"What is that irregular rude mound, or wall of earth, in the centre of which children are playing?" "It is the old Roman Theatre, Sir." I immediately called to mind M. Le Prevost's instructions--and if I could have borrowed the wings of a spirit, I should have instantly alighted upon the spot--but it was situated without the precincts of the old castle and its appurtenances, and a mortal leap would have been attended with a mortal result. "Have you many English who visit this spot?" said I to my guide.-- "Scarcely any, Sir--it is a frightful place--full of desolation and sadness.." replied she. Again I gazed around, and in the distance, through an aperture in the orchard trees, saw the little fishing village of Quillebeuf,[88] quite buried, as it were, in the waters of the Seine. An arm of the river meanders towards Lillebonne. Having gratified my picturesque and antiquarian propensities, from this elevated situation, I retrod, with more difficulty than toil, my steps down the stair-case. A second stroll about the area, and along the skirts of the wall, was sufficient to convince me only--how slight and imperfect had been my survey!
On quitting the portal through which I entered, and bidding adieu to my Shepherdess and guide, I immediately hastened towards the Roman Theatre.[89] The town of Lillebonne has a very picturesque appearance from the old mound, or raised terrace, along the outer walls of the castle. In five minutes I mingled with the school boys who were amusing themselves within the ruins of all that is left of this probably once vast and magnificent old theatre. It is only by clearing away a great quantity of earth, with which these ruins are covered, that you can correctly ascertain their character and state of preservation. M. Le Prevost bade me remark that the walls had much swerved from their original perpendicularity,--and that there was much irregularity in the laying of the bricks among the stones. But time, design, and accident, have each in turn (in all probability) so contributed to decompose, deface, and alter the original aspect of the building, that there is no forming a correct conjecture as to its ancient form. Earth, grass, trees, flowers, and weeds, have taken almost entire possession of some low and massive outer walls; so that the imagination has full play to supply all deficiencies which appear to the eye.
From the whole of this interesting spot I retreated--with mixed sensations of melancholy and surprise--to the little auberge of the Three Moors, in the centre of the town. It had begun to rain smartly as we took shelter in the kitchen; where, for the first time since leaving England, I saw a display of utensils which might have vied with our own, or even with a Dutch interior, for neatness and order of disposition. Some of the dishes might have been as ancient as--not the old round Tower--but as the last English Duke of Normandy who might have banquetted there. The whole was in high polish and full display. On my complimenting the good Aubergiste upon so creditable a sight, she laughed, and replied briskly--"Ce n'est rien, ceci: Pentecôte est tout près, et donc vous verrez, Monsieur!"--It should seem that Whitsuntide was the season for a general household purification. Some of her furniture had once belonged to the Castle: but she had bought it, in the scramble which took place at the dispersion and destruction of the movables there, during the Revolution. I recommend all travellers to take a lunch, and enjoy a bottle of vin ordinaire, at Les Trois-Nègres. I was obliged to summon up all my stock of knowledge in polite phraseology, in order to decline a plate of soup. "It was delicious above every thing"--"but I had postponed taking dinner till we got to Bolbec." " Bon--vous y trouverez un hôtel superbe." The French are easily pleased; and civility is so cheap and current a coin abroad, that I wish our countrymen would make use of it a little more frequently than they appear to do. I started about two for Bolbec.
The rain continued during the whole of my route thither; but it did not prevent me from witnessing a land of plenty and of picturesque beauty on all sides. Indeed it is scarcely possible to conceive a more rich and luxuriant state of culture. To the left, about half a league from Lillebonne, I passed the domain of a once wealthy, and extremely extensive abbey. They call it the Abbey of Valasse. A long rambling bare stone wall, and portions of a deserted ruin, kept in sight for full half an English mile. The immediate approach to BOLBEC is that of the entrance to a modern and flourishing trading town, which seems to be beginning to recover from the effects of the Revolution. After Rouen, and even Caudebec, it has a stiff modernized air. I drove to the principal inn, opposite the church, and bespoke dinner and a bed. The church is perfectly, modern, and equally heavy and large. Crowds of people were issuing from Vespers, when, ascending a flight of steps, (for it is built on ground considerably above the ground-floor of the inn) I resolved to wait for the final departure of the congregation, and to take a leisurely survey of the interior, while dinner was getting ready.
The sexton was a perfect character in his way; old, shrewd, communicative, and civil. There were several confessionals. "What--you confess here pretty much?" "Yes, Sir; but chiefly females, and among them many widows." I had said nothing to provoke this ungallant reply. "In respect to the sacrament, what is the proportion between the communicants, as to sex?" "Sir, there are one hundred women to twelve men." I wish I could say that this disproportion were confined to France.
Quitting this heavy and ugly, but large and commodious fabric, I sought the inn and dinner. The cook was in every respect a learned professor in his art, and the produce of his skill was equally excellent and acceptable. I had scarcely finished my repast, and the Gruyere cheese and nuts yet lingered upon the table, when the soft sounds of an organ, accompanied by a youthful voice, saluted my ears in a very pleasing manner. " C'est LE PAUVRE PETIT SAVOYARD, Monsieur"--exclaimed the waiter--" Vous allez entendre un air touchant! Ah, le pauvre petit!"--"Comment ça?" "Monsieur, il n'a ni père ni mère; mais pour le chant--oh Dieu, il n'y a personne qui chante comme le pauvre petit Savoyard!" I was well disposed to hear the song, and to admit the truth of the waiter's observation. The little itinerant stopped opposite the door, and sung the following air:--
Bon jour, Bon soir.
Je peindrai sans détour
Tout l'emploi de ma vie:
C'est de dire bon jour
Et bon soir tour-à-tour.
Bon Jour à mon amie,
Lorsque je vais la voir.
Mais au fat qui m'ennuie,
Bon soir.
Bon jour franc troubadour,
Qui chantez la bombance;
La paix et les beaux jours;
Bacchus et les amours.
Qu'un rimeur en démence
Vienne avec vous s'asseoir,
Pour chanter la Romance,
Bon soir.
Bon jour, mon cher voisin,
Chez vous la soif m'entraîne:
Bonjour--si votre vin
Est de Beaune ou du Rhin;
Mon gosier va sans peine
Lui servir d'entonnoir;
Mais s'il est de Surêne,
Bon soir.