f pedestrian
traveling in fairer seasons, my experience dictates that during winter
storms and March glooms, it had better be dispensed with. However, I
pushed on to St. Germain, threaded its long streets, looked down from
the height over its magnificent tract of forest and turned westward down
the Seine. Owing to the scantiness of villages, I was obliged to walk an
hour and a half in the wind and darkness, before I reached a solitary
inn. As I opened the door and asked for lodging, the landlady inquired
if I had the necessary papers. I answered in the affirmative and was
admitted. While I was eating supper, they prepared their meal on the
other end of the small table and sat down together. They fell into the
error, so common to ignorant persons, of thinking a foreigner could not
understand them, and began talking quite unconcernedly about me. "Why
don't he take the railroad?" said the old man: "he must have very little
money--it would be bad for us if he had none." "Oh!" remarked his son,
"if he had none, he would not be sitting there so quiet and
unconcerned." I thought there was some knowledge of human nature in this
remark. "And besides," added the landlady, "there is no danger for us,
for we have his passport." Of course I enjoyed this in secret, and
mentally pardoned their suspicions, when I reflected that the high roads
between Paris and London are frequented by many imposters, which makes
the people naturally mistrustful. I walked all the next day through a
beautiful and richly cultivated country. The early fruit trees were
bursting into bloom, and the farmers led out their cattle to pasturage
in the fresh meadows. The scenery must be delightful in summer--worthy
of all that has been said or sung about lovely Normandy. On the morning
of the third day, before reaching Rouen, I saw at a distance the remains
of Chateau Galliard, the favorite castle of Richard Coeur de Lion. Rouen
breathes everywhere of the ancient times of Normandy. Nothing can be
more picturesque than its quaint, irregular wooden houses, and the low,
mossy mills, spanning the clear streams which rush through its streets.
The Cathedral, with its four towers, rises from among the clustered
cottages like a giant rook, split by the lightning and worn by the rains
of centuries is into a thousand fantastic shapes.

Resuming my walk in the afternoon, I climbed the heights west of the
city, and after passing through a suburb four or five miles in length,