University of Virginia Library

3. THE
GOLDEN LION INN,
AT ROUEN.

3. THE
GOLDEN LION INN.

This answer of Monsieur Vinot must have
been running in my head, as the Diligence
stopped at the Messagerie; for when the porter,
who took my luggage, said;

“Où allez-vous, Monsieur?”

I answered, without thinking, (for be it
said with all the veracity of a traveller, at that
time I did not know there was a Golden Lion
in the city)

“Au Lion d'Or.”

And so to the Lion d'Or we went.

The hostess of the Golden Lion received me

with a courtesy and a smile, rang the house-bell
for a servant—and told him to take the gentleman's
things to No. 35. I followed him up
stairs. One—two—three—four—five—six—
seven! Seven stories high—by our Lady!—
I counted them every one;—and when I went
down to remonstrate, I counted them again;
so that there was no possibility of a mistake.
When I asked for a lower room, the hostess
told me the house was full; and when I spake
of going to another hotel, she said she should
be so very sorry, so désolée, to have Monsieur
leave her, that I marched up again to No. 35.

After finding all the fault I could with the
chamber, I ended, as is generally the case with
most men on such occasions, by being very
well pleased with it. The only thing I could
possibly complain of, was my being lodged in
the seventh story, and in the immediate neighborhood
of a gentleman who was learning to
play the French horn. But to remunerate me
for these disadvantages, my window looked
down into a market-place, and gave me a distant
view of the towers of the Cathedral, and
the ruins of the church and Abbey of Saint-Ouen.

When I had fully prepared myself for a
ramble through the city, it was already sundown;
and after the heat and dust of the day,
the freshness of the long evening twilight
was delightful. When I enter a new city, I
cannot rest till I have satisfied the first cravings
of curiosity by rambling through its
streets. Nor can I endure a Cicerone, with his
eternal “This way, Sir.” I never desire to be
led directly to an object worthy of a traveller's
notice, but prefer a thousand times, to find my
own way, and come upon it by surprise. This
was particularly the case at Rouen. It was
the first European city of importance that I
visited. There was an air of antiquity about
the whole city, that breathed of the Middle
Ages; and so strong and delightful was the
impression, that it made upon my youthful imagination,
that nothing, which I afterwards
saw, could either equal or efface it. I have
since passed through that city; but I did
not stop. I was unwilling to destroy an impression,
which, even at this distant day, is as
fresh upon my mind, as if it were of yesterday.

With these delightful feelings I rembled on

from street to street, till at length after threading
a narrow alley, I unexpectedly came out
in front of the magnificent Cathedral. If it
had suddenly risen from the earth, the effect
could not have been more powerful and instantaneous.
It completely overwhelmed my imagination;
and I stood for a long time motionless,
and gazing entranced upon the stupendous
edifice. I had seen no specimen of gothic architecture
before, save the remains of a little
church at Havre; and the massive towers before
me—the lofty windows of stained glass—
the low portal, with its receding arches and
rude statues—all produced upon my untravelled
mind an impression of awful sublimity.
When I entered the church, the impression
was still more deep and solemn. It was the
hour of vespers. The religious twilight of the
place—the lamps that burned on the distant altar—the
kneeling crowd—the tinkling bell—
and the chaunt of the evening service, that rolled
along the vaulted roof in broken and repeated
echoes—filled me with new and intense
emotions. When I gazed on the stupendous
architecture of the church—the huge columns,
that the eye followed up till they were lost in
the gathering dusk of the arches above—the
long and shadowy aisles—the statues of saints
and martyrs, that stood in every recess—the
figures of armed knights upon the tombs—the
uncertain light, that stole through the painted
windows of each little chapel—and the form of
the cowled and solitary monk, kneeling at the
shrine of his favorite saint, or passing between
the lofty columns of the church,—all I
had read of, but had not seen,—I was transported
back to the Dark Ages, and felt as I
shall never feel again.

On the following day I visited the remains
of an old palace, built by Edward the Third,
now occupied as the Palais de Justice; and the
ruins of the church and monastery of Saint Antoine.—I
saw the hole in the tower where the
ponderous bell of the Abbey fell through;—and
took a peep at the curious illuminated manuscript
of Daniel d'Aubonne in the public library.
The remainder of the morning was
spent in visiting the ruins of the ancient Abbey
of St. Ouen, which is now transformed into the
Hotel de Ville, and in strolling through its

beautiful gardens, dreaming of the present and
the past, and given up to “a melancholy of my
own.”

At the Table d' Hôte of the Golden Lion,
I fell into conversation with an elderly gentleman,
who proved to be a great antiquarian, and
thoroughly read in all the forgotten lore of the
city. As our tastes were somewhat similar,
we were soon upon very friendly terms; and
after dinner, we strolled out to visit some
remarkable localities, and took the gloria together
in the Chevalier Bayard.

When we returned to the Golden Lion he
entertained me with many curious stories of
the spots we had been visiting. Among others
he related the following singular adventure of
a monk of the Abbey of Saint Antoine, which
amused me so much, that I cannot refrain
from presenting it to my readers. I will not,
however, vouch for the truth of the story; for
that the antiquarian himself would not do. He
said he found it in an ancient manuscript of the
Middle Ages, in the archives of the public library,
and I give it as it was told me, without
note or comment.