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 my way up the street, "on speculation," 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 by-streets 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 countrytown 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 really not like a Cathedral, but more like some beetling tower or bastion-all height, and no length. It was too late to see the interior. We are told that this great monument was intended to eclipse Amiens, and was carried up so high as to overpower its supports, and fell in. It had then to be propped up with added pillars; the ambitious scheme, like other ambitions, "o'erleaped itself," and the work stopped short on the favourite 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 colour; 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 details-the 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 ticket-taker 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

VOL. CCLXXX. NO. 1985.

K K

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 halfhour'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 Harbour-the slate-coloured 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 anyone like myself that passed. The crowded vessels seemed to be slumbering in the harbour. 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.

ON THE WRITING OF HISTORY.

A

LL men by nature are historians, for in their memory they print the tale of that small world in which they play their part. And, as Carlyle has said, we, in great measure, speak but to narrate— our conversations are small histories. So it is with the greater world beyond. No rudest nation but can somewhere show the first beginnings of a history, in keeping with itself and with the times. Man looks across his shoulder at the past, and everywhere sits down at Clio's feet to learn the lessons she alone can teach, that vast experience which is her own. True, he looks forward also, till it almost seems that his strained eyes can dimly shadow forth one or two objects looming in the mists; but yet his province lies within the past. As Bacon says, his history makes him wise-the study of that narrow track which lies in partial sunshine, which all men have trod in their brief march between the two unknowns.

And yet this Clio, whom all men admire, this eldest daughter of the memory, this goddess moving calmly and serene amid the bustle of a jarring world, is little better than a wayward child who tells a tale to suit the hearer's ear, and changes with the ever changing times. She stands apart from all her sisters, boasts of truth, and by her daring falsehoods gains belief. Among the Muses she would play the part of the unsullied puritanic maid, yet she will look one full within the eyes and, without flinching, she will roundly lie. Napoleon's bold assertion, that all history consists of fiction which men have agreed to hold, possesses something strangely near the truth, and it is not the wild, rash statement which at first it seems.

When Matthew Arnold laid his hand upon the two great fallacies which most of all mar our poetic judgment, he likewise exposed the errors which have probably done most to turn man's mirror from the level to oblique, so that the moving scenes we watch within are all distorted and unnatural. For, on the one hand, we must take account of the inevitable personal and strangely subtle element in each man's work, which unmistakably affects the whole. Strange, says Carlyle, in his "Heroes," that "for any man the truest fact is