LA CHARITE-SUR-LOIRE.

From Bourron, in September, 1900, I journeyed with a friend to La
Charite, a little town four hours off.

It is ever with feelings of pleasurable anticipation that I approach any
French town for the first time. The number of these, alas! now being
few, I have of late years been compelled to restrain curiosity, leaving
one or two dreamed-of spots for the future, saying with Wordsworth:--

"Should life be dull and spirits low,
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow."

La Charite, picturesque of the picturesque--according to French accounts,
English, we have none--for many years had been a Yarrow to me, a reserve
of delight, held back from sheer Epicureanism.

As, on the 12th of September, the cumbersome old omnibus rattled over
the unpaved streets, both to myself and fellow traveller came a feeling
of disenchantment. We had apparently reached one more of those sleepy
little _chefs-lieux_ familiar to both, places of interest certainly, the
sleepiest having some architectural gem or artistic treasure. But here
was surely no Yarrow!

A few minutes later we discovered our error. Hardly had we reached our
rooms in the more than old-fashioned Hotel du Grand Monarque, than from