those in our own country.  A fine oak is as rare as an uncut Wynkyn de Worde:[95] but creeping rivulets, rich coppice wood, avenues of elms and limes, and meadows begemmed with butter-cups—­these are the characteristics of the country through which we were passing.  It is in vain however you look for neat villas or consequential farm houses:  and as rarely do you see groups of villagers reposing, or in action.  A dearth of population gives to French landscape a melancholy and solitary cast of character.  It is in cities that you must look for human beings—­and for cities the French seem to have been created.

It was at Troarn, I think, or at some halting place beyond, that our passports were demanded, and the examination of our trunks solicited.  We surrendered our keys most willingly.  The gentlemen, with their cocked hats and blue jackets—­having a belt from which a sword was suspended—­consulted together for a minute only—­returned our keys—­and telling us that matters would be thoroughly looked into at Caen, said they would give us no trouble.  We were of course not sorry at this determination—­and the Messrs. D—–­and myself getting once more into the cabriolet, (a postboy being secured for the leaders) we began to screw up our spirits and curiosity for a view of the steeples of CAEN.  Unluckily the sun had set, and the horizon had become gloomy, when we first discovered the spires of St. Stephen’s Abbey—­the principal ecclesiastical edifice at Caen.  It was hard upon nine o’clock; and the evening being extremely dusky, we had necessarily a very indistinct view of the other churches—­but, to my eye, as seen in a lengthened view, and through a deceitful atmosphere, Caen had the appearance of OXFORD on a diminutive scale.  The town itself, like our famous University, is built in a slanting direction; though the surrounding country is yet flatter than about Oxford.  As we entered it, all the population seemed collected to witness our arrival.  From solitude we plunged at once into tumult, bustle, and noise.  We stopped at the Hotel d’Espagne—­a large, but black and begrimed mansion.  Here our luggage was taken down; and here we were assailed by garcons de place, with cards in their hands, intreating us to put up at their respective hotels.  We had somehow got a recommendation to the Hotel Royale, Place Royale, and such a union of royal adjuncts was irresistible.  Accordingly, we resolved upon moving thither.  In a trice our trunks were placed upon barrows:  and we marched behind, “in double quick time,” in order to secure our property.  The town appeared to improve as we made our different turnings, and gained upon our hotel.  “Le voila, Messieurs”—­exclaimed our guides and baggage-conductors—­as we got into a goodly square, and saw a fair and comely mansion in front.  The rush of landlord, waiting maids, and garcons de place, encountered us as we entered.  “Messieurs, je vous salue,”—­said a huge, ungracious looking figure:—­which said figure was nothing less than the master of the hotel—­Mons. Lagouelle.  We were shown into a small room on the ground floor, to the right—­and ordered tea; but had scarcely begun to enjoy the crackling blaze of a plentiful wood fire, when the same ungracious figure took his seat by the side of us ... to tell us “all about THE DUEL.”