas.
Livarot is made from skimmed milk, mostly in the smaller dairies, and
is eaten by the poorer people. It is not a cheese which could ever
find a sale in England. The little town of Livarot lies about twelve
miles from Lisieux, and is worth a visit for the sake of its curious
old houses.
Charming excursions can also be made from Lisieux to Falaise (27
miles), with its grand castle, the birthplace of William the Conqueror,
Caen (28 miles) with its magnificent abbeys, Bayeux (18 miles further)
with its fine cathedral and interesting tapestry.
If a longer excursion than I have named can be taken, I should strongly
recommend my cyclist to take a run into Brittany, and visit the farms
round Rennes, where the Port du Salut cheeses are made. I could not
visit these manufactories myself, and I can give little advice on the
subject, but I know the roads round Rennes and they are good and it is
not very hilly, while the Port du Salut is a cheese which is always
sought after in England. It is one of the cheeses known as "Fromages
cuits," and for all these the plant required is costly. Another cheese,
almost similar, is known as La Providence, or Bricquebec, because it is
made at a convent of that name near Cherbourg. I do not know whether
the sisters at the convent could be induced to show their "fabrique."
I must not lengthen this article further, except to conduct my
intending cyclist home! And I think any one would find the road from
Lisieux by Bernay, 20 miles, and on to Evreux, 36 miles, visiting
there the celebrated cathedral, and then up straight north to the
Seine, one of the prettiest roads. Vernon, 25 miles, is easily reached
from Evreux, and few or many days can be happily spent along the ever
changing and delightful scenery of the silvery Seine, while here and
there one comes upon high chalk cliffs, honey-combed with caves, which
are fitted with doors and windows, and which form the dwellings of many
families.
From Vernon by le Petit Andelys and Pont de l'Arche to Rouen is about
40 miles, but I would suggest breaking the journey at Pont de l'Arche,
where there is a comfortable little inn close to the bridge and an
interesting church.
I think no tour in Normandy can be more appropriately finished than by
a sojourn at Rouen, that home of all that is most fascinating, in rich,
if somewhat over ornate architecture.
I have not, in this article, touched upon the question of Normandy
butter, which has become such a formidable competitor with English
markets, but to diversify the road to Dieppe, let our cyclist take the
road by Gournay through Neuchâtel-en-Bray, and visit on a Tuesday the
butter-market. I think when one sees the uniformity of the splendid
quality of butter in that market, and the severe scrutiny to which it
is subjected by the merchants, one realises partly why Normandy butter
has such a high character. Some thousands of pounds of butter change
hands there in a day.
Gournay is not only the centre of the butter market, but here also are
made the well-known Pommel and Gervais cheeses, of which the process is
well taught in some of our own English Dairy Schools--so at the British
Dairy School at Reading.
No stranger is allowed to enter any of the factories at Gournay, and
the greatest secrecy is observed, but I think that possibly, armed with
introductions, one might obtain an entrance, and then I am sure many
valuable hints could be got.
I hope anyone who undertakes the little trip I have described will
enjoy both the country and the dairies as thoroughly as I did, and come
home feeling that they have gained a considerable amount of knowledge
and of interest in all dairy matters, besides having their memories
stored with happy recollections of many sunny days spent amongst
courteous Normandy folk.
SOME PRACTICAL HINTS ON COSMETIC MEDICINE.
BY "THE NEW DOCTOR."