solitary, but newly-built schools in the scattered villages tell of
progress.

Meantime driver and passengers alight whilst our steady horses climb
one sharp ascent after another. As we wind about the hills we catch
sight of tiny hamlets perched on airy crests, recalling the castellated
villages of the African Kabylia.

Arrived at our destination, the ancient capital and stronghold of the
Celtic Morvan, the whole country lies at our feet as a map--sunny
pasture and cornland, glen and dale, mountain stream, tumbling river
and glittering cascade, alternating with sterner and grander features--
dark forests covering vast spaces, rugged peaks towering aloft, wild
sweeps of heather-covered moorland. Seen as I saw this region, under a
wind-tossed lowering heaven, the impression was of extreme desolation
and wildness; only a glimpse of sunshine was needed to bring out the
witchery of each shifting scene. Nothing can be prettier in a quiet way
than these countless rivers and rivulets, each fringed with lofty
alders, these velvety glades and winding lanes. Forests abound, and I
was assured by a peasant that the poor never need buy any firewood.
They can pick up enough to last them all winter.

Immediately below Chateau-Chinon opens a fair valley, threaded by the
river Yonne. Bewildering is the sense of space and atmosphere we obtain
here, as we look straight down into the clifts below, or allow the eye
to wander over the vast panorama stretching around.

A town perched on a height two thousand feet above the sea-level, so
placed as to command an entire kingdom, should have a history, and the
history of Chateau-Chinon goes very far back indeed. The fortified