land where the kings of France long held their court; ardent,
artistic, poetic, voluptuous, yet whose first impulses subside
quickly. The softness of the atmosphere, the beauty of the climate, a
certain ease of life and joviality of manners, smother before long the
sentiment of art, narrow the widest heart, and enervate the strongest
will. Transplant the Tourangian, and his fine qualities develop and
lead to great results, as we may see in many spheres of action: look
at Rabelais and Semblancay, Plantin the printer and Descartes,
Boucicault, the Napoleon of his day, and Pinaigrier, who painted most
of the colored glass in our cathedrals; also Verville and Courier. But
the Tourangian, distinguished though he may be in other regions, sits
in his own home like an Indian on his mat or a Turk on his divan. He
employs his wit in laughing at his neighbor and in making merry all
his days; and when at last he reaches the end of his life, he is still
a happy man. Touraine is like the Abbaye of Theleme, so vaunted in the
history of Gargantua. There we may find the complying sisterhoods of
that famous tale, and there the good cheer celebrated by Rabelais
reigns in glory.

As to the do-nothingness of that blessed land it is sublime and well
expressed in a certain popular legend: "Tourangian, are you hungry, do
you want some soup?" "Yes." "Bring your porringer." "Then I am not
hungry." Is it to the joys of the vineyard and the harmonious
loveliness of this garden land of France, is it to the peace and
tranquillity of a region where the step of an invader has never
trodden, that we owe the soft compliance of these unconstrained and
easy manners? To such questions no answer. Enter this Turkey of sunny
France, and you will stay there,--lazy, idle, happy. You may be as
ambitious as Napoleon, as poetic as Lord Byron, and yet a power
unknown, invisible, will compel you to bury your poetry within your