with clear purpose of protection and support,—­the strong-limbed facing the north and stretching out their protecting arms, the weaker towering above them in the centre of the square; whilst those to the south spread a deep shade almost to the ground.  French trees are under an Imperial necessity to form into line; the groves at Fontainbleau are as straight as the Fifth Avenue at New York.  There are no studies of trees in all Normandy like the royal oaks of Windsor, there is nothing to compare in grandeur with the stems of the Burnham beeches, set in a carpet of ferns; and nothing equal in effect to the massing of the blue pines—­with their bronzed stems against an evening sky—­in Woburn Park in Bedfordshire.  We may bring some pretty studies from Avranches and from the country round, but we should not come to France to draw trees.

But there are studies which we may make near Avranches, and of scenes that we shall not meet with in England.  If we descend the hill and walk a few miles in the direction of Granville, we may see by the roadside the remnants of several wayside ‘stations’ of very early date.  Let us sit down by the roadside to sketch one of these (A.D. 1066), and depict for the reader, almost with the accuracy of a photograph, its grotesque proportions.  It stands on a bank, in a prominent position, by the roadside; a rude contrast to the surrounding scenery.  Presently there comes up an old cantonnier in a blouse and heavy sabots, who has just returned from mending the roads; he takes off his cap, crosses himself devoutly, and kneels down to pray.  The sun shines upon the cross and upon the kneeling figure; the soft wind plays about them, the bank is lovely with wild flowers; there are purple hills beyond, and a company of white clouds careering through space.  But the old man sees nothing but the cross, he has no eyes for the beauty of landscape, no ear for the music of the birds or the voices of nature; he sees nothing but the image of his Saviour, he kneels as he knelt in childhood before the cross, he clasps his worn hands, and prays, with many repetitions, words which evidently bring comfort to his soul.  In a few minutes the old man rises and puts on his cap, with a brass plate on it with the number of his canton, produces a little can of soup and bread and sits down on the bank to breakfast; ending by unrolling a morsel of tobacco from a crumpled paper, putting it into his mouth and going fast asleep.

[Illustration]

Many more such scenes we could record, but they are more fitted for the pencil than the pen; the artist can easily fill his sketch-book without going far from Avranches.

But as autumn advances our thoughts are naturally turned more towards ‘le sport;’ and if we are fortunate enough to be on visiting terms with the owners of the neighbouring chateaux, we may be present at some interesting scenes that will remind us of pictures in the galleries at Versailles.