ABBEY OF LOCHES. 127 Loches, could not have been so very wicked as people said; and to this donation poor Agnes had added tapestries— and not only tapestries, but pictures-and not only pictures, but jewels. Wicked! Why she was positively a saint! What devil could have put it into their heads to think of removing her ashes? They determined, however, to make up for the error by redoubling their tender and respectful cares; and accordingly the Lady of Beauty lay undisturbed for more than three hundred years, when the revolution burst forth, and almost made up for its Vandalism in destroying the monuments, by scattering the monks who guarded them over the face of the earth. The chapel of the Virgin, in which her heart was buried, forms a considerable part of the ruins, in the midst of which we are now wandering, "Alone, unfriended, melancholy, slow." We entered it through the Salle des Gardes, a naked and gloomy vault, which once echoed to the armed tread of the knights of Charles VII. The glimpse from this place of the more spacious portions of the edifice is full of grandeur; and the effect heightened in a remarkable manner by the light streaming through the open roof upon the broken and mouldering ruins. We enter the church with a superstitious thrill, in the midst of moving shadows, and alternate sunbeams, gliding, phantom-like, along the walls. In a windowed niche before us we saw a stone, by which we learned that there was buried the once warm and noble heart of Agnes Sorel. "O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene!" But no, the time has gone by-although not long-the time when, cap in hand, and knee to earth, we should have saluted, with a full heart and quivering lip, the grave of Agnes Sorel. As it was, we bestowed a long and silent gaze upon the spot, while recalling her high and heroic spirit, her glorious beauty, and her devoted love. And yet we do not pretend to aver, that it was without some swelling in the throat, some watery sensation in the eyes, we at length read this line : "Hic jacet in tumba mitis simplexque columba." These are feelings which we do not wish to live long enough to get over. Nay, Mr. Dibdin himself had some qualms of sentiment on this spot, although, it is true, he was eating his dinner all the while. His pictorial friend, he tells us, with great naïveté, went away to take views, while he, affected by some mysterious sympathy, lingered near the fragments of the tomb and of the meal. There are several things which Solomon frankly owned he did not understand; and, after such an example of humility, we can have no hesitation in making the same avowal. Among the few questions that puzzle us is this: How any man could possibly eat cold fowl on the grave of Agnes Sorel ? In another compartment of this vast building is seen the monument of the Enervés. If the reader asks who the énervés were, we would fain tell him, after certain writers, that they were the two sons of Clovis II, who rebelled against their father-for thereby hangs a tale. Unfortunately, however, there are other writers, still more worthy of credit, who inform us, without the least remorse, that the said Clovis died at the age of twenty-two; and that therefore his progeny could not have reached that age of discretion when sons become undutiful. The statues on THE LADY OF BEAUTY. 129 the monument, besides, which consist of two male figures lying side by side on their backs, are supposed to indicate, by their style and costume, the age of Saint Louis, which is not less than seven hundred years later. The tradition, however, is, that the sons of Clovis, on being taken by their father in open rebellion, were énervés by his order; that is to say, the sinews of their arms were severed, so as to render them incapable of any action requiring muscular force. They were then placed in a small skiff without rudder or sails, and sent adrift upon the Seine. Guided by Heaven, the vessel stranded on the territory of the monks of Jumièges; and, being found by Saint Philibert, the wandering princes were received into the convent, where they adopted the monastic rules, and died in the odour of sanctity. THE HEIGHTS OF CANTELEU. It was a project of the Marshal de Vauban-and we rather think its execution was actually commenced-to dig a canal across the neck of the peninsula of Jumièges, and thus abridge the navigation of the Seine by five leagues. Had this been accomplished, however, it would not have changed our route; and we should not the less have traced the line of the land till we arrived, after walking nearly a league, towards an obscure, modest-looking château, shaded by mysterious woods, and retiring consciously, but not awkwardly, from the gaze of the world. The little Manor of Menil is not by any means remarkable in its appearance; and the traveller, unacquainted with its associations, would in all probability pass by without even asking its name. Let him enter, however, at our invitation; and, after wandering through the long corridor which intersects the interior of the house, proceed with uncovered head into the small chapel he will find at the end. There, beneath the Gothic window, is the tribune of the châtelaine the very bench where she sat, on silken cushions, listening to the holy word, which she disobeyed, perhaps, in fewer points of importance than most women of her day and generation. If the traveller is a Protestant, let him bend his head reverentially, in honour and memory of virtue alas! human virtue; if a Catholic, let him whisper a prayer for the soul of Agnes Sorel. Lounging lazily along the deserted banks of the river, |