ge of the vine spreads, like the undulations of the sea, over
the landscape, with here and there a silver flash of the river, a
sequestered hamlet, or the towers of an old chateau, to enliven and
variegate the scene.

The vintage had already commenced. The peasantry were busy in the
fields--the song that cheered their labor was on the breeze, and
the heavy wagon tottered by, laden with the clusters of the vine.
Everything around me wore that happy look which makes the heart glad.
In the morning I arose with the lark; and at night I slept where the
sunset overtook me.... My first day's journey brought me at evening to
a village, whose name I have forgotten, situated about eight leagues
from Orleans. It is a small, obscure hamlet, not mentioned in the
guide-book, and stands upon the precipitous banks of a deep ravine,
through which a noisy brook leaps to turn the ponderous wheel of a
thatch-roofed mill. The village inn stands upon the highway; but the
village itself is not visible to the traveler as he passes. It is
completely hidden in the lap of a wooded valley, and so embowered
in trees that not a roof nor a chimney peeps out to betray its
hiding-place.

When I awoke in the morning, a brilliant autumnal sun was shining in
at my window. The merry song of birds mingled sweetly with the sound
of rustling leaves and the gurgle of the brook. The vintagers were
going forth to their toil; the wine-press was busy in the shade, and
the clatter of the mill kept time to the miller's song. I loitered
about the village with a feeling of calm delight. I was unwilling to
leave the seclusion of this sequestered hamlet; but at length, with
reluctant step, I took the cross-road through the vineyard, and in a
moment the little village had sunk again, as if by enchantment, into
the bosom of the earth.

I breakfasted at the town of Mer; and, leaving the high-road to Blois
on the right, passed down to the banks of the Loire, through a long,
broad avenue of poplars and sycamores. I crossed the river in a boat,
and in the after part of the day I found myself before the high and
massive walls of the chateau of Chambord. This chateau is one of the
finest specimens of the ancient Gothic castle to be found in Europe.
The little river Cosson fills its deep and ample moat, and above
it the huge towers and heavy battlements rise in stern and solemn
grandeur, moss-grown with age, and blackened by the storms of three
centuries. Within, all is mour