DIEPPE. 231 



standing, waf taken, time about, by Philip Augustus, aud his 

 rival, Richard Coeur-de-Iion. 



The chateau was built in the eleventh century, by William, 

 Count of Talon, the uncle of the conqueror. The town of Ar- 

 ques had been given to him as an apanage, under the title of a 

 countship ; and the son of the frail and beautiful Arlette, a though 

 his father was Duke of Normandy, had, of course, no legal claim. 

 William, however, managed these matters without the aid of the 

 courts. The pen with which he advocated his cause was, like 

 those of recent invention, made of steel ; and his parchment was 

 the skin — not of sheep. To conquer Arques was but a trifle to 

 the man who was destined to conquer England. 



The chateau continued for many years in the situation we have 

 described; but, at length, it was given up by the government to 

 individuals who used it as a quarry to furnish stones for their 

 houses. In 1780, an express authority was granted to carry 

 away " the few materials remaining of the chateau of Arques." 

 There are still enough left, however, to serve as a point d* appui 

 for the meditations of the traveller, and to plunge his soul into 

 the past, as he stands musing and alone among these mouldering 

 walls. In the evening, more especially, this spot is " haunted 

 ground." When you see the more distant features of the view 

 becoming gradually more indistinct, till, one by one, they dis- 

 appear ; when the area of the misty deep narrows insensibly, but 

 without destroying the idea of its immensity, and shore and sea 

 mingle and waver, till both are lost; when the far town, with its 

 spires and shipping, and human population, is swallowed up, 

 piece by piece; when, in fine, the circling flood of darkness 

 closes sullen and silent around you, aud the feeling of utter lone- 

 liness and isolation is complete, tlien is the time to dream. 



What a world — what a universe is the mind of man ! It has 

 neither past nor future : it is all present; but its present com- 

 prehends both the future and the past. It is history, it is poetry, 

 it is romance. It is filled with the things that have been, the 

 things tiiat be, and the things that never ^can be, and yet are. 

 This is a riddle, and yet no contradiction; for the idea of the im- 

 possible has the very same existence in the mind as the idea of 

 the possible. We recollect history, we imagine romance; and 

 the ideas of both have exactly the same truth. Is it possible 

 that the conceits of Berkeley can have any foundation in reason ? 

 But hold ! — If the mind will have its way, the pen, at least, is 

 under our command; and so one more look into the tliick mist 

 which broods over the ruins of Arques, and away. 



