characteristics, in breadth and straitness, of a Roman route; and as it was greatly undulating, I had frequently some gratifying glimpses of its bold direction.  The surrounding country was of a quietly picturesque but fruitful aspect; and had my seat been comfortable, or after the fashion of those in my own country, my sensations had been more agreeable.  But in truth, instead of springs, or any thing approximating to “tres propre,” I had to encounter a hard plank, suspended at the extremities, by a piece of leather, to the sides; and as the road was but too well bottomed, and the conveyance was open in front to the bitter blast of the east, I can hardly describe (as I shall never forget) the misery of this conveyance.

Fortunately the first stage was Ville Dieu.  Here I ordered a voiture and post horses:  but the master of the Poste Royale, or rather of the inn, shook his head—­“Pour les chevaux, vous en aurez des meilleurs:  mais, pour la voiture il n’y en a pas.  Tenez, Monsieur; venez voir.”  I followed, with miserable forebodings—­and entering a shed, where stood an old tumble-down-looking phaeton—­“la voila, c’est la seule que je possede en ce moment”—­exclaimed the landlord.  It had never stirred from its position since the fall of last years’ leaf.  It had been—­within and without—­the roosting place for fowls and other of the feathered tribe in the farm yard; and although literally covered with the evidences of such long and undisturbed possession, yet, as there was no appearance of rain, and as I discovered the wished for “ressorts” (or springs) I compromised for the repulsiveness of the exterior, and declared my intention of taking it onward.  Water, brooms, brushes, and cloths, were quickly put in requisition; and two stately and well fed horses, which threatened to fly away with this slender machine, being fastened on, I absolutely darted forward at a round rattling gallop for St. Sever.  Blessings ever wait upon the memory of that artisan who invented ... springs!

The postilion had the perfect command of his horses, and he galloped, or trotted, or ambled, as his fancy—­or rather our wishes—­directed.  The approach to our halting place was rather imposing.  What seemed to be a monastery, or church, at St. Sever, had quite the appearance of Moorish architecture; and indeed as I had occasional glimpses of it through the trees, the effect was exceedingly picturesque.  This posting town is in truth very delightfully situated.  While the horses were being changed, I made our way for the monastery; which I found to be in a state rather of dilapidation than of ruin.  It had, indeed, a wretched aspect.  I entered the chapel, and saw lying, transversely upon a desk, to the left—­a very clean, large paper, and uncut copy of the folio Rouen Missal of 1759.  Every thing about this deserted and decaying spot had a melancholy appearance:  but the surrounding country was rich, wooded, and picturesque.  In former days of prosperity—­such as St. Sever had seen before the Revolution—­there had been gaiety, abundance, and happiness.  It was now a perfect contrast to such a state.