Cher and the chateau of Chenonceau. This beautiful chateau, as
well as that of Chambord, was built by the gay and munificent Francis
the First. One is a specimen of strong and massive architecture--a
dwelling for a warrior; but the other is of a lighter and more
graceful construction, and was designed for those soft languishments
of passion with which the fascinating Diane de Poitiers had filled the
bosom of that voluptuous monarch.

The chateau of Chenonceau is built upon arches across the river Cher,
whose waters are made to supply the deep moat at each extremity. There
is a spacious courtyard in front, from which a drawbridge conducts to
the outer hall of the castle. There the armor of Francis the First
still hangs upon the wall--his shield, and helm, and lance--as if the
chivalrous but dissolute prince had just exchanged them for the silken
robes of the drawing-room.... Doubtless the naked walls and the vast
solitary chambers of an old and desolate chateau inspire a feeling of
greater solemnity and awe; but when the antique furniture of the olden
time remains--the faded tapestry on the walls, and the arm-chair
by the fire-side--the effect upon the mind is more magical and
delightful. The old inhabitants of the place, long gathered to their
fathers, tho living still in history, seem to have left their halls
for the chase or the tournament; and as the heavy door swings upon its
reluctant hinge, one almost expects to see the gallant princes and
courtly dames enter those halls again, and sweep in stately procession
along the silent corridors....

A short time after candle-lighting, I reached the little tavern of the
Boule d'Or, a few leagues from Tours, where I passed the night. The
following morning was lowering and sad. A veil of mist hung over
the landscape, and ever and anon a heavy shower burst from the
overburdened clouds, that were driving by before a high and piercing
wind. This unpropitious state of the weather detained me until noon,
when a cabriolet for Tours drove up, and taking a seat within it, I
left the hostess of the Boule d'Or in the middle of a long story about
a rich countess, who always alighted there when she passed that way.
We drove leisurely along through a beautiful country, till at length
we came to the brow of a steep hill, which commands a fine view of the
city of Tours and its delightful environs. But the scene was
shrouded by the heavy drifting mist, through which I could trace but
indis