I am quite sure that all the flats, which I saw on my
arrival as a bed of mud, were, within a quarter of an hour, wholly covered
with the tide: and, looking up to the right, I perceived the perpendicular
walls of _Montmorenci Castle_ to be washed by the refluent wave. It was a
sort of ocean in miniature before me. A few miserable fishing boats were
moored upon the beach; while a small number of ill-clad and straggling
villagers lingered about the same spot, and seemed to look upon the postboy
and myself as beings dropt from the sky!

On ascending a considerable elevation, I had the gratification of viewing
_Quillebeuf_ a little more nearly. It was almost immediately opposite:
while, to the right, contemplating the wide sweep of the river towards its
embouchure, I fancied that I could see _Havre_. The group of rocks, which
had so charmed us on our journey, now assumed a different character. On
descending, I could discover, although at a considerable distance, the old
woman standing at the door of the auberge--apparently straining her eyes to
catch a glimpse of us; and she was almost disposed to scold for having put
her reputation of giving good breakfasts to so hazardous a trial. The wood
was blazing, and the room was almost filled by smoke--but a prolonged fast,
and a stage of sixteen or eighteen miles, in a keen morning air, made Mr.
Lewis and myself only think of allaying our hunger. In every public house,
however mean, you see the white metal fork, and the napkin covering the
plate. A dozen boiled eggs, and a coffee pot and cups of perfectly
Brobdignagdian dimensions, with tolerable bread and indifferent butter,
formed the _materiel_ of our breakfast. The postboy, having stabled and
refreshed his horses, was regaling himself in the kitchen--but-how do you
think he was regaling himself?--Truly, in stretching himself upon a bench,
and reading, as old Ascham expresses it, "a merry tale in Boccace." In
other words, he was reading a French version of the Decameron of that
celebrated author. Indeed, I had already received sufficient proof of the
general propensity of the common people to _read_--whether good or bad
books ... but let us hope and believe the former. I left the bibliomaniacal
postboy to his Boccaccio, and prepared to visit the CASTLE... the once
proud and yet commanding residence of the family of MONTMORENCI.

I ascended--with fresh energies imparted from my breakfast. The day grew
soft, and bright, and exhil