the perfidious old heathen, "and I'll go down to Nantes, and deliver up to you that town."

And go he did.

Whereat bold Phillip of Valois, then King of France, was mighty wroth; and cast about how to bring stout Oliver to grief. "Aha!" thought he, "I'll beat him at his own game"-meaning he'd give treachery for treachery. So he invited the Count of Clisson to a grand tournament at Paris; feasted him; treated him with superb hospitality--and had him arrested, and his grizzly head lopped off, in the very midst of the festival! Now Oliver had a wife, who was one of the strong-minded women of those days. When she heard that her lord was dead, and that his head was set up on a pillar at Rennes, she took her two little sons, seven and five years old, to that town, and pointing to the ghastly face of their father, made them both swear vengeance. Then she bought and equipped a ship of war, and sailing out upon the sea, heroically declared war against France-this single stout-hearted woman, with a single ship! But a tempest arose, and for five days she was cast about between life and death, and her youngest boy died in the midst of it. Finally she got to land on the northern coast; and there, as luck would have it, she found another strong-minded countess, who, like herself, had vowed vengeance against the French King. Their children were brought up together, and afterward caused much trouble to the common enemy.

But Oliver the younger, heir of Clisson, when he had grown up, and had long acted against the King, was finally reconciled to him, and became, in time, Constable of France, a very exalted office in those days. And now he got into a very fierce quarrel with his neighbor, John of Brittany; and, in order to strengthen himself against him, he espoused his only child, Marguerite, to the young Count of Blois, also an enemy of the Duke of Brittany. The latter slyly suspected a plot against him; so, dissembling his animosity, he thought to entrap Oliver, by inviting him to visit him at

Vannes. The lord of Clisson suspected nothing, and hastened to accept the invitation. One day, during his visit, Duke John said something in this wise to his guest:

"By the by, my lord, wouldn't you like to see my fine castle of Hermine? 'tis but a short distance hence."

"By my troth, I would," responded the trusting Oliver.

So they went to the castle; and when they had reached a dark, grim tower, separate from the rest, the Duke politely asked Oliver to pass in before him. The moment his foot was upon the threshold, the Duke, with a taunting laugh, pushed him in, head over heels; the Duke's myrmidons seized the poor Count and loaded him with chains, and he was like to have had the same fate of his father before him. But the King of France forthwith made war with the Duke of Brittany, conquered him, and so Oliver of Clisson went free again.

This was the most famous of the lords of Clisson, the same who was assassinated in the streets of Paris in the year 1407.

Now for the story of the ghost. I should like to see the old man or child, the young man or maiden, who doesn't like a ghost story! Veritable history tells us that Marguerite, the only child of the Count last described, was alike beautiful and brave. She was one of those heroic women, who, in the olden time, were wont to fight their own battles, and who went to war as gracefully as our mothers and sisters now take to housekeeping. Her husband died when she was very young, so that she was left to defend herself in her huge old castle of Clisson as best she might. 'Twas no light task; for the neighboring barons, who had rather a contempt for female prowess, and were covetous of so noble a pile and so fair a domain, were continually attacking the castle and waging war upon her. The lovely and courageous young Countess, however, manfully withstood them; and not only so, but she made frequent attacks upon her enemies in turn. Among those who sought to seize on Clisson was the young Duke of Brittany, son of him who employed the stratagem to imprison Oli

feature of the landscape at Clisson; rearing itself, as it does, grim and hoary, just over the old town, and confronting the newer settlement on the opposite bank, as if still to defy modern civilization.

We put up the one-horse shay at the little tavern in the new town, and after indulging in a cozy rustic French dinner, we descended the steep street, and found ourselves on a quaint little old bridge, which bulged out here and there somewhat warningly, intimating very clearly how too old for much more service it was. Right above us rose the donjon keepthe look-out tower-of the castle, still perfect to outward appearance, though we afterward discovered it to be nearly a shell within. 'Twas but a moment's walk to skirt its huge, moss-grown, and dampish foundation wall, to ascend the curious winding street which led to the "way in."

Here was a long flight of broad steps, so steep, too, that we had to pause many times before reaching the summit; Wiggles, who is a very boastful climber, making the excuse for his resting, that he had just dined. Reaching, at last, the top of the hill-where, by the by, we were beset by sundry begging old crones, one of whom horrified Wiggles by seizing his hand, and offering to tell his fortune we found ourselves face to face with the vast and noble portal of the castle--a stone entrance, ponderously built, elaborately carved, but now nearly closed up by boards. At one side we found a little door, which ushered us at once into the court-yard of the castle. I do not think that any one, who has not seen one of these venerable feudal castles, has an idea of their great extent. Why, you might build a good-sized New England village in this court-yard where we stood. It was irregular, and covered with a soft, velvety lawn of grass, interspersed by large and wide-spreading trees. On all sides of it were the superb ruins of the castle, which enclosed it everywhere; and how beautifully were the ruins wreathed with the ivy and kindred parasites, with long and gracefully hanging mosses, and shrubs growing eccentrically

out slantwise from the crevices! Here was a moat and ancient drawbridge; there, a beautiful arch, leading to the remains of some noble apartment; here again, a high tower rising up, only two, or perhaps three of its sides remaining, with its grim loop-holes still menacing the country around, and of its chambers, only the great open fire-places, one above another, left; in another corner would be a black-looking aperture, which, if you approached, proved to lead, by a narrow flight of steps, to pitchy dark and rankly damp dungeons; on another side, built a little above the court-yard, stretched a broad and ornamented terrace, where knights and dames of yore, mayhap, were wont to walk in the moonlight, and plot wars, or tell soft tales of love.

The two of us were already, in fancy, transported far back into the bygone centuries, when we were recalled to the nineteenth century by the nasal patois of a withered old dame, who came out of the little porter's lodge, with a bunch of heavy keys at her girdle, and addressed

us:

"Aha! Isn't it a noble château, good gentlemen?"

I knew well enough what she was after; there's nothing like knowing "the customs of the country;" so, after assenting to her obviously just remark, I expressed the hope that she would chaperon us about the place. Whereat she, delighted, nodded, gave a satisfied jingle with her keys, took a huge pinch of snuff, cleared her throat, and began, parrot-like, to tell the same story which she bad told, nobody knows how many hundreds of times before; namely, a history of the castle, the adventures of the two Olivers, and the ghost episode of the fair Countess Marguerite.

"And that," said she, pointing to a great oak which stood nearly in the centre of the court, "is the tree under which the fair dame plighted her love to Duke John of Brittany."

"Ah, that's the tree, is it?" said Wiggles, to whom I translated the valuable information. "Well, then," added he, taking our basket of cold chicken and ale,

and placing it just under the historic tree, "if that's the case, we'll lunch under it." You will have some idea, alike of the extent and the interest of the old castle, when I tell you that it took us some two hours to go over it. The old dame was prolix, and in her way kept us informed of the significance of every apartment, corridor, and tower which we visited.

First, we passed over an old drawbridge, which spanned a moat now for centuries dry; so on under an exquisitely carved arch into the "banqueting hall." Here, but faint indications remained of the once superb apartment, where the medieval barons were wont to hold orgy and carousal, to pass, with merry shouts, the wassail cup, and to sit mellow after their repast, and listen lazily to the war and love songs of the troubadour and minnesinger. The four walls were still standing, and in the centre of the further wall might still be seen the huge open fire-place, "eighteen feet by nine," as we were assured. There was the chimney, still intact, making a huge vein from the fire-place to the top. There was no roof; the sun shone down uninterrupted into the ruined chamber; and where was once a thick oaken floor, now grew, half-choked by the fallen stone, brick, and plaster, shrubs and weeds, and here and there a wild flower-the only feasters in the long-forsaken banquet hall. One could discover where, along the walls, rude frescoes and more elegant cornicing had been; and the windows, arched and crossed by heavy, rusted iron bars, were still sufficiently preserved to show how luxurious was the taste of the rude old feudal lords. Beams protruded abruptly from the broken walls, showing where the edifice (for, indeed, the castle consisted of many entirely separate edifices) had been divided into upper and lower stories. On clambering up to one of the windows and crouching in it, I was able to measure the thickness of the wall, and found it to be ten feet!

Out of the "banqueting chamber" we passed through a very small door at the further end, and found ourselves in a passage so low that we had to stoop to go

along in it. It was dark as pitch, and presently, the old crone lighting a match, we found ourselves at the top of a narrow flight of steps. Descending these we came upon a secret passage-way, and going some distance emerged into a garden below the castle. This was where the old Knights used to come in and out when they wished to do so secretly. Next, we visited the boudoir of a dame of the olden time, and by a door leading from it we passed into her sleeping chamber. 'Twas now a cold, dreary place enough; the leaves of the trees which shaded its narrow windows had fallen within for many autumns, and completely covered the floor (or where the floor once had been) of the boudoir; and there was a pile of them quite up to the windowsill. Of course the plastering was mostly gone, and the rude wall protruded here and there; yet there were not wanting evidences of the luxury in which the little apartment had whilom been fitted up. The window was adorned by stone carving, and looked out upon an extensive and lovely landscape; and now and then appeared a broken piece of cornice, or, in patches of plaster, faded paint, showing that the room had been frescoed. On one of the walls was a square panel of oak, still glossy, with a pious inscription. cut in it. How this room brought up to one's fancy glowing pictures of the olden time! We imagined all sorts of forlorn maidens, pining for love, languidly gathering up their tresses in the little boudoir, or perhaps kissing their tapering hands to some gallant, far beneath the castle walls! Or it might have been that some old Countess, who had offended her lord, was shut up here, till her spirit was properly tamed to obey the conjugal will—indeed, I think the old guide mumbled some such story about it. We then visited the kitchen-the veritable old kitchen where the feasts of the olden barons were wont to be prepared! You may well believe it did not much resemble our prim New England kitchens; it was a gloomy, dungeon-like apartment, with a brick floor, and huge holes in the wall where the great fires used to burn, and cook

enormous haunches of venison, quarters of beef, and entire pigs; otherwise there was little of interest to detain us.

Passing through the ancient castle garden, which was laid out on the top of a high, broad bastion, and was surrounded by turrets, our conductress led us to a door, which she unlocked, and from which we descended, on an inclined plane, underground. The passage-way was pitchy dark, and there was a damp and stagnant smell about it; every now and then we found ourselves wading through puddles, or slipping about in slime. It was a long passage, I should say several rods in extent. At last the guide told us to stand still; and, lighting a long wax taper which she had brought with her, she showed us that we were standing in a close, narrow dungeon, perhaps ten feet by ten. A single slit in the thick wall was the only opening, except that by which we had entered. The walls were composed of huge stones, from the crevices between which trickled little jets of water, which, meeting in the centre of the cell, formed a green, putrid pool. It was a horrid place, full of damp odors and unhealthy air; and so confined that a man could but just lie down in it.

แ

"This," said the guide, was the dungeon of Duke John, where his body and that of Countess Margaret were found; and here her phantom is said to come at night, to lament over the murder of her lover."

Wiggles looked about-I thought he fancied he should see the ghost; but he strenuously declared he was only trying to read a rude inscription on the wall!

The last apartment which the dame showed us was a large and deep dungeon, where executions used to take place. From an iron ring in the centre of the ceiling hung an enormous iron hook, rusty and bent; how many a poor rebel had swung from it in the cruel old days of the barons! Why, the fierce lords of Clisson used to hang a man as easily as they would eat their dinners, and enjoy it as much; let one of their servants neglect a duty, or be insolent-let them but make a batch of an enemy's soldiers, and this

dark dungeon and ominous hook was sure to be their fate. Just above was a little round room where the barons sat in judgment—where they held their court, without law or jury; and a great stone seat still remained, upon which the lord of Clisson himself was wont to sit.

But one thing, that interested us as much as any other, was the genuine old well, which they used so many centuries ago; it stood at one end of the court-yard, under an umbrageous elm, was built of very large stones, and was very deep, and the moss and creepers which hung over it and all along down its sides as far as eye could reach, gave it a very venerable and picturesque appearance. Just beside it was the ancient trough, where the gallant steeds of the barons were wont to drink; it was a very ponderous affair, of stone.

And what use do you suppose they make of it now-this antique trough? When we came to it, we saw a great lubberly peasant boy hopping frantically up and down in the trough, from one end to the other; by its side, on the ground, stood a large bucket. Approaching, we discovered the trough to be full of grapes, and the bucket nearly full of grape-juice. The boy was "pressing the vintage;" that's the way they make wine. wooden shoes; and when, a moment after, he jumped out of the trough, he fell to wiping the mashed grapes which clung to them on the ground. Then, his shoes all dirty and grassy, he got back into the trough again and pursued his work.

He had on thick

"And so that's the way they make wine here. Hu-um!" said Wiggles, turning away with a disgusted look. "Come, let's have some lunch. Those dirty shoes have taken all the romance out of me."

"But not your appetite? Insatiable palate!"

"Now," said Wiggles, seating himself under the historic tree, with an expression of infinite complacency, and drawing the cork of a bottle of ale, "Isn't it lucky I brought ale, instead of wine?" Then a sudden and terrible doubt seemed to seize him.