hen gained a height; whence, looking straight
forward, we caught the first glance of the spires, or rather of the west
end towers, of the Abbey of Jumieges.[80] "La voila, Monsieur,"--exclaimed
the postilion--increasing his speed and multiplying the nourishes of his
whip--"voila la belle Abbaye!"

We approached and entered the village of Jumieges. Leaving some neat houses
to the right and left, we drove to a snug auberge, evidently a portion of
some of the outer buildings, or of the chapter-house, attached to the
Abbey. A large gothic roof, and central pillar, upon entering, attest the
ancient character of the place.[81] The whole struck us as having been
formerly of very great dimensions. It was a glorious sun-shiny afternoon,
and the villagers quickly crowded round the cabriolet. "Voila Messieurs les
Anglois, qui viennent voir l'Abbaye--mais effectivement il n'y a rien a
voir." I told the landlady the object of our visit. She procured us a guide
and a key: and within five minutes we entered the nave of the abbey. I can
never forget that entrance. The interior, it is true, has not the magical
effect, or that sort of artificial burst, which attends the first view of
_Tintern_ abbey: but, as the ruin is larger, there is necessarily more to
attract attention. Like Tintern also, it is unroofed--yet this unroofing
has proceeded from a different cause: of which presently. The side aisles
present you with a short flattened arch: the nave has none: but you observe
a long pilaster-like, or alto-rilievo column, of slender dimensions,
running from bottom to top, with a sort of Roman capital. The arched
cieling and roof are entirely gone. We proceeded towards the eastern
extremity, and saw more frightful ravages both of time and of accident. The
latter however had triumphed over the former: but for _accident_ you must
read _revolution_.

The day had been rather oppressive for a May morning; and we were getting
far into the afternoon, when clouds began to gather, and the sun became
occasionally obscured. We seated ourselves upon a grassy hillock, and began
to prepare for dinner. To the left of us lay a huge pile of fragments of
pillars and groinings of arches--the effects of recent havoc: to the right,
within three yards, was the very spot in which the celebrated AGNES SOREL,
Mistress of Charles VII, lay entombed:[82]--not a relic of mausoleum now
marking the place where, formerly, the sculptor had exhibited the choicest
efforts of