an embroidery of sculpture, in which every detail is
worthy of the hand of a goldsmith. In the middle of
it, or rather a little to the left, rises the famous wind-
ing staircase (plausibly, but I believe not religiously,
restored), which even the ages which most misused it
must vaguely have admired. It forms a kind of chiselled
cylinder, with wide interstices, so that the stairs are
open to the air. Every inch of this structure, of its
balconies, its pillars, its great central columns, is
wrought over with lovely images, strange and ingenious
devices, prime among which is the great heraldic sala-
mander of Francis I. The salamander is everywhere
at Blois, - over the chimneys, over the doors, on the
walls. This whole quarter , of the castle bears the
stamp of that eminently pictorial prince. The run-
ning cornice along the top of the front is like all un-
folded, an elongated, bracelet. The windows of the
attic are like shrines for saints. The gargoyles, the
medallions, the statuettes, the festoons, are like the
elaboration of some precious cabinet rather than the
details of a building exposed to the weather and to
the ages. In the interior there is a profusion of res-
toration, and it is all restoration in color. This has
been, evidently, a work of great energy and cost, but
it will easily strike you as overdone. The universal
freshness is a discord, a false note; it seems to light
up the dusky past with an unnatural glare. Begun in
the reign of Louis Philippe, this terrible process - the
more terrible always the more you admit that it has
been necessary - has been carried so far that there is