Accordingly, on the 4th of this month, between the hours of ten and eleven, A.M. the rattling of horses’ hoofs, and the echoes of a postilion’s whip, were heard within the court-yard of the Hotel Vatel.  Monsieur, Madame, Jacques—­and the whole fraternity of domestics, were on the alert—­“pour faire les adieux a Messieurs les Anglois.”  This Jacques deserves somewhat of a particular notice.  He is the prime minister of the Hotel Vatel.[78] A somewhat uncomfortable detention in England for five years, in the character of “prisoner of war,” has made him master of a pretty quick and ready utterance of common-place phrases in our language; and he is not a little proud of his attainments therein.  Seriously speaking, I consider him quite a phenomenon in his way; and it is right you should know that he affords a very fair specimen of a sharp, clever, French servant.  His bodily movements are nearly as quick as those of his tongue.  He rises, as well as his brethren, by five in the morning; and the testimonies of this early activity are quickly discovered in the unceasing noise of beating coats, singing French airs, and scolding the boot-boy.  He rarely retires to rest before mid-night; and the whole day long he is in one eternal round of occupation.  When he is bordering upon impertinence, he seems to be conscious of it—­declaring that “the English make him saucy, but that naturally he is very civil.”  He always speaks of human beings in the neuter gender; and to a question whether such a one has been at the Hotel, he replies, “I have not seen it to-day.”  I am persuaded he is a thoroughly honest creature; and considering the pains which are taken to spoil him, it is surprising with what good sense and propriety he conducts himself.

About eleven o’clock, we sprung forward, at a smart trot, towards the barriers by which we had entered Rouen.  Our postilion was a thorough master of his calling, and his spurs and whip seemed to know no cessation from action.  The steeds, perfectly Norman, were somewhat fiery; and we rattled along the streets, (for the chausse never causes the least abatement of pace with the French driver) in high expectation of seeing a thousand rare sights ere we reached Havre—­equally the limits of our journey, and of our contract with the owner of the cabriolet.  That accomplished antiquary M. Le Prevost, whose name you have often heard, had furnished me with so dainty a bill of fare, or carte de voyage; that I began to consider each hour lost which did not bring us in contact with some architectural relic of antiquity, or some elevated position—­whence the wandering Seine and wooded heights of the adjacent country might be surveyed with equal advantage.