The hotel, formerly called "Nouvelle Angleterre," had fallen completely into decay; but the proprietor, M. Boilleau, who lived at Tours, where he was at the head of the numismatic department (!) of the Musée, and where he cultivated the archæological pursuits which were more agreeable to him than innkeeping, was obliged by the events of the revolution of February to look after his more material interests, and resume an occupation which he had abandoned for fifteen years. He returned, therefore, to Blois a few months back, and immediately set to work to place the hotel on a footing which it had never known before. His labours were scarcely ended when we arrived, for the workmen were still busy with some of the external decorations; but the interior was finished, and had been open to travellers about three or four weeks. Nothing more comfortable or elegant can well be imagined than the manner in which the house is fitted up; everything is new, the attendance is excellent, and the charges are extremely moderate. One suite of apartments, looking on the river, which the inspecting general of the district had just occupied, is as splendidly furnished as the best private establishment in Paris. Nor is the general salon, with its finely-arabesqued ceiling, its classically-formed lamps, its large oaken buffet, and its walls covered with all the devices of the chase, inferior to anything of the kind that can be met with. In short, the Hôtel d'Angleterre at Blois must henceforward figure as A 1 in Mr. Murray's "Handbook." An excellent supper, commended by some "thé délicieux," a brace of superlative partridges, and a bottle of admirable Beaugency, completed the favourable impression produced by the general aspect of the hotel, and sent us fully satisfied to our beds, though with little disposition to sleep, for by the time we got upstairs the moon had risen, and the sparkling waters of the Loire danced in the light she threw upon them, the stars glittered with a lustre unknown to our northern climate, and a gentle air, sweet as the breath of summer, shed a delicious fragrance on the night.

If the ancient and picturesque city of Blois were not so rich in the architecture of the middle ages and of the Renaissance as the traveller finds it to be; if its public gardens, its beautiful Mail, and its noble river, were not sufficient attractions, there is the château, renowned from the days of Count Stephen, which alone is worth going any distance to see. A more majestic or imposing mass it is impossible to conceive, as you stand at the foot of the enormous buttresses on which it is raised, and look up at the triple row of ornamented galleries which extend along the eastern front, the highest of which runs directly under the roof.

Even in its irregularity, which exhibits the various styles from the early Counts of Blois to the time of Gaston of Orleans, the same character of massiveness prevails, completing a whole which groups well, though consisting of incongruous parts. A double flight of steps leads to a winding road beneath a deep archway, by which the ascent is made to the southern entrance the work of Louis XII., whose effigy, with that of Anne of Brittany, was once to be seen over the gateway, but both disappeared at the first revolution, when the château was converted into a barrack. A barrack it still remains, though only in part, for the eastern side, which was rebuilt by François Premier, has been completely restored, and exhibits internally a fac-simile of the splendour

it wore when the faithless Henry III. planned and executed the murder of the Duke of Guise and his brother the Cardinal d'Amboise.

When one enters the quadrangle of the château, it is difficult to withdraw one's gaze from the exquisite carving and beautiful ornaments with which the whole of the corps de bâtiment of François Premier is encrusted. The salamander of Francis, and the double cipher of Henry II. and Catherine de' Medici, appear everywhere; and the open spiral staircase which leads to the apartments is adorned in every part with tracery of the most graceful form, where the devices of Francis and Claude are constantly repeated. But the greatest surprise awaited us in the interior-for Murray did not tell, nor had public report bruited, the extent or nature of the restorations which have been made under the auspices of Louis-Philippe, who, it is said, entertained the idea of giving the château as a residence to one of the princes of his family. From the fragments which remained, smirched, whitewashed, and mutilated as they were, the perseverance and intelligence of the artists employed were able to reconstruct the whole, and at this hour the interior of the Château of Blois presents the identical appearance which it wore when the famous Etats were assembled in 1588, save only in the absence of furniture. All the rest-the richly-painted walls, the gorgeously-carved chimney-pieces, the many-patterned parquets, the heavily-timbered ceilings, the oratoires, the bedchambers, the salles d'attente, the cabinets de travail, the salles des gardes, the salle des quarante-cinqevery one attest the taste, and skill, and labour, which have been bestowed on them to restore them to their original condition. This near approach to their former state rendered the effort to recal the events which have taken place in the château far less difficult than it was before, when whitewash and neglect had effaced everything except the mere form of the apartments; imagination aiding, we may easily fancy the scene in the salle de conseil, when the Duke de Guise, seated at the head of the table, desired some of the king's pruneaux to be brought to him, and, while he was filling his drageoir, receiving the summons to attend his royal master, threw the remainder on the board, exclairing, "Messieurs, à qui en veut !" We may follow him into the old cabinet, where the "Forty-five" were waiting with scowling looks and hidden daggers; see him raise the tapestry which led into the king's bed-room; fancy the first blow struck at that moment, the sweeping fury with which he felled his assailant with the drageoir he still held in his hand, the rush of the murderers on their victim,-and the fierce struggle at the foot of the bed which left him a corse with upwards of forty wounds, "the least of them a death." We may hear the gibing Gascons mocking the dead man with the salutation of "Le beau Roy de Paris," may see the pale, coward face of the treacherous Henry, and note him as he exclaims, in accents in which fear and astonishment strive for the mastery, "Mon Dieu! qu'il est grand! il paroist un corps plus grand mort que vif!"

The grated window of the dungeon in the tower below, where the Cardinal d'Amboise was thrown, can be seen from Catherine's oratory, into which ascended on the same evening the groans of the second victim of her son's perfidy, when he cut out the work which he was so ill able to sew together again. In that oratory, only a fortnight after the murder of the Lorraine princes, Catherine herself lay dead.

V.

DURING our stay at Blois, we devoted one day to an excursion to the château of Chambord. The distance is about ten miles, and the charge for a carriage with one horse from the Poste aux Chevaux is twelve francs, with a gratuity to the driver. The weather was delightful, and although the road, after we had quitted the levée on the left bank of the river, was not the best in the world, the fact that it took its course through several miles of vineyard was quite enough to reconcile us to its inequalities. The driver, beside whom I took my seat, was an intelligent fellow, and had plenty to say for himself, not obtrusively, but with politeness and simplicity. He was a dismounted postilion, the railroad along the Loire having emptied a great many saddles. It had, he said, almost ruined his calling, and but for the cross-roads, the châteaux round about, and such a godsend as the inundation of '46, he scarcely knew what would have become of his master's establishment-including, of course, himself.

"At my time of life," he continued (looking upwards of fifty, though in fact only forty years of age), "I don't know what I could turn my hand to out of a stable. Je m'ennuie si j'n' panse pas des chevaux-c'est mon métier-ça m'est entré dans l'sang."

He was not the only one, as I afterwards found, who complained of the injury done to them by the railroads. In the provinces of France there are so many people connected with the former vast system of roulage, that the sudden change in the mode of transit for goods has caused numerous interests to suffer. But a greater objection arises from the injury which the railroads have occasioned to the small properties through which they have been driven. To a large proprietor a railroad generally does more good than harm; the compensation is in proportion to the size of his estate, and when constructed it offers him many local facilities. But the poor man, with a few hectares of land, with his vineyard cut in two, or his house separated from his plot of ground, is at a great disadvantage; the compensation is always inadequate, and the inconveniences positive. Hence steam travelling by land finds little favour with Jacques Bonhomme, and, like my friend the postilion, he hears of such a break-up as that caused by the inundation referred to with something like an inward feeling of satisfaction.

On this subject, Louis-that was his name was very eloquent; he pointed out to me where the great crevasses had taken place, showed me a landmark at least half a league from the river to which the waters had ascended, and detailed a system of policy of his own invention,with reference to what might have been done with the horses in his master's stables when five leagues of the railroad were carried away by the torrent,-which would have done honour to the late proprietor of the neighbouring château of Valençay, the wily Prince Talleyrand. Unluckily his master had no faith in his plan, or wanted courage to adopt it, and he failed to make his fortune. He spoke very feelingly, however, of the sufferings of the poor on the occasion, and it was particularly gratifying to hear him describe in terms of the greatest warmth the admirable conduct of the English clergyman at Tours-the Reverend Mr. Biley,-when, uniting with the Catholic priests on the same mission of charity, he rowed about in a small boat from house to house, distri

buting provisions with his own hands, and relieving the wants of innumerable families.

"Il n'est pas d' nôt' r'ligion, à ce qu'on m'a dit," added Louis, “mais faut bien être un brav' homme, et le bon Dieu ne l'oubliera pas― allez !"

After something more than an hour's drive we reached the confines of the territory of Chambord, which is enclosed within a wall extending seven leagues round. It is, for the greater part, an immense forest, filled with game of all descriptions, from wild boar and deer to pheasants and partridges. Permission to shoot is not difficult to obtain from the gentleman who has the control of the property, as intendant of the Duke de Bordeaux, whose share of France is limited to this spot; but the permission is always specific, an order for killing a stag not extending to a rabbit, or vice versa.

"Vous tuez l'gibier," said Louis, "qui est indiqué sur vot' carte; si c'est une grosse pièce, vous l'emportez, sans toucher au p'tit gibier, et ainsi d' suite."

I asked if any English ever came there to shoot.

"Mais oui," he replied; "l'année passée y avait un fameux ; c'était un milor-je n' m' rappêle pas d' son nom;" he made an effort to pronounce it, but failed to convey any idea of what it could possibly be; "quant à c'lui là, j' n'ai jamais vu d'individu si passionné pour la chasse. Et lui qui disait toujours, C'que j'aime l' plus au monde, c'est le premier baiser d'une femme et le dernier soupir d'un loup!' Ah! le gaillard!"

We continued our course along a broad, sandy, straight road which led us through the wood till we came in sight of the numberless pinnacles of Chambord, and then, making a détour to the left, drove round to the village, which, after the fashion of feudal days, belongs entirely to the château, with its two hôtels (country inns of course), its shops, and its little church. I dare say there is no want of devotion here, but that feeling does not interfere with the custom of the hotels, which during the summer must make a good thing of it, the visitors to Chambord being so numerous. Louis told me that on the first day when the railroad was opened as far as Blois, no less than a hundred and fifty persons came to see the château from Paris alone!

The view of this enormous pile from the little bridge over the Cossona shallow stream which flows before it a few hundred yards distant-is very imposing; but we were all impatience to see the interior of the remarkable edifice which, begun by François Premier, is still unfinished, and, although labourers were even now busily at work upon it, seems likely to reman so till-who shall say when? The Legitimists perhaps would answer the question by adducing exultingly the events which are every day increasing the chances of the Comte de Chambord.

The entrance to the château is by the rear of the building. A large party, under the care of the concierge, were visible on the roof, gazing over the stone parapets; and this arrangement left us under the care of that functionary's daughter, a pretty, merry, bright-eyed girl, who appeared to derive infinite amusement from everything that was said, and who only assumed a serious air when she furtively but earnestly gazed on the dresses of the ladies of our party; as if she were studiously intent on committing to memory every item of their costume, in the persuasion, no doubt, that it was the very latest Paris fashion. How she

was to turn her knowledge to account in the secluded woods and tenantless chambers of Chambord, did not perhaps enter into her calculation.

Armed with a heavy bunch of keys, our guide tripped lightly before us, and after crossing the basse cour we were shown into a vast hall, or rather into what forms one of a series of vaulted halls, grouped in the shape of a cross round the base of an enormous double staircase, which rises to the roof, the pride and wonder of Chambord. Francis I. appears to have had a passion for spiral staircases, and in this instance the architect has combined ingenuity with a noble effect. It is so contrived that an inner staircase is contained in the outer one, and a party dividing at the bottom meet only at the summit, though occasional glimpses of each other may be had through the open windows which light the ascent. To particularise the countless towers and turrets, or the endless succession of apartments (our guide made them correspond in number with the days of the year, a coincidence which guides are fond of), would be impossible, especially as, with only two or three exceptions, there are neither furniture, nor pictures, nor anything to indicate other inhabitants than the owls, which, we were told, abounded. There were tenants, by-the-bye, so our conductress said, in a large dreary mansarde above the chapel, where a forest of timber seemed to have been cut down to supply the beams; but these tenants may be packed in a small space, being of the invisible order of revenants, as it is believed that the spirits of François Premier and Diane de Poitiers have selected that part of the château to "walk" in. Why the beautiful Duchess de Brézé should choose the father instead of the son as the companion of her nocturnal promenades can be explained only on the principle that "on revient toujours à ses premiers amours.”

The exceptional chambers were a bed-room and dining-room, with a few old-fashioned chairs, some portraits, and a few busts, all of them referring to the members of the branche ainée and their adherents. A model in bronze of an equestrian figure on a pedestal, supported by cannon and round shot, and in the centre of an enclosure similarly formed, attracted our attention.

"Whose likeness is this?" we asked.

"Mais c'est le roi," very innocently replied our guide, as if she knew nothing of the existence of a Republic, or as if she thought that the Comte de Chambord was, at all events, king in his own castle.

The model is a clever one, and shows that Henri Dieudonné has inherited something of the peculiar talent which distinguished his greatuncle Louis XVI.

For nearly a couple of hours we roamed about the halls and roofs of this extraordinary building, finding something to admire in the midst of all its incongruities: the beautiful forms of the renaissance, the countless devices of Francis and Henry, and the singularity of that which was not beautiful, creating in itself a sort of charm. On the battlements, the air came loaded with fragrance from the pine forests which surround the château; and the stillness of the scene as we looked out upon it was only disturbed by the barking of dogs (a French sportsman's dogs always bark) and the discharge of an occasional fowling-piece. At length we descended the famous staircase, and bade adieu to our cheerful guide, whose goodhumour seemed untiring, though of all lives that of a custode must be