Nature and Art, June 1, 1867.] 
ICING CHASSELAS. 
185 
ferule a second stick draws out, thus increasing 
the length ; and to this is fastened a ring, into 
which the bottles contained in the case, and also 
a useful weed-knife, are screwed. The diffe- 
rences between the sticks and nets of the three 
makers are of trivial importance ; but we are 
not quite certain to which of them the right to 
priority of manufacture belongs. Some say 
Mr. Highley was the first to use a stick of the 
kind, but it is certain that the contrivance was 
simultaneously exhibited in public by him and by 
Messrs. Baker. 
KING CHASSELAS. 
By G. W. Yapp. 
W ANDERING about tho pleasant country watered by 
the Seine, the Marne, and their tributaries, during 
the few happy summer days which that severe mistress, duty, 
allows to her desk-bound sons, I found myself in the 
curious old town of Moret, situated just beyond the extreme 
verge of the forest of Fontainebleau. Moret was formerly 
a walled city with advanced works, situated on an island in 
tho middle of the river Loing which bounds it on one side ; 
some portions of the old walls still remain, but the island is 
now covered by a flour-mill, which does a good deal more 
work, and probably makes a great deal less noise, than the 
old bowmen and men at arms who formerly inhabited the 
place. At each. end of the road which passes through the 
middle of the town, in a line with the double bridge which 
spans the river and connects the island with the opposite 
shores, is a curious old gate-way, in excellent preserva- 
tion ; and adjoining each of them are remnants of the old 
military buildings that sheltered the garrison, not only 
from the weather, but also from the winged or other 
messengers which the restless spirits of the feudal ages 
might attempt to send into old Moret. In order that any 
wanderer like myself, coming suddenly upon the place from 
the river side, should have no doubt concerning his where- 
abouts, the name of the town is painted on a tablet fixed over 
tho gate at that end, just as Smith or Brown place their 
names over their shops, an uncommon but after all a very 
natural act. One of these gate-towers was the scene of a 
sad catastrophe about two years since. It is in the occupa- 
tion of an inn-keeper whose establishment adjoins it, and 
one of the upper apartments was used as a dining-room for 
visitors. Three or four artists and literary men were col- 
lected there in a joyous group when the whole of the floor 
gave way, and the party was precipitated into the room 
below ; they were all much hurt by the falling of the heavy 
beams and flooring upon them, and two out of the number, 
if not more, eventually died of the injuries they received, 
a sad warning against trusting the soundness of such old 
constructions when not under the care of competent sur- 
veyors. 
Moret possesses a very beautiful and curious church, and 
also the remains of one of those refuges of widowed queens 
— the chateaux of the Reines Blanches — of which there are 
so many in various parts of France. Another of the lions 
of the place is an old house in the high street, on which is 
a slab informing visitors that Napoleon the First slept there 
on his way from Elba in 1814. 
On the occasion of my visit to Moret, early in October, 
tho first thing that attracted the eye was not the Chateau 
of the Reine Blanche, or the church, or the old gate 
towers, but walnuts. The streets were all walnuts, spread 
out on sacks, horse-cloths, and almost every possible 
kind of cloths, that their brown jerkins might be dried 
in the sun, after removal of their green overcoats, and 
(sulphur not being used in France to bleach walnuts), 
to enable them to travel up to Paris or elsewhere, in 
close carriages, without perspiring or spoiling their com- 
plexions . Walnuts are not by any means to be despised ; 
and “wine and walnuts” has become a standing phrase, 
but there was metal still more attractive, not very far off ; 
and I, with certain young lasses of my kin who accompanied 
me, determined to extend our walk, and visit the birthplace 
of the Roi Chasselas ! You will not find the name of this 
monarch in the regal tablets of France ; he is neither 
Merovingian, Capet, nor Bourbon, yet lie is invariably called 
Chasselas of Fontainebleau, and he reigns at the present 
moment as regally as ever. Whoever else may be at 
table, he invaria.bly fills one of the highest places ; the 
proudest men acknowledge his virtues ; the chastest lijos 
are always ready to embrace him, and children dote upon 
him ; who then is a happy monarch if it be not King Chas- 
selas of Fontainebleau ? We therefore bent our steps 
towards the place of his birth, and there we found him, not 
on a throne, not at the head of an army, not sitting at tho 
council board, but hanging on a wall ! 
But we are proceeding a little too fast ; our walk was not 
a short one — the calendar had gone forward to “ jolly old 
October but Sol seemed tobe retracinghis steps and picking 
up some of the time he had lost in August ; we knew that 
King Chasselas loved sunny weather, so we expected to find 
him with a joyous face. We made our way towards a little 
place, containing about a house and a-half perched upon a 
hillock, and known, probably to the extent of two miles in 
every direction, by the name of Veneux. From this we 
looked down upon Saint Mammes, a small town spai-kling 
in the sunbeams in the midst of emerald meadows at tho 
“ meeting of the waters ” of the Seine and the Loing. 
Certainly Saint Mammes has chosen a very pretty summer 
seat, yet it struck us, as we looked on the very fresh grass 
around, that he must be liable to occasional attacks of 
rheumatism. 
Turning our backs upon Saint Mammes and the meadows 
where “ the bright waters meet,” we found ourselves ap- 
proaching another place whose name is not quite so well- 
known as London or Paris, and which must have been 
christened when letters wero scarce, or the days short. 
Its full name is By ; and we did not hear that it was 
ever abridged by way of endearment. We made for By, 
as we had been instructed, by the high road, but we 
missed it, and to our small regret, for we found ourselves in 
a huge orchard, or rather, in a wilderness of orchards, a 
world of fruit, an ocean of lusciousness. It is needless to 
say what fruits grew there, but it may be mentioned that 
while rich purple and waxy green grapes hung in luxurious 
profusion on all sides, we indulged in a few bunches of 
richly ripe currants, and might have revelled in specimens 
of every fruit in season. For a mile or more the road into 
which we had accidentally wandered — and which we pro- 
pose to call for distinction, “ By-the-Bye ” — was lined on 
