At last, passing right through the solid rock at the base, down a staircase dimly lit by little loopholes that look out to sea, I emerge on the shore, and see the huge cliffs towering precipitately above me. Close to the spot on which I stand, a huge piece of earth has just fallen, and small fragments are still rattling down like hail. Close before me, to the right, towers the Needle of Belval—an enormous monolith of chalk, standing at the distance of four furlongs from the cliffs, with the sea washing perpetually around its base. Its form is square from head to foot; but the sea has so eaten at the base that it seems to stand balanced on a narrow point, and the beholder expects every moment to see the huge structure crash over into the sea. The sea-gull and cormorant, secure from mortal intrusion, build their nests upon its summit. Regarded from the cliffs, it appears like a great ship floating shorewards, with the white foam dashing round its keel, and the birds screaming wildly around its sails. But hard by, round yonder rocky promontory, is a sight still finer. Passing round, I find that the cliffs, on the farther side, turn inland, and before me, at a distance of a hundred yards, is a huge flat hollow in the rock. That is La Mousse, so called on account of the thick green and yellow moss which covers one side of the hollow to the height of one hundred feet. At this distance one sees nothing remarkable, but on approaching nearer, a sight of dazzling beauty bursts upon the gaze. From the projecting rocks above, pours a thin stream of water, which, trickling downward, spreads itself over the moss and sparkles in a million drops of silver light; in one place scattering countless pearls over a bed of loveliest deepest emerald; in another, forming itself into a succession of little silver waterfalls; and in a third, gleaming like molten gold on a soft bed of yellow lichen. It is such a picture as one could never have conceived out of Fairyland a downy mass of sparkling colours, played over by the cool soft spots of liquid light, and looking, with the great cliffs towering all around, and the windy sea foaming out before it, and the sea-wrack gathering darkly, as if about to destroy it near its base. Never was sweeter spot to woo in, to kiss in, and to dream in! As I pass away, looking backward as I go, the silver drops melt away again like dew in the sun, the moss looks dry and shady on the cave, and the beauty I have witnessed seems like enchantment—the vision of an instant. But the low, faint murmur of the water is still in my ears, faint and sweet and melancholy, and my brow is yet wet and cool with the spray the invisible spirit of the place has scattered over me! But I must hasten. The tide is rising quickly, and if I do not round the promontory with speed, it may go ill with me. As I pass the Needle again, the waves have risen round it, and are beating against it in white foam, trying with all the might of waves to drag it into the gulf. But it stands firm, and will, in all probability, do so for many a year to come. As I reach the summits of the cliffs again, the sun is slanting to his rest, though it is only three o'clock. The cloudy west is stained in deep crimson light, against which the grassy hills, and fresh ploughed fields, and squares of trees, by whose foliage the farms are hidden in summer, stand out in distinct and beautiful lines. So I hasten homeward. By the time I enter the village, the merry-making has reached fever heat, and not a few of the virtuous villagers are tipsy. There is little singing now, only loud laughing and shouting. The telegraph clerk is walking sadly to his silent meal. During the whole week these festivities last: the singing and promenading, the tippling in the cafés, the romping and the flirting; but the climax comes on New Year's Day. As I dress in the morning, a sound of Babel deafens me-singing, shouting, screaming, barking of dogs, rattling of carts. People are pouring in from all the farms and detached houses round about. Little fathers, driving knock-kneed horses, and seated in carts with fat mothers and bawling children; buxom lasses trotting on solemn ponies; the diligence from Fécamp tearing up the street, crowded from top to bottom, and hung with garlands. Opposite my door the men are stopping the girls, snatching the privilege of a New Year's kiss from buxom cheeks, and some of them, more amorous than powerful, getting tumbled over into the dirt by the strong hands that will yet wear big rings and lead sharp children. Head-dresses are torn, dresses rumpled, blouses rent, in the merry scuffle. Everywhere, among the bigger folk, jump little ones, sucking chocolate and bon bons. Papas and mammas, uncles and aunts, meet and chatter and kiss. The very dogs at the street corners— a numerous group-are sociable and merry with each other, and bark cheerily, without malice; among them, regarded with great respect, is my white ruffian, "Bob," who doesn't understand their manners and customs, but |