University of Virginia Library

1. THE
VALLEY OF THE LOIRE.

1. THE
VALLEY OF THE LOIRE.

In the melancholy month of October I
made a foot-excursion along the banks of the
Loire, from Orleans to Tours. This luxuriant
region is justly called the Garden of France.
From Orleans to Blois the whole valley of the
Loire is one continued vineyard. The bright
green foliage of the vine spreads, like the undulations
of the sea, over all 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. Every thing 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 sunset overtook me.
The healthy exercise of foot-travelling,—the
pure, bracing air of Autumn, and the cheerful
aspect of the whole landscape about me, gave
fresh elasticity to a mind not over-burdened
with care, and made me forget, not only the
fatigue of walking, but also the consciousness
of being alone.

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 down to turn the
ponderous wheel of a thatch-roofed mill. The
village inn stands upon the high-way; but the
village itself is not visible to the traveller 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. It is like the nest
of a ground-swallow, which the passing footstep
almost treads upon, and yet it is not seen.
I passed by without suspecting, that a village
was near; and the little inn had a look so
uninviting, that I did not even enter it.

After proceeding a mile or two farther, I perceived,
upon my left, a village spire, rising over
the vineyards. Towards this I directed my footsteps;
but it seemed to recede as I advanced,
and at last quite disappeared. It was evidently
many miles distant; and as the path I followed
descended from the highway, it had gradually
sunk beneath a swell of the vine-clad landscape.
I now found myself in the midst of an extensive
vineyard. It was just sunset; and the last
golden rays lingered on the rich and mellow
scenery around me. The peasantry were still
busy at their task; and the occasional bark of
a dog, and the distant sound of an evening bell
gave fresh romance to the scene. The reality
of many a day-dream of childhood,—of many a

poetic revery of youth was before me. I stood at
sunset amid the luxuriant vineyards of France!

The first person I met was a poor old
woman, a little bowed down with age, gathering
grapes into a large basket. She was
dressed like the poorest class of peasantry;
and pursued her solitary task alone, heedless of
the cheerful gossip, and the merry laugh,
which came from a band of more youthful
vintagers, at a short distance from her. She
was so intently engaged in her work, that she
did not perceive my approach, until I bade her
good evening. On hearing my voice, she
looked up from her labor, and returned the
salutation: and on my asking her if there were
a tavern, or a farm-house in the neighborhood,
where I could pass the night, she showed
me the pathway through the vineyard, that led
to the village, and then added, with a look of
curiosity;

“You must be a stranger, Sir, in these
parts.”

“Yes; my home is very far from here.”

“How far?”

“More than a thousand leagues.”

The old woman looked incredulous.

“I came from a distant land, beyond the
sea.”

“More than a thousand leagues!” at
length repeated she; “And why have you
come so far from home?”

“To travel;—to see how you live in this
country.”

“Have you no relations in your own?”

“Yes; I have both brothers and sisters; a
father, and—”

“And a mother?”

“Thank heaven, I have.”

“And did you leave her!”

Here the old woman gave me a piercing
look of reproof; shook her head mournfully,
and, with a deep sigh, as if some painful recollection
had been awakened in her bosom,
turned again to her solitary task. I felt
rebuked; for there is something almost prophetic
in the admonitions of the old. The eye
of age looks meekly into my heart! the voice
of age echoes mournfully through it! the hoary
head and palsied hand of age plead irresistibly
for its sympathies! I venerate old age; and

I love not the man, who can look without
emotion upon the sundown of life, when the
dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery
eye, and the shadows of twilight grow
broader and deeper upon the understanding!

I pursued the path-way which led toward
the village, and the next person I encountered
was an old man stretched lazily beneath the
vines upon a little strip of turf, at a point
where four paths met, forming a cross-way in
the vineyard. He was clad in a coarse garb
of gray, with a pair of long gaiters or spatter-dashes.
Beside him lay a blue cloth cap, a
staff, and an old weather-beaten knapsack. I
saw at once, that he was a foot-traveller like
myself, and, therefore, without more ado,
entered into conversation with him. From his
language, and the peculiar manner in which he
now and then wiped his upper lip with the back
of his hand, as if in search of the mustache,
which was no longer there, I judged that he
had been a soldier. In this opinion I was not
mistaken. He had served under Napoleon,
and had followed the imperial eagle across the
Alps, and the Pyrenees, and the burning sands

of Egypt. Like every vieux moustache, he
spake with enthusiasm of the Little Corporal,
and cursed the English, the Germans, the
Spanish, and every other race on earth, except
the great nation—his own.

“I like,” said he, “after a long day's march,
to lie down in this way upon the grass, and
enjoy the cool of the evening. It reminds me
of the bivouacs of other days, and of old
friends, who are now up there.”

Here he pointed with his finger to the sky.

“They have reached the last étape before
me, in the long march. But I shall go soon.
We shall all meet again at the last roll-call.
A soldier has a heart,—and can feel like other
men. Sacré nom de—! There's a tear!”

He wiped it away with his sleeve.

Here our colloquy was interrupted by the
approach of a group of vintagers, who were
returning homeward from their labor. To this
party I joined myself, and invited the old soldier
to do the same; but he shook his head.

“I thank you; my path-way lies in a different
direction.”

“But there is no other village near, and the
sun has already set.”

“No matter. I am used to sleeping on the
ground. Good night.”

I left the old man to his meditations, and
walked on in company with the vintagers.
Following a well-trodden path-way through the
vineyards, we soon descended the valley's slope,
and I suddenly found myself in the bosom of
one of those little hamlets, from which the laborer
rises to his toil, as the sky-lark to his song.
My companions wished me a good night, as
each entered his own thatch-roofed cottage,—
and a little girl led me out to the very inn,
which an hour or two before, I had disdained
to enter.

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 sicamores.
I crossed the river in a boat, and in the after
part of the day, 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 mournful and deserted. The grass has overgrown
the pavement of the court-yard,—and
the rude sculpture upon the walls is broken and
defaced. From the court-yard I entered the
central tower, and ascending the principal
stair-case, went out upon the battlements. I
seemed to have stepped back into the precincts
of the feudal ages; and as I passed

along through echoing corridors, and vast, deserted
halls, stripped of their furniture, and
mouldering silently away, the distant past came
back upon me, and the times when the clang
of arms, and the tramp of mail-clad men, and
the sounds of music, and revelry and wassail
echoed along those high-vaulted and solitary
chambers!

My third day's journey brought me to the
ancient city of Blois, the chief town of the department
of Loire-et-Cher. This city is celebrated
for the purity with which even the lower
classes of its inhabitants speak their native
tongue. It rises precipitously from the northern
bank of the Loire; and many of its streets
are so steep as to be almost impassible for carriages.
On the brow of the hill, overlooking
the roofs of the city, and commanding a fine
view of the Loire and its noble bridge, and the
surrounding country, sprinkled with cottages
and country-seats, runs an ample terrace,
planted with trees, and laid out as a public
walk. The view from this terrace is one of
the most beautiful in France. But what most
strikes the eye of the traveller at Blois is an

old, though still unfinished chateau. Its huge
parapets of hewn stone stand upon either side
of the street; but they have walled up the
wide gate-way, from which the colossal draw-bridge
was to have sprung high in air, connecting
together the main towers of the chateau,
and the two hills, upon whose slope its
foundations stand. The aspect of the vast pile
is gloomy and desolate. It seems as if the
strong hand of the builder had been arrested in
the midst of his task by the stronger hand of
death; and the unfinished fabric stands a lasting
monument both of the power and weakness
of man,—of his vast desires,—his sanguine
hopes,—his ambitious purposes,—and of the
unlooked-for conclusion, where all these desires,
and hopes, and purposes are so often arrested.—There
is also at Blois another ancient
chateau, to which some historic interest is attached,
as being the scene of the massacre of
the Duke of Guise.

On the following day I left Blois for Amboise,
and after walking several leagues along
the dusty highway, crossed the river in a boat
to the little village of Moines, which lies amid

luxuriant vineyards upon the southern bank of
the Loire. From Moines to Amboise the
road is truly delightful. The rich lowland
scenery by the margin of the river is verdant
even in October; and occasionally the landscape
is diversified with the picturesque cottages
of the vintagers, cut in the rock along
the road-side, and overhung by the thick foliage
of the vines above them.

At Amboise I took a cross-road, which
led me to the romantic borders of the Cher, and
the chateau of Chernanceau. 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 destined for those soft
languishments of passion, with which the fascinating
Diane de Poitiers had filled the bosom
of that voluptuous monarch.

The chateau of Chernanceau is built upon
arches across the river Cher, whose waters are
made to supply the deep moat at each extremity.
There is a spacious court-yard in front,

from which a draw-bridge conducts to the outer
hall of the chateau. 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.
From this hall a door opens into a long gallery,
extending the whole length of the building
across the Cher. The walls of the gallery are
hung with the faded portraits of the long line of
the descendants of Hugh Capet; and the windows
looking up and down the stream, command
a fine reach of pleasant river scenery.
This is said to be the only chateau in France, in
which the ancient furniture of its original age
is preserved. In one part of the building, you
are shown the bed-chamber of Diane de Poitiers,
with its antique chairs covered with faded
damask and embroidery, her bed, and a portrait
of the royal favorite hanging over the mantel-piece.
In another, you see the apartment of
the infamous Catherine de Medici;—a venerable
arm-chair, and an autograph letter of Henry
the Fourth;—and in an old laboratory,
among broken crucibles, and neckless retorts,
and drums and trumpets, and skins of wild
beasts, and other ancient lumber of various
kinds, are to be seen the bed-posts of Francis
the First!—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, though living
still in history, seem to have left their halls for
the chace 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.

Wrapt in such fancies as these, and gazing
on the beauties of this noble chateau, and the
soft scenery around it, I lingered unwilling to
depart, till the rays of the setting sun, streaming
through the dusty windows, admonished
me that the day was drawing rapidly to a close.
I sallied forth from the southern gate of the

chateau—and crossing the broken drawbridge,
pursued a pathway along the bank of the river,
still gazing back upon those towering walls,
now bathed in the rich glow of sunset, till a
turn in the road, and a clump of woodland at
length shut them out from my sight.

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
over-burdened 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 indistinctly
the graceful sweep of the Loire, and the spires
and roofs of the city far below me.

The city of Tours and the delicious plain
in which it lies, have been too often described
by other travellers, to render a new description
from so listless a pen as mine, either necessary
or desirable. After a sojourn of two cloudy
and melancholy days, I set out on my return to
Paris, by the way of Vendôme and Chartres.
I stopped a few hours at the former place, to
examine the ruins of a chateau, built by Jeanne
d'Albret, mother of Henry the Fourth. It
stands upon the summit of a high and precipitous
hill, and almost overhangs the town beneath.
The French Revolution has completed
the ruin, that time had already begun; and
nothing now remains but a broken and crumbling
bastion, and here and there a solitary
tower dropping slowly to decay. In one of
these is the grave of Jeanne d'Albret. A marble
entablature in the wall above contains the
inscription, which is nearly effaced, though
enough still remains to tell the curious traveller,
that there lies buried the mother of the

“Bon Henri.” To this is added a prayer,
that the repose of the dead may be respected;
—a prayer, which has been shamefully disregarded.

Here ended my foot-excursion. The object
of my journey was accomplished, and delighted
with this short ramble through the Valley
of the Loire, I took my seat in the Diligence
for Paris, and, on the following day, was
again swallowed up in the crowds of the metropolis,
like a drop in the bosom of the sea.