[81] ["I know perfectly well, says M. Licquet, the little Inn of which the
    author here speaks.  I can assure him that it never formed any portion
    of the “chapter house.”  It was nevertheless une dependance
    exterieure (I will not attempt a version of this phrase) of the
    abbey.  Dare I venture to say it was the cowhouse? (etable aux
    vaches).  Thank you, good Mons. Licquet; but what is a cow-house but
    “an outer building attached to the Abbey?” Vide supra.]

[82] [The heart and entrails only of this once celebrated woman were,
    according to M. Licquet, buried in the above spot.  The body was
    carried to Loches:  and BELLEFOREST (Cosmog. vol. i.  Part ii.
    col. 31-32. edit. 1575, folio) gives a description of the mausoleum
    where it was there entombed:  a description, adds M. Licquet, which may
    well serve for the mausoleum that was at Jumieges.]

[83] [Not the smallest portion or particle of a sigh escapes us, on being
    told, as my translator has told us, that the “soil” in question has
    become the property of another Owner.  “Laius EST MORT”—­are the
    emphatic words of M. Licquet.]

[84] [One of the bells of the Abbey of Jumieges is now in the Tower of that
   of St. Ouen, at Rouen.  LICQUET.]

LETTER X.

CAUDEBEC.  LILLEBONNE.  BOLBEC.  TANKARVILLE.  MONTMORENCI CASTLE.  HAVRE DE
GRACE.

My last concluded with our entrance into Caudebec.  The present opens with a morning scene at the same place.  For a miracle I was stirring before nine.  The church was the first object of attraction.  For the size of the place, it is really a noble structure:  perhaps of the early part of the sixteenth, or latter part of the fifteenth century.[85] I speak of the exterior generally, and of a great portion of the interior.  A little shabby green-baise covered door (as usual) was half open, and I entered with no ordinary expectations of gratification.  The painted glass seemed absolutely to warm the place—­so rich and varied were its colours.  There is a great abundance of it, and especially of figures of family-groups kneeling—­rather small, but with great appearance of portrait-like fidelity.  They are chiefly of the first half of the sixteenth century:  and I own that, upon gazing at these charming specimens of ancient painting upon glass, I longed to fix an artist before every window, to bear away triumphantly, in a portfolio of elephantine dimensions, a faithful copy of almost every thing I saw.  In some of the countenances, I fancied I traced the pencil of LUCAS CRANACH—­and even of HANS HOLBEIN.