of the days when Caen was a walled and
strongly fortified city, but as you look at it to-day it seems too much
like a good piece of the sham antique to be found at large exhibitions. It
is the restoration that is at fault, and not the tower itself, which is
really old, and no doubt is in quiet rebellion at the false complexion it
is obliged to wear.

The view of Caen from across the race-course is a beautiful one, but under
some aspects this is quite eclipsed by the wonderful groupings of the
church towers seen from the canal as it goes out of the town towards the
east. I can remember one particular afternoon when there was a curious
mistiness through which the western sunlight passed, turning everything
into a strange, dull gold. It was a light that suppressed all that was
crude and commercial near at hand and emphasised the medievalism of the
place by throwing out spires and towers in softly tinted silhouettes. I
love to think of Caen robed in this cloth of gold, and the best I can wish
for every one who goes there with the proper motives, is that they may see
the place in that same light.

On the left, a few miles out of Caen on the road to Creully, stands the
Abbaye d'Ardennes where Charles VII. lodged when his army was besieging
the city in 1450. The buildings are now used as a farm, and the church
is generally stacked with hay and straw up to the triforium.

Although they start towards the east, the canal and the river Orne
taking parallel courses run generally towards the north, both entering
the sea by the village of Ouistreham, the ancient port of Caen. Along
the margin of the canal there is a good road, and almost hidden by the
long grass outside the tall trees that line the canal on each bank,
runs the steam tramway to Cabourg and the coast to the west of the
Orne. Except when the fussy little piece of machinery drawing three or
four curious, open-sided trams, is actually passing, the tramway
escapes notice, for the ground is level and the miniature rails are
laid on the ground without any excavating or embanking. The scenery as
you go along the tramway, the road, or the canal, is charming, the
pastures on either side being exceedingly rich, and the red and white
cattle seem to revel in the long grass and buttercups. Heronville,
Blainville and other sleepy villages are pleasantly perched on the
slight rise on the western side of the canal. Their churches, with red
roofs all subdued with lichen into the sof