had scarcely before seen.  The garden was almost suffocated with lilacs and laburnums, glittering in their respective liveries of white, purple, and yellow.  I stepped into a berceau—­and sitting upon a bench, bethought me of the strange visit I was about to make—­as well as of all the pleasing pastoral poetry and painting which I had read in the pages of De Lille, or viewed upon the canvas of Watteau.  The clock of the church of St. Gervais struck three; when, starting from my reverie, I knocked at the hall-door, and was announced to the family, (who had just risen from dinner) above stairs.  A circle of five gentlemen would have alarmed a very nervous visitor; but the Count, addressing me in a semi-British and semi-Gallic phraseology, immediately dissipated my fears.  In five minutes he was made acquainted with the cause of this apparent intrusion.

Nothing could exceed his amiable frankness.  The very choicest wine was circulated at his table; of which I partook in a more decided manner on the following day—­when he was so good as to invite me to dine.  When I touched upon his favourite theme of Norman Antiquities, he almost shouted aloud the name of INGULPH,—­that “cher ami de Guillaume le Conquerant!” I was unwilling to trespass long; but I soon found the advantage of making use of the name of “Monsieur Mouton—­l’estimable Cure de la Sainte Trinite.”

[Illustration]

In a stroll to Guibray, towards sunset the next day, I passed through a considerable portion of the Count’s property, about 300 acres, chiefly of pasture land.  The evening was really enchanting; and through the branches of the coppice wood the sun seemed to be setting in a bed of molten gold.  Our conversation was animated and incessant.  In the old and curious church of Guibray, the Count shewed us his family pew with the care and particularity of an old country squire.  Meanwhile Mr. Lewis was making a hasty copy of one of the very singular ornaments—­representing Christ bearing his cross—­which was suspended against the walls of the altar of a side chapel.  You have it here.  It is frightfully barbarous, and characteristic of the capricious style of art which frequently prevailed about the year 1520:  but the wonder is, how such a wretched performance could obtain admission into the sanctuary where it was deposited.  It was however the pious gift of the vestry woman—­who shewed us the interior—­and who had religiously rescued it, during the Revolution, from the demolition of a neighbouring abbey.  The eastern end of this church is perhaps as old as any ecclesiastical edifice in Normandy;[171] and its exterior (to which we could only approach by wading through rank grass as high as our knees) is one of the most interesting of its kind.  During our admiration of all that was curious in this venerable edifice, we were struck by our old friends, the penitents,—­busy in making confession.  In more than one confessional there were two penitents; and towards one of these, thus doubly attended, I saw a very large, athletic, hard-visaged priest hastening, just having slipt on his surplice in the vestry.  Indeed I had been cursorily introduced to him by the Count.  It was Saturday evening, and the ensuing Sunday was to be marked by some grand procession.