gne in one of her letters to
Mad. de Grignan, "que vous avez raison d'etre fatiguee de cette Montagne
de Rochepot! je la hais comme la mort; que de cahots, et quelle cruaute
qu'au mois de Janvier les chemins de Bourgogne soient impracticables!"
Allowing this to have been the case in her days, I can hardly wonder
that even Mad. de Sevigne was insensible to the magnificence of the
prospect from this elevated point; and thought only of the safety of her
neck. No danger however exists at present, as the road descending to
Rochepot is good, and judiciously conducted down the brow of the hill;
though the nature of the ground gives no very pleasing idea of what it
must have been as a cross-country track. The inn also at Rochepot,
situated at the junction of four roads, is clean and comfortable. A
household loaf, weighing not less than thirty pounds, stood on the table
to welcome us on our arrival, and we saw for the first time straw hats
bearing a full proportion to it, the rim of which equalled in size a
moderate umbrella.

After breakfast we visited the ruined castle of Rochepot,[3] on which we
had at first looked down, but which, seen from the village, bears a
strong resemblance to Harlech Castle in North Wales, both in its form,
and its position upon a commanding rock. We found upon inquiry that it
had been tenanted at a much later period than its appearance would have
led us to suppose. M. Blancheton, the proprietor, had made it his chief
residence some thirty years ago, and kept it up in a style imitating as
nearly as possible its ancient feudal grandeur. At the Revolution
however it was forfeited, and has since been sold twice; but though each
purchaser has pulled down a part, and sold the materials, enough still
remains to give a perfect idea of its former strength and massiveness.
M. Blancheton now resides, as we were informed, near Beaune, regretted
as a _bon seigneur_ by his poorer neighbours, whom he has not visited
since the demolition of his paternal seat. "It would break his heart,"
said a poor old woman, "to see it as it now is." I could not help
thinking of Campbell's "Lines on visiting a spot in Argyleshire," which
bear the impress of a real occasion of this sort.

[Footnote 3: Vide Cooke's View.]

From Rochepot to Chalons-sur-Saone, eighteen miles; commencing with a
steep hill, to the left of which winds a rocky valley of a singular
description, cultivated to the very top of the abrupt heights which
surro