arating ... but alas! for the changes and
chances of every thing in this transitory world. Where was the warder? He
had ceased to blow his horn for many a long year. Where was the harp of the
minstrel? It had perished two centuries ago, with the hand that had struck
its chords. Where was the attendant guard?--or pursuivants--or men at arms?
They had been swept from human existence, like the leaves of the old limes
and beech trees by which the lower part of the building was surrounded. The
moat was dry; the rampart was a ruin:--the rank grass grew within the
area... nor can I tell you how many relics of halls, banqueting rooms, and
bed-rooms, with all the magnificent appurtenances of old castellated
architecture, struck the eager eye with mixed melancholy and surprise! The
singular half-circular, and half square, corner towers, hanging over the
ever-restless wave, interested me exceedingly. The guide shewed me where
the prisoners used to be kept--in a dungeon, apparently impervious to every
glimmer of day-light, and every breath of air. I cannot pretend to say at
what period even the oldest part of the Castle of Montmorenci was built:
but I saw nothing that seemed to be more ancient than the latter end of the
fifteenth century.[90] Perhaps the greater portion may be of the beginning
of the sixteenth; but, amidst the unroofed rooms, I could not help admiring
the painted borders, chiefly of a red colour, which run along the upper
part of the walls, or wainscoats--giving indication not only of a good, but
of a splendid, taste. Did I tell you that this sort of ornament was to be
seen in some parts of the eastern end of the Abbey of Jumieges? _Here_,
indeed, they afforded evidence--an evidence, mingled with melancholy
sensations on reflection--of the probable state of magnificence which once
reigned throughout the castle. Between the corner towers, upon that part
which runs immediately parallel with the Seine, there is a noble terrace,
now converted into garden ground--which commands an immediate and extensive
view of the embouchure of the river. It is the property of a speculator,
residing at Havre.

The cabriolet meeting me at the bottom of the mound upon which the castle
is built, (having paid the reckoning before I left the inn), I had nothing
to do but to step in, and push forward for _Havre_. Retracing the road
through which we came, we darted into the _Route Royale_, and got upon one
of the noblest high roads in France.