These cottages rapidly give way to a steep lane,
overhung with trees. If we look back through
the shade of this natural arch, we see the hot,
stony street we have ascended, with a boundless
stretch of sparkling'blue sea beyond. Still mount-
ing what resembles a bowl among the hills,
composed of delightfully accidental ground, we
find a circle of charming rural subjects within ten
minutes' climb of the centre of the town. A net-
work of wayward paths hurry-scurry headlong into
the town below, worn by peasants from the neigh-
bouring village and farms, too impatient to descend
by the more stately curves of the high-roads.
Clumps of wayward trees are scattered about, tall
and bent by the wind. Here and there a bye-road
has been cut deep in the hillside and climbs to
an upland farm. It is a landscape in which
Courbet would have revelled. On the brim of
the bowl, ensconced in the trees, are a couple of
fascinating "auberges," where one can take one's
meals in the shade of an orchard and get glimpses
between the trees of the little green amphitheatre
below, with the town at its base and the great
stretch of sea beyond.
At the back of these cafes, hidden from the
main road, and still almost within stone's-throw
of Treport church tower, is a moss-grown, forgotten
little village, which looks as though it were miles
from anywhere. The haphazard village street goes
ambling away up the hill to where some immense
trees cluster round the remains of a grand old
farm. These rugged, storm-beaten trees come
well, whether seen from the waving cornfields or
from a little further down the road, where, with
the cottages sheltering beneath them, they bring
irresistibly to mind certain of Hobbema's finest
From here we can make our way round the top
of the "bowl" to the Calvary which stands on the
highest part of the cliff overlooking the town. All
over this neighbourhood, known as TreportTerrasse,
the views are fine ; but from the cross itself a
truly wonderful panorama greets us.
Deep down perpendicularly below us, and
looking strangely unreal, is the maze of little grey
streets known as the Lower Town. The sea
jnenaces it on its outer edge. The piers, stretch-
ing out their long, protecting arms, mark the
entrance to the harbour, which curves through the
entire depth of the town, and, after dodging under
the bridges, disperses itself, through several water-
ways, up the valley. Just where we lose sight of
the river round a spur of the hills, something
twinkling merrily in the sunlight attracts the eye.
It is the roofs and towers of the right royal Chateau
of Eu. The interesting old town of Eu, embowered
in trees is but two or three miles from Treport,
and, among other attractions, contains a far-famed
and splendid cathedral.
From our point of vantage at the Calvary we
can trace the two roads back from Eu, one on
either side of the river. That on the Mers side
follows as magnificent an avenue of trees as
eye could desire. A fine road, this is, with the
river curvetting about on one side of it and great,
wealthy-looking fields climbing the broad downs
on the other ; in fact, it is a road which must prove
a never-ending joy to artists. The eye traces it
back into Mers, which, with its dazzling white
cliff, stretches round a little bay and back on to
the downs above.
Descending into Treport by the steps, interest-
ing " bits " will be found all the way down.
Once on level ground again, one glance at the little
Place Notre Dame and the queer little streets run-
ning out of it, all blocked at their further end by
the sheer cliff, will demonstrate their claims upon
brush and pencil.
Most painting materials, except large canvases,
are obtainable in the town.
Frank L. Emanuel.
SOME DRAWINGS BY JAMES
PRYDE. BY CHARLES HIATT.
Some years ago not a few English artists
of repute turned their attention to the designing
of posters. The outcome of the new enthusiasm
was sometimes agreeable and even impressive, and
at others simply astonishing. At length, certain
bills signed " Beggarstaffs" provoked an amount
of discussion such as has been accorded to the
work of no other English designer of posters,
with the exception, perhaps, of the late Aubrey
Beardsley. It was felt at once that here was
something new and strange, and, what is much
more important, something as intensely English
as it was triumphantly successful from the point
of view of the advertiser.
All the world knows now that the Beggarstaffs
were Mr. James Pryde and Mr. William Nicholson.
The latter has deservedly achieved wide popu-
larity. Mr. Pryde, although his work is not a
whit less original and interesting, is better known
to those who haunt the studios of Chelsea and
Kensington than to the man in the street. Let it
be at once admitted that the art of Mr. Pryde is at
first caviare to the general. Unlike Charles Keene