f N 
 
 ' LIBRARY ^ 
 
 UNIVERSin Of 
 CAUFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO ,
 
 OUR 
 
 SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY, 
 
 &c. &c.
 
 LARGE PAPER. 
 
 -6J>SS5>— 
 
 Only One Hundred and Tivelve Copies of t]iis 
 Edition have been pj-inted. 
 
 THIS COPY IS NUMBER 
 
 17
 
 OUR 
 
 SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY 
 
 THROUGH 
 
 FRANCE AND ITALY. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSEPH & ELIZABETH ROBINS 
 PENNELL. 
 
 LONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK ; 15 EAST i6<'> S TREET. 
 1888. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, 
 
 by Joseph and Elizabeth Robins Penneli., 
 
 in tlie Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Wasliington.
 
 NOTE TO THE CRITIC AND 
 THE READER. 
 
 /^^UR great ambition when we first 
 ^-^ set out on our tricycle, three years 
 ago, was to ride from London to Rome. 
 We did not then know exactly why we 
 wanted to do this, nor do we now. The 
 third part of the journey was " ridden, 
 written, and wrought into a work " before 
 the second part was begun ; and, more- 
 over, when and where we could not ride 
 with ease — across the Channel and over 
 the Alps, for example — we went by boat 
 and train. In our simplicity we thought 
 by publishing the story of our journey, 
 
 we
 
 [ vi] 
 we could show the world at large, and 
 perhaps Mr. Riiskin in particular, that 
 the oft-regretted delights of travelling in 
 days of coach and post-chaise, destroyed 
 on the coming of the railroad, were once 
 more to be had by means of tricycle or 
 bicycle. We can only hope that critic 
 and reader are not, like Mr. Ruskin, 
 prepared to spend all their best " bad 
 language " " in reprobation of bi-tri-and- 
 4-5-6 or 7-cycles," and that the riding 
 we found so beautiful will not to them, 
 as to him, be but a vain wriggling on 
 wheels. We also thouMit we mio;ht 
 prove to the average CNcler how much 
 better it is to spend spare time and 
 money in making Pilgrims' Progresses 
 and Sentimental lournevs than in hano"- 
 ing around race-tracks. However that 
 may be, we have at length accomplished 
 
 the
 
 [ vii] 
 
 the object of our ridinor-, and that is the 
 great matter after all. As to future 
 rides and records, if we make any, it is 
 our intention to for ever keep them to 
 ourselves, and so — spare the public. 
 
 Dedication.
 
 ©etiicatiou. 
 
 TO 
 
 LAURENCE STERNE, Esq., 
 
 &C. &C. &CC. 
 
 London, y(7«. 2"', 1888. 
 Dear Sir, — 
 
 We never should have ven- 
 tured to address you, had we not noticed 
 of late that Mr. Andrew Lang has been 
 writing to Dead Authors, not one of 
 whom — to our knowledge — has taken 
 offence at this liberty. Encouraged by 
 his example, we beg leave to dedicate 
 to you this history of our journey, lay- 
 ing it with the most respectful humility 
 before your sentimental shade, and 
 
 regretting
 
 [ - ] 
 
 regretting' it is without that charm 
 of style whicli alone could make it 
 worthy. 
 
 And as, in our modesty, we would 
 indeed be unwilling to trouble you a 
 second time, we must take advantage of 
 this unhoped-for opportunity to add a 
 few words of explanation about our jour- 
 ney in your honour. It is because of 
 the conscientious fidelity with which we 
 rode over the route made ever famous 
 by you, that we have included ourselves 
 in the class of Sentimental Travellers, 
 of which you must ever be the incom- 
 parable head. To other sentiment, dear 
 Sir, whatever we mav have thought in 
 the enthusiasm of setting out, we now 
 know we can lay no claim. Experience 
 has taught us that it depends upon the 
 man himself, and not upon his circum- 
 stances or surroundings. Nowadays 
 the manner of travellinor throuf^h France 
 
 and
 
 [ xi J 
 
 and Italy is by rail, and mostly on 
 Cook's tickets, and chaises have become 
 a luxury which we at least cannot afford. 
 The only vehicle by which we could 
 follow your wheel-tracks along the old 
 post roads was our tricycle, an ingenious 
 machine of modern invention, endeared 
 to us, because without it Our Senti- 
 mental Journey would have been an 
 impossibility. In these degenerate days, 
 you, Sir, we are sure, would prefer it to 
 a railway carriage, as little suited to your 
 purposes as to those of Mr. Ruskin — an 
 author whose rare and racy sayings you 
 would no doubt admire were you still 
 interested in earthly literature. Besides, 
 in a tandem, with its two seats, there 
 would be nothing to stir up a disagree- 
 able sensation within you. You would 
 still have a place for " the lady." 
 
 Because it was not possible to follow 
 you in many ways, we have spared no 
 
 effort
 
 [ >=ii ] 
 
 effort to be faithful in others. We left 
 out not one city which you visited, and 
 it was a pleasure to learn that the world 
 is still as beautiful as you found it, though 
 to-day most men of culture care so little 
 for what is about them, they would have 
 us believe all beauty belongs to the past. 
 However, it will be gratifying to you, 
 who did not despise fame during your 
 lifetime, to know that you are one of the 
 men of that past who have not wholly 
 died, — And again, dear Sir, as it was 
 your invariable custom to borrow the 
 thoughts and words of any writer who 
 particularly pleased you — a custom your 
 enemies have made the most of — we 
 have not hesitated to use any pictures 
 of other men, or any descriptions and 
 expressions in your works, that seemed 
 appropriate to the record of our journey. 
 More honest than you, Sir, we have 
 given credit to the artists, that their 
 
 names
 
 [ -^iii ] 
 
 names may enhance the value of our 
 modest offering. But as you will recog- 
 nise your own words without our pointing 
 them out, we have not even put them 
 into quotation marks, an omission which 
 you of all men can best appreciate. 
 
 In conclusion : we think you may 
 be pleased to hear something of your 
 last earthly resting-place in the bury- 
 ing-ground belonging to St. George's, 
 Hanover Square. We made a pilgrim- 
 age to it but a few Sundays ago. Though 
 your grave was neglected until the exact 
 spot is no longer known, the stone, since 
 raised iiea}' the place, is so often visited 
 that, though it stands far from the path, 
 a way to it has been worn in the grass 
 by the feet of the many, who have come 
 to breathe a sigh or drop a tear for poor 
 Yorick. We scarcely know if it will be 
 any comfort to you in your present life, 
 to learn that this cemetery is a quiet, rest- 
 ful
 
 [ -^iv ] 
 
 fill enclosure, near as it is to the carriages 
 and 'busses about Marble Arch and the 
 Socialist and Salvationist oratherin^js in 
 Hyde Park. In the spring it is pretty 
 as well, laburnunis shading the doorway 
 of the little chapel, through which one 
 can see from the street the grey grave- 
 stones that dot the grass, and seem no 
 less peaceful ihan the sheep in the broad 
 fields of the park opposite. 
 
 We have the honour to be, dear Sir, 
 your most obedient and most devoted 
 and most himible servants, 
 
 JOSEPH PENNELL. 
 ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL. 
 
 Contents.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Our Sentimental Journey 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 Calais 
 
 6 
 
 By a Fair River and over Terrible 
 
 
 Mountains . . . . 
 
 i6 
 
 The Boarding-House of Neuchatel 
 
 34 
 
 The South Wind 
 
 39 
 
 Montreuil 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 Nampont .... 
 
 
 
 48 
 
 A City in Mourning 
 
 
 
 52 
 
 Faithful Abbeville 
 
 
 
 65 
 
 Crushed Again 
 
 
 
 67 
 
 A By-Road 
 
 
 
 68 
 
 Amiens .... 
 
 
 
 77 
 
 Wind, Poplars, and Plains 
 
 
 
 85 
 
 The Commercial Gentlemen of St 
 
 Jusi 
 
 93 
 
 Through the Rain 
 
 
 106 
 
 An English Landlady . 
 
 
 
 114
 
 [ -^vi ] 
 
 C)VER THE Pave . . . . , 
 
 Paris ....... 
 
 A Talk about M. Millet and Mr, 
 Stevenson, and from Mr. Pennell 
 
 In the Forest 
 
 Fontainebleau 
 
 Through a Fair Country 
 
 montargis 
 
 How WE Fought the Wind from Mon 
 
 TARGIS TO COSNE 
 
 A Good Samaritan . 
 Bv THE Loire . 
 The Bourronnais 
 Moulin s .... 
 The Bourbonnais Again . 
 With the Wind 
 Lyons .... 
 The Autumn ^L\xt£uvRES 
 Vienne .... 
 The Feast of Apples 
 RlVES .... 
 
 PAGE 
 I 20 
 
 124 
 
 i6i 
 
 168 
 
 174 
 184 
 
 193 
 203 
 211 
 
 215 
 225 
 
 239 
 244 
 
 250 
 
 255 
 266
 
 Li^ill Jjjiii 
 
 OUR 
 
 SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY, 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 THE roads," said I, "are better 
 in France." 
 "You have ridden in France?" said 
 
 J , turning quick upon me with the 
 
 most civil sarcasm in the world. 
 
 " Strange ! " quoth I, arguing the 
 matter with him, " you have so Httle 
 faith in cyclers that you cannot take 
 their word for it." 
 
 A '"Tis
 
 [ ^ ] 
 
 " "Tis but a three hours' journey to 
 
 Calais and French roads," said J ; 
 
 " why not ride over them ourselves ? " 
 
 
 J' ii<-4"'A 
 
 _^'x— =^ 
 
 nA 
 
 — So, givini^ up the argument, not 
 many days later we put up our flannels 
 and our ulsters, our "Sterne" and our 
 " Baedeker,'" a box of etching plates, and a 
 couple of note-books — " Our old cycling 
 suits," said I, darning a few rents, "will 
 do " — took our seats in a third-class 
 
 railway
 
 J 
 
 railway carriage at Holborn Viaduct ; 
 
 
 and the Calais- Douvres sailing at half- 
 past twelve that same morning, by two 
 we were so incontestably in France, that 
 a crowd of shouting, laughing, jesting, 
 noisy Frenchmen in blue blouses were 
 struggling up the gang-plank with the 
 tricycle, which at Dover half the number 
 
 of
 
 [4] 
 
 of stolid Englishmen in green velveteen 
 
 had delivered into the hands of the 
 
 sailors. — But before we had set 
 
 foot in the French dominions we 
 
 had been treated by the French 
 
 with an inhospitality which, had 
 
 it not been for the sentiment of 
 
 our proposed ride, would have 
 
 ;^ made us forget the excellence 
 
 of the roads beckoning us to its 
 
 coast, and have sent us back in hot 
 
 haste to England.- 
 
 " To pay a shilling tax for the privi- 
 lege of landing in France," cried J , 
 
 fresh from his "Sterne," " by heavens, 
 gentlemen, it is not well done ! And 
 much docs it grieve me 'tis the law- 
 givers and taxmakers of a sister Repub- 
 lic whose people are renowned for cour- 
 tesy and politeness, that I have thus to 
 reason with." 
 
 - — But I confess we were much worse 
 
 treated
 
 [ 5 1 
 treated by the English, who seemed as 
 unwilHng to lose our tricycle as the 
 French were to receive us.- ■ 
 
 " Eight shillings to carry it from Lon- 
 don to Dover ; 'tis no small price," said 
 
 J , putting the change in his purse. 
 
 " But fifteen from Dover to Calais, as 
 much as we pay for our two tickets, tax 
 and all, I tell you 'tis monstrous! To 
 seize upon an unwary cycler going forth 
 in search of good roads, and make him 
 pay thus dearly for sport taken away 
 from Engrland ungrenerous ! " 
 
 — But we had scarce beg^un our senti- 
 mental journey. 
 
 iyj 
 
 
 Calais.
 
 CALAIS. 
 
 NOW, before I quit Calais, a travel- 
 writer would say, it would not be 
 amiss to give some account of it. — But 
 while we were there we were more 
 concerned in seeking the time and occa- 
 sion for sentiment than in studying the 
 history and monunients of the town. If 
 you would have a short description of 
 it, I know of none better than that of 
 ]\Ir. Tristram Shandy, who wrote with- 
 out even having seen by daylight the 
 places he described. — The church with 
 the steeple, the great Square, the town- 
 house, the Courgain, are all there still, 
 and I fancy have changed but little in 
 a hundred years. 
 
 To
 
 
 
 oh 
 
 
 
 ?jzj^^:.-^}%''^\ 
 
 
 If^ 
 
 
 '■■•,'v- 
 
 i* JC^-.C'rt 
 
 -\
 
 [7] 
 
 To travellers eager for sentiment, no- 
 thing could have been more vexatious 
 than the delay at the Custom- House, 
 where the tandem was weighed, its 
 wheels measured, and its number taken ; 
 and we were made to deposit fifty francs, 
 three-fourths of which sum would be re- 
 turned if we carried the machine out of 
 France within three months, the remain- 
 ing fourth going to pay the Government 
 for our wear and tear of French roads. 
 — There was another delay at the 
 Hotel Meurice while a room was found 
 for us, and a feimne - dc - chainbre in- 
 sisted upon Madame s going to bed 
 at once, because of the terrible wind 
 that had prostrated two English ladies. 
 But, finally rid of officials and femmes- 
 de-chambre, we walked out on the 
 street. 
 
 Now was the moment for an occasion 
 for sentiment to present itself. 
 
 It
 
 [8] 
 
 It is a rude world, I think, when the 
 wearer of a cycHng suit (even if it be 
 old and worn) cannot go forth to see the 
 town but instantly he is stared at and 
 ridiculed by the townspeople. For our 
 
 part, being but modest folk, we keenly 
 felt the f^lances and smiles of the well- 
 dressed men and women on the Rue 
 Royale. To find a quiet place we 
 walked from one end of the town to the 
 other; through the Square where Mr. 
 Shandy would have put up his fountain, 
 
 and
 
 [ 9] 
 
 and where a man at an Li|)[)er window 
 yelled in derision, and a woman in a 
 doorway below answered 
 
 " What wouldst thou have ? 'Tis the 
 English fashion.'' 
 
 — Down a narrow street, where, " For 
 example ! " cried a little young lady 
 
 in blue, laughing in J 's very face 
 
 — for we had turned full in front on a 
 group of girls — while a child clapped her 
 hands at sight of him, and a black dog 
 snapped at his stockings. And then up 
 a second street, that led to the barracks, 
 where two soldiers on duty put down 
 their guns and fairly shrieked. Into the 
 Cathedral children followed us, begging, 
 " Won sous, sare I won sous, sare ! " 
 until we loncjed to conceal our nation- 
 ality. At its door a poor wretch of a 
 fisherman, who had looked upon the 
 wine when it was red, came to our side 
 to tell us in very bad English that he 
 
 could
 
 could speak French. — There was no 
 peace to be had in the town. 
 
 If there was one thing we hoped for 
 more than another, it was to see a monk, 
 the first object of our master's sentiment 
 in France ; and, strange as it may seem, 
 our hope was actually fulfilled before the 
 afternoon was over. — On the outskirts 
 of the city, where we had taken refuge 
 
 from
 
 [ II ] 
 
 from ridicule, we saw a brown hooded 
 and cloaked Francis- 
 can, and in our joy 
 started to overtake 
 him. But he walked 
 quite as fast across 
 the yellow - flowered ^,, , . 
 
 J After Lewir 
 
 sand - dunes towards 
 St. Pierre. Had he known what was in 
 our hearts, I think he too would have 
 introduced himself with a little story 
 of the wants of his convent and the 
 poverty of his order. 
 
 We soon discovered that it was -d. fete 
 day in Calais, and that a regatta was 
 being held down by the pier. — When we 
 were there three Frenchmen in jockey- 
 caps were pulling long out-riggers against 
 the wind over a chopping sea. Looking 
 on was a great crowd, sad-coloured in 
 the grey afternoon light, for all its holi- 
 day dress, but touched here and there 
 
 with
 
 [ '= ] 
 
 witli white by the caps — their wide 
 ^^ -.— - .. fluted borders blowing 
 
 back in the breeze — 
 of the peasant women. 
 As every one who 
 has passed in the Paris 
 train knows, at the en- 
 trance of the town is 
 the town-gate, a heavy 
 grey pile, with high- 
 gabled roof and drawbridge, the chains 
 
 
 h 
 
 U\l 
 
 
 oi which hang on cither side the archway. 
 
 Now
 
 [ -3 ] 
 
 Now that Dessciii's was gone, J de- 
 clared that it interested him more than 
 anything else in Calais, since Hogarth had 
 painted it ; and he began an elaborate 
 study. It was not easy work. To the 
 people in their holiday humour the combi- 
 nation of knee-breeches and sketch-book 
 was irresistibly comic. 
 But he went bravely on. 
 I have rarely seen him 
 more conscientious over 
 a sketch. Indeed he 
 was so pleased with 
 this gate that later, 
 when, at the end of a 
 street, we came to an- 
 other, under a tall tur- 
 reted house, and lead- 
 inor into a laro^e court- 
 yard, nothing would do 
 but he must have that 
 as well. — In a word, he was in a mood 
 
 to
 
 [ -4 ] 
 
 to draw as many gates as he could 
 find ; but by this time at the Hotel 
 Meurice dinner was on the table. 
 
 It was not until many weeks after, 
 when we were back in London, that, 
 
 on looking into the matter, J 
 
 discovered that Hogarth painted, not 
 the eate facino^ the sea, but that at the 
 other end of the town — I verily believe 
 the on Iv rate in all Calais of which he 
 did not get a sketch. 
 
 On the whole the afternoon was a 
 disappointment. In little more than 
 a single hour our Master had grasped 
 seventeen chapters of adventures. In 
 thrice that time we, with hearts inter- 
 ested in everything, and eyes to see, had 
 met with a [)altry few, easily disposed of 
 in as many lines. — To add vexation to 
 vexation, at the table cT kote we learned 
 from the waiter, that thouQrh the old inn 
 had long since ceased to exist, there was 
 
 a
 
 L >5 ] 
 
 a new Dessein's in the town, where, for 
 the name's sake, it would have been 
 more appropriate to begin our journey. 
 Had we carried a " Baedeker " for Nor- 
 thern as well as Central France, we 
 should have been less ignorant. 
 
 We left the champions of the regatta 
 toasting each other at the next table, 
 and went into the salon to study a 
 chapter of our sentimental guide-book in 
 preparation for the first day's ride. But 
 an American was there before us, and 
 began, instead, a 'jf^ 
 
 talk about Wall 
 Street and business, 
 
 Blaine and torch- f\ i , J^^&^ 
 light processions. .^^\'^."l'j"^\i'\ 'r;^'.-S 
 As Americans do ■ '"^''' ''^''' ^*-""'^"* 
 not travel to see 
 Americans, we re- 
 tired to our room. 
 
 — -l^'J-"- -IT" 
 
 ,W'"- 
 
 Bv
 
 
 BY A FAIR RIVER AND OVER 
 TERRIBLE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 T 
 
 'HE milkman, 
 followed by 
 his goats, was piping 
 through the town, 
 and the clock over 
 the Qf-eraniums in the 
 court was just strik- 
 ing eight, as we dis- 
 posed of our bill — not 
 without numerous 
 complaints, in which every one but some 
 
 Enijlish
 
 [ '7 ] 
 
 English tourists joined — and wheeled 
 the tricycle out to the street. — Though 
 the old vi\Q)\\\Qx\y femvic-de-chambre had 
 come to see us ride, and stopped a 
 friend to share this pleasure, and though 
 there were many faces at the dinini^- 
 room windows, the sight of \\\^ pavd, or 
 French paving, kept us from mounting. 
 
 We walked, J pushing the tricycle, 
 
 to the Place, past the grey town-hall, 
 into the Rue Royale. We had been told 
 that where La Fleur's hotel once stood 
 a museum was being built. To senti- 
 mental travellers, perhaps, this destruc- 
 tion of old landmarks was as worthy of 
 tears as a dead donkey. — But it is easier 
 to weep in a private post-chaise than in 
 the open streets. 
 
 We pfot throuofh the town without 
 trouble, but we could not ride even 
 after we went round the city-gate that 
 Hogarth did paint, and to which we gave 
 
 but
 
 [ is ] 
 
 but a passinf^ glance. It was only 
 beyond the long, commonplace, busy 
 suburb of St. Pierre that the. />az'd ended 
 and the eood road befjan. 
 
 The morning was cool, the sky grey 
 with heavy clouds, and the south wind we 
 were soon to dread was blowing softly. 
 It seemed a matter of course, since we 
 were in P^ ranee, that we should come out 
 
 .>-r^i<^^m^:. 
 
 
 '^w-J^y ,- -^v:.v» -.i.u_ _X^J^ , .Jr^y &5f','*Vrf-i; ,.1. ..I, 
 
 
 ^- t<^"^J\ 
 
 almost at once on a little river. It ran in a 
 long line between reeds, towards a cluster 
 of red-roofed cottages, and here and there 
 fishermen sat or stood on the banks. 
 When it forsook its straight course, the 
 
 road
 
 [ -9 1 
 
 road and the strcct-car track from Calais 
 went winding with it, — grassy plains, 
 where cows and horses wandered, 
 stretching seaward on the right. In 
 front we looked to a low range of blue 
 hills, that gradually took more definite 
 shape and colour as we rode. They were 
 
 
 ■ -^v^ AC!^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 very near when we came to Guignes, 
 a silent, modest little village, for all 
 its royal associations and memories of 
 the " Field of the Cloth of Gold." On 
 its outskirts old yellow houses rose right 
 on the river's edge ; and when we passed, 
 a girl in blue skirt stood in one doorway, 
 
 sending
 
 [ =o] 
 scndino a bright reflection into the grey 
 water, and in another an old man peace- 
 fully smoked his pipe, taking it from his 
 mouth to beg we would carry packets 
 for him to Paris. Behind one cottage, 
 in the garden among the apple-trees, 
 was a large canal boat, like a French 
 Rudder Grange. Beyond, high steep- 
 roofed houses faced upon the street, and 
 the stream was lined with many barges. 
 — But just here we turned from river 
 and street-car track to walk to the other 
 end of the town, over pavd and up a 
 steep hill, where we were told by a 
 blushing young man, in foreign English, 
 that we had but to follow the diligence 
 then behind us if we would reach Mar- 
 quise. 
 
 Though we thought this a rare jest 
 at the time, we carried his advice out 
 almost to the letter. — We had come to 
 the terrible uiouiitains for which we had 
 
 been
 
 I 2 1 I 
 
 been prepared in Calais. It is at this 
 point, according to Mr. Ruskin, that 
 France really begins, the level stretch 
 we first crossed being virtually but 
 part of Flanders. 'Tis a bad begin- 
 ning, from a cycler's ideal. For many 
 
 miles I walked — and even J at 
 
 times — along the white road, barren of 
 the poplars one always expects in 
 France, over the rolling treeless moors, 
 
 where we were watched out of sight 
 by gleaners, their white caps and dull 
 
 blue
 
 [ -^-' ] 
 
 blue skirts aiul sacks in pale relief 
 ao-ainst a grey blue-streaked sky ; and 
 by plouorhmen, whose horses, 
 happier than they, ate their din- 
 ners as they worked. — Always 
 to the north of the moorland was 
 the grey sea-line, and farther 
 still the white cliffs of Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Sometimes I rode, for each 
 tiny village nestled in a valley 
 of its own, iTfivinfj us a hill to coast as 
 well as to climb. There were occasional 
 windmills in the distance ; and close to 
 the road large farm-houses and barns, 
 with hi£yh sloping red roofs and hup"e 
 troughs in front, where we knew cattle 
 would come in the twilight and horses 
 would be watered in the morning. And 
 when Calais, with smoking chimneys, 
 was far behind and below, we came to 
 black crosses by the wayside and better 
 
 manners
 
 [ -^3 ] 
 
 manners among the people. The pea- 
 sants now wished us good-day. 
 
 
 
 9': V 
 
 ^j>-*^^-^'^ii' lis.. ll-U>- wV^ " 
 
 
 At this early stage there was nothing 
 we looked for less than trouble with the 
 tricycle. It had been carefully put in 
 order by the manufacturers before we 
 left London. But now already the lug- 
 gage-carrier loosened, and swung around 
 on the back-bone of the machine. Do 
 
 what
 
 [ ^4] 
 
 what w'ii would, we could not keep it 
 straight again. In Marquise we bought 
 a leather strap, in hopes to right it, and 
 there also ate our lunch. — From the 
 window of the estaminet we could see 
 that the men and boys who came up to 
 examine the tricycle never once touched 
 it, while a man with a cart of casks, 
 though it was in his way, rather than 
 disturb it, stopped a little farther down 
 the street, and rolled the casks along 
 the pavement. Inside the estaminet, 
 the brisk, tidy woman who cooked and 
 served our coffee and omelette, kept 
 talking of the weather and France and 
 the tricycle, and what a wise manner of 
 travelling was ours. My faith ! from the 
 railway one sees nothing. 
 
 But, indeed, for hours afterwards we 
 saw as little as if we had been in a rail- 
 road train. We were conscious only of 
 the great hills to be climbed, and of our 
 
 incessant
 
 I -^5 ] 
 
 incessant trouble with the lugg'age-car- 
 rier. The new strap did not mend 
 matters. Every few minutes the carrier 
 with the bag took an ugly swing to one 
 side. — We never began to enjoy a coast, 
 we never got fairly started on an up- 
 grade, that it did not force us to stop 
 and push it straight. And then the 
 lamp in its turn loosened, and every few 
 kilometres had to be hammered into 
 place. 
 
 The other incidents of that lonof after- 
 noon I remember merely because of 
 their association with hills. It was at 
 the top of one, where I arrived breath- 
 less, we had our first view of the dome 
 and monument of Boulogne ; it was at 
 the bottom of another that we came to 
 the. pav(f oi Wimille ; it was half-way on 
 
 a third, up which J worked slowly, 
 
 standing up on the pedals and leaning 
 far over to grasp the front handle bars, 
 
 while
 
 [ ^6 ] 
 
 while 1 walked, that I wms stopped by 
 an Enelishman and Englishwoman. 
 
 " Oh," said the man, as he watched 
 
 J , " you're making a walking tour 
 
 together, I suppose ? " 
 
 "We're riding! " cried I, aghast. 
 
 " Oh ! " he exclaimed, " I see ; you 
 ride by turns." 
 
 — I w^as so stupefied by his impudence 
 or ignorance that at first I could say 
 nothing. Then, 
 
 " We ride together," said I ; " and 
 
 we've
 
 [ 27] 
 
 we've come from England, and we're 
 going to Paris and Lyons, into Savo}', 
 and over the Mont Cenis pass." 
 
 — And with that I turned my back 
 and left them, open-mouthed, in the 
 middle of the road. 
 
 But their unconscious sarcasm had its 
 sting. The thought that if these hills 
 went on I might really have to walk 
 half-way to Italy almost brought senti- 
 ment to an end. 
 
 " Boulogne ! and 'tis but half- past 
 three. We'll go on," said J . 
 
 — As we did not even enter the town, 
 I cannot of my own knowledge say if 
 there is anything in it worth seeing. 
 But from the outside we learned that 
 it has a picturesque old city-gate under 
 the shadow of the dome ; that the 
 people are polite, and some of the 
 men wear baggy blue breeches ; and 
 that close to the grim grey walls is an 
 
 unpaved
 
 [ 28 ] 
 
 unpaved tree-lined boulevard which is 
 verv orood ridins:- It led to a down- 
 
 fl 
 
 A. 
 
 
 
 
 
 grade which a woman called a terrible 
 mountain, thougrh she thouorht it miofht 
 be '' good for you others.'' 
 
 Only the highest ranges are moun- 
 tains to an Italian, but to a Frenchman 
 the merest hillock is U7ie montagnc ter- 
 
 rid/e
 
 [ =9 ] 
 
 rible. — The hill outside of Boulogne was 
 steep, but unrideable only on account of 
 \\\Qpavd. And, oh ! the /^t'^*" that after- 
 noon ! We went up pavd and down 
 pavL\ and over long level stretches of 
 pavd, until, if any one were to ask me 
 what there is between Boulogne and 
 Pont-de-Brique, my only answer would 
 be pavd ! We had heard of it before 
 ever we landed in France, but its vile- 
 ness went beyond our expectation. The 
 worst of it was, that for the rest of our 
 journey we were never quite rid of it. 
 To be sure it was only once in a long 
 while we actually rode over it, but then 
 we had always to be on the look-out. 
 We came to it in every town and vil- 
 lage ; we found bits of it in lonely coun- 
 try districts ; it lay in wait for us on 
 hill-sides. The French roads without 
 the pavd are the marvels of symmetry, 
 cleanliness, and order Mark Twain calls 
 
 them
 
 L 30] 
 
 ihcm. If they are not jack-planed and 
 sandpapered, they are at least swept 
 every day. With the pavd, they are 
 the ruin of a good machine and a better 
 temper. And yet, all things considered, 
 France is the cycler's promised land. 
 
 I]y the time we reached Pont - de - 
 Brique the luggage-carrier hung on by 
 one screw. Fortunately we found a 
 
 carpenter in a cafc\ and he and J 
 
 went to work. — In the meantime I saw, 
 under the shade of a clump of trees, a 
 green cart with windows and chimney, 
 a horse grazing near by, and a man and 
 woman sitting in front of a fire kindled 
 on the grass. I walked towards the 
 cart. 
 
 '■ I\2tsJito divvns, Pal te Pen'' (" Good- 
 day, brother and sister"), said I. 
 
 " What ? " asked the woman, without 
 looking u[) from the tin-pan she was 
 mending. 
 
 " K?is/ito

 
 [ 3' ] 
 
 '' Kuslito divviiSy' said I, louder; add- 
 ing, ''Ale shorn une Romany c/W (" I'm 
 a Gipsy "). 
 
 " Coimiieni?" she repeated peevishly. 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 — The man still tinkered at his 
 pots. 
 
 I chaffed them in my best Romany, 
 but they took no further heed. I tried 
 French. I said I was a Gipsy come 
 from over the seas, with news of their 
 brothers in America. 
 
 " But we're not Gipsies," said they ; 
 " we live in Boulogne, and we're 
 busy." 
 
 ■ — I declare I never was so snubbed 
 in my life ! 
 
 'Twas but six quarters of an hour on 
 foot to Neuchatel, the carpenter told us. 
 — The road in the late afternoon was 
 full of fine carriages and shabby carts ; 
 and in sight of Neuchatel we passed 
 
 men
 
 [ r- ] 
 
 men and women oroinor home from work. 
 We asked one man if there was an inn 
 in the town. 
 
 '^ll-y-a-dotizel' he answered, with great 
 effort, and hurried on, so that we had 
 not time to tell him we too could speak 
 English. 
 
 We wondered so small a town should 
 be so rich in inns. But dotize, it seemed, 
 was the English way of saying deux. 
 A woman standing in the first doorway 
 assured us there were but two — one 
 opposite the church, and another, the 
 Pas de Cccitr — we understood her to 
 say, around the corner. — At the foot of 
 the hill we found the first, with Board- 
 ino- House in larsfe black letters on its 
 newly whitewashed walls. As there 
 never was any sentiment in a Boarding- 
 1 hnise except in Dr. Holmes' books, or 
 any cheapness in a foreign hotel with 
 an English sign, we looked for the other 
 
 inn
 
 [ 33 1 
 
 inn. But when we had wheeled up the 
 street and down the street, until its 
 want of heart became ours, we gave up 
 the search and returned to the Boardhig- 
 Hotise. 
 
 The
 
 THE BOARDING-HOUSE 
 
 OF neuchAtel. 
 
 A FAT old landlady received us, 
 after a glance at the tricycle had 
 reassured her that to take us in did 
 not mean to be taken in herself. She 
 promised us dinner at six, and a room 
 in the course of the eveninor. in the 
 cafe, or outer kitchen, where she gave 
 us chairs, an elderly Cinderella was 
 blacking boots and peeling potatoes in 
 the fireplace ; a pretty girl was carrying 
 tumblers and clean linen to a near 
 room ; another, with a big baby in 
 her arms, gossiped with neighbours on 
 the front steps. The landlady hurried 
 
 back
 
 [ 35 ] 
 
 back to the small kitchen, through the 
 open door of which we could see her 
 bustling about among the pots and 
 pans. 
 
 Presently a little man, in white trou- 
 sers and brown velveteen waistcoat, 
 wandered in from the stable-yard to 
 clink orlasses with a friend at the bar, 
 and drink without pause two mugs of 
 beer and one glass of brandy. Then he 
 o^ave us a dance and a son"'. 
 
 And then there came trooping into 
 the room huntsmen with dogs and guns, 
 and servants bearing long poles strung 
 with rabbits, and three ladies in silks 
 and gold chains and ribbons, and a small 
 boy. The huntsmen were given cognac 
 and absinthe ; the ladies were led away 
 through a narrow passage, but they re- 
 turned in a minute, with pitchers which 
 they themselves filled from a barrel near 
 the kitchen-door. 
 
 These
 
 [ 36 ] 
 
 These were people of quality, it was 
 plain. They had come in a carriage, 
 and a private dressing-room was found 
 for them. But for us, who had arrived 
 on a machine we worked ourselves, a 
 basin was set in the fireplace, where we 
 too made a toilet as best we could. — 
 At seven the landlady, with upraised 
 hands, rushed from the kitchen to say 
 that 
 
 *' Moil Dieit ! the mutton cutlets 
 Monsieur and Madame ordered have 
 orone like a dream. What is to be 
 
 o 
 
 done ? " 
 
 — What, indeed ? And all the time 
 we had supposed her preparations were 
 for lis. 
 
 \ litde later, when dinner still 
 seemed a remote possibility, in search- 
 ing for our bag which had been carried 
 off, I came by chance upon a dining- 
 room where the cloth was laid and the 
 
 table
 
 [ 37 I 
 
 table was gay with lights and llowers. 
 I]ut when I hurried back with the 
 good news to J- he was less hope- 
 fid. 
 
 "We had to wash in the fireplace," 
 said he. 
 
 — We were not long in doubt. The 
 ladies and the huntsmen were ushered 
 into the dining-room. The pretty girl 
 in her neat apron carried in the soup, 
 the fish, the cutlets. We could hear a 
 pleasant clattering of plates and the 
 sound of laughter. But still we sat in 
 our humble corner. — Seldom have we 
 felt class distinctions so bitterly. At 
 last the landlady, very warm and red 
 from the kitchen fire, with the baby in 
 her arms, bade us follow her into a large 
 dark room on the farther side of the 
 <:-^6^-kitchen. There she laid a modest 
 omelette on a rough wooden table guilt- 
 less of cloth, and we ate it by the light 
 
 of
 
 [38 ] 
 
 of one candle. The huntsmen's servants 
 packed the rabbits and drank coffee 
 on our left ; on our right a little tailor 
 stitched away at brown velveteens. Vil- 
 lagers strolled in and out, or played bil- 
 liards ; and a stray dog, unbidden, sat 
 upright and begged at our side. — We 
 cut but a poor figure in the Boarding- 
 House of Neuchatel. 
 
 We should have gone to bed at once, 
 so tired were we after the pavt^ and the 
 hills, but the sheets were not yet ironed. 
 It was not until the kitchen clock struck 
 ten that we were shown into a small 
 closet where there was a bed, and pro- 
 mised a towel in the morning. — Before 
 we went to sleep we heard, between the 
 screams of the baby, the rain falling 
 softly on the roof, to fill us with fears 
 for the morrow's ride. 
 
 The
 
 THE SOUTH WIND. 
 
 THE next day began well. With- 
 out, the rain had stopped, and the 
 morninof was briofht and clear. With- 
 in, unfavourable social distinctions had 
 ceased, since we w-ere the only guests. 
 If we were slighted at dinner, we were 
 overwhelmed with attention at break- 
 fast. The interest of the household 
 centred upon us. Nothing was talked 
 of but our journey. Every one was 
 eager to advise. We must go here, we 
 must go there ; we must keep by the 
 sea, we must turn inland ; and, above 
 all, declared the little tailor, who still 
 stitched away, we must not rest until 
 we rode into Paris. Ah, what a city 
 
 it
 
 [4o] 
 
 it was ! He knew it well ; but, my 
 faith ! a man must work to pay for life 
 in the capital. He could see by the 
 portfolio that Monsieur was an artist ; 
 no doubt he was on his way there to 
 make great pictures. — We thought we 
 could not please him better than to 
 tell him in our country Paris was called 
 the Paradise of good Americans. We 
 were right. He made us a low bow, as 
 if the compliment had been personal. 
 
 It was easy not to be bewildered by 
 conflicting directions, since we were pre- 
 determined not to be influenced by them. 
 The fairest promise of good roads, en- 
 chanting country, and picturesque towns 
 could not have turned us a hair's breadth 
 from the route we had settled upon. The 
 fact is, the question was one of senti- 
 ment, and at that stage of our entliu- 
 siasm where sentiment was concerned 
 we were inllexible. — Mr. Sterne, on his 
 
 way
 
 [ 41 J 
 way to Amiens and Paris, passed by 
 Montreuil. To Montreuil, therefore, we 
 must go. 
 
 A good strong breeze blew from the 
 south. Out at sea it swept the white 
 foam before it, and above, it lashed the 
 clouds into fantastic shapes. It caught 
 the skirts of the gleaners on their way 
 to the yellow fields, and of the women 
 going towards Neuchatel, and held them 
 back at every step. But we were saved 
 the struggle while we rode eastward. 
 Now we were on a level with the sea, look- 
 ing at it across grassy plains and sandy 
 stretches ; and now it lay far below, and 
 we saw it over the tree-tops on the hill- 
 side ; again it was hidden by high dunes 
 and dense pine-groves. Little villages 
 lay in our way : Dannes, with pretty, 
 shady road leading into it and out of it ; 
 another, for us nameless, with thatched 
 white cottages, standing in a dreary 
 waste, a broad inlet to one side. And 
 
 at
 
 ■[4= ] 
 
 at last a short ride between young green 
 trees brought us to Etaples, a town of 
 low white houses built close to the shore, 
 and at the same time to the end of the 
 day's easy riding. 
 
 Our only memories of Etaples are un- 
 pleasant. We there bought a bottle of 
 
 bad oil for a good price. When we left 
 Neuchatel the machine needed oiling ; 
 but the top of our oil-can had not been 
 made to fit, and when we opened the 
 tool-bag the can was in the oil instead 
 of the oil in the can. — After using the 
 poor stuff sold us by a shoemaker, the 
 tricycle ran even more heavily. This 
 was unfortunate, for after Etaples the 
 
 road
 
 
 ,4- 

 
 [43 ] 
 
 road left the sea and started for the 
 south. There was nothing to be done 
 but to put our heads down and to work 
 as if we were record-making. — I do not 
 think it wrong, merely because the wind 
 blew in our faces almost every day of 
 our sentimental journey, to therefore say 
 the prevalent winds in France are from 
 the south ; but indeed all the trees there- 
 abouts bend low towards the north, to 
 confirm this assertion. 
 
 Thus we rode on between fields bare 
 as the moors ; through lovely park-like 
 country ; by little shady rivers, where 
 ducks were swimming in the deep-green 
 water; by tiny villages; by little churches, 
 grey and old ; by crosses, some split and 
 decaying ; through long avenues, with 
 poplars on either side ; by hills, the 
 ploughman on the top strongly marked 
 against the blue sky ; and all the way the 
 road was only a little worse than asphalt. 
 D It
 
 [44] 
 
 It was noon, and school-children were 
 riinninfr home to dinner when we reached 
 
 i>- — - 
 
 Montreuil, There were no less than three 
 kilometres oi pavd to be walked before 
 we came into the town. We were further 
 prepossessed against it because it has 
 just enough character to stand upon a 
 hill, instead of nestling in a hollow, as is 
 the way with towns and villages in this 
 part of the country. What with the 
 wind and the pave and the climb, we 
 were so cast down that when by the 
 city-gate, almost at the top of the hill, 
 we saw a stone bearing the legend, 
 " Two hundred kilometres to Paris," we 
 wondered if sentiment would carry us 
 that far. 
 
 Montreuil.
 
 MON TRE UIL. 
 
 THERE is not a town in all France 
 which, in my opinion, looks better 
 in the map than Montreuil. I own it 
 does not look so well in the guide-book, 
 but when you come to see it, to be sure 
 it looks most pitifully. 
 
 There is promise of picturesqueness 
 in a group of tumbled -down gabled 
 houses at its entrance, and in a fine 
 church doorway at one end of the Place 
 where we lunched. But gables and 
 doorway have been spared, I think, but 
 to mislead the visitor with false hopes. 
 The streets are lined with modern 
 houses monstrously alike. The Grande 
 Place is laro-e enough to deserve its 
 
 name,
 
 [46 ] 
 
 name, but as we saw it it was forlornly 
 empty, silent, and dull. The gaiety of 
 Montreuil has gone with the fiddling 
 and drum-beatinor of La Fleur. 
 
 Despite its disadvantages, however, 
 in the town where our Master com- 
 pounded that little matter with the sons 
 and daughters of poverty it was our 
 duty to be sentimental. There was no 
 question of travellers of our means and 
 vehicle eno-ap^inor a servant to fiddle and 
 make splatter-dashes for us, even if an- 
 other La Fleur could be produced. But 
 if beggars sent in their claims, we could 
 at least find in them the occasion of the 
 first public act of our charity in France. 
 Beggars, after a fashion, we did meet ; 
 for at once an old woman ■ — a poor 
 tattered soul — begged we would let her 
 grandson Jules show us the way to a 
 restaurant ; and next a hatless man fol- 
 lowed us around the Place to implore a 
 
 visit
 
 [47 ] 
 
 visit to his hotel, where his wife could 
 "spik Inglis" — a sound perhaps as worth 
 money as the " My Lord Angolis " that 
 won Mr. Sterne's last sous. But our 
 hearts were hardened against them, 
 as his, too, miorht have been ao^ainst 
 those other miserables, had he not slept 
 off the ill-humours of his journey to 
 Montreuil. 
 
 I think it was at Montreuil it first 
 occurred to us that sentiment does not 
 depend upon man's wnll alone. — And so 
 we got on our tricycle with no more 
 ease than usual, but less, as the wind 
 came howling over the plain to meet us. 
 
 Note. — J was too lazy, and said 
 
 the morning was too hot to do anything 
 but work the tricycle. 
 
 Nampont.
 
 NAM PONT. 
 
 THE road between Montreuil and 
 Nampont was for us classic 
 ground. Breathlessness, because of the 
 
 ...i^^S* ■~- 
 
 
 wind, before we had o;ot a leao"ue, 
 brought our career — Hke La Fleur's — 
 
 to
 
 [ 49] 
 
 to a sudden stop. We then had time 
 to see that the deathbed of the famous 
 donkey lay in fair country. Near by 
 two windmills turned their long arms 
 swiftly. A sportsman banged away in 
 the fields, and, to bring good-luck, two 
 crows flew overhead. When we went 
 on, the wind began to moderate, and 
 by the time we reached Nampont it 
 was making but a little noiseless noise 
 amonor the leaves. 
 
 We thought Nampont a pretty vil- 
 
 lage, with its poplared canal flowing 
 
 without
 
 [ 5o] 
 
 t5/' 
 
 
 '/as ^ 
 
 ^. 
 
 _:> 
 
 
 without turn or twist to the far horizon, 
 and its long, wide street Hned with 
 low houses. The first we came to, 
 that had a stone bench by the door 
 and an adjoining court, we decided 
 
 to be the post- 
 house, in front 
 of which the 
 donkey's master 
 told his pathetic 
 tale. We ap- 
 pealed to an old 
 man just then 
 passing. But he knew nothing of it, 
 and there were so many other houses 
 with stone seats and courts that we could 
 not settle the matter to our satisfaction. 
 — We were only certain of thepavd over 
 which Mr. Sterne's postillion set out in 
 a full gallop that put him out of temper. 
 Instead of galloping, we walked, first 
 refreshing" ourselves with s[yoseille, a 
 
 harmless
 
 [5. ] 
 
 harmless syrup, in a brand-new caf^ at 
 the end of the village street, the one 
 sign of modern enterprise in Nampont. 
 
 After this town, there was no sense of 
 sentimental duty to oppress us, since a 
 little beyond it Mr. Sterne went to 
 sleep, a sweet lenitive for evils, which 
 Nature does not hold out to the cvcler.
 
 A CITY IN INI O U R N I X G. 
 
 THE straight, poplared road to Abbe- 
 ville still lay across a golden plain, 
 with no interest save its beauty, here and 
 there bounded by a row of trees, yellow 
 haystacks standing out in bold relief 
 against them ; and here and there nar- 
 
 ....y^ts' 
 
 rowed by dark woods, in front of which 
 an old white-haired shepherd or little 
 
 white-capped
 
 [ 53 ] 
 
 white-capped girl watched newly sheared 
 sheep. Now and then the way led 
 
 through small blue villages. There was 
 Airon, where a large party of gleaners, 
 old and young men, women, boys, and 
 girls, sitting by the wayside, jumped up 
 of one accord and walked with us up the 
 hill. And then came Nouvion, where 
 we saw a fine old rambling yellow farm- 
 house, over whose disreputably tilted 
 front-door peered two grotesque heads, 
 and where we had coffee in the villaofe 
 
 inn.
 
 [54] 
 
 inn, sitting on the one dry spot in the 
 flooded floor, and just escaping the mops 
 
 and buckets of two women who had 
 raised the deluge. 
 
 The hills we still had. To read 
 the " Emblems of the Frontispiece " in 
 " Coryate's Crudities," one would ima- 
 gine that from Montreuil to Abbeville 
 was one lonor endless descent. 
 
 o 
 
 " Here, not up Holdbourne, but down a steepe 
 hill, 
 Hee's carried 'twixt Montrell and Abbeville." 
 
 But
 
 [ 55 J 
 
 But I remember many steep up-grades 
 to be climbed beside that of Airon. 
 
 Just about Nouvion the road was bad, 
 because, so a friendly canionnier said, 
 there had been no rain for more than 
 two months. He promised it would im- 
 prove seven or eight kilometres farther 
 on, and prepared us for a crowd in 
 Abbeville, whither all the world had 
 gone to take part in the funeral celebra- 
 tions of Admiral Courbet, who by this 
 hour of the afternoon was no doubt al- 
 ready buried, — A little later all the 
 world seemed on its way home, and the 
 road was full of carts, carriages, and 
 pedestrians. It was no easy matter to 
 steer between the groups on foot and 
 the waggons driving sociably side by 
 side. The crowd kept increasing, once 
 in its midst a bicycler wheeling by to 
 throw us a haughty stare. There were 
 as many people on another straight 
 
 poplar-lined
 
 C 56] 
 
 poplar-lined road that crossed the Route 
 Nationale. At this rate it was possible 
 we should find no one left in the town, 
 and the hotels, therefore, not more 
 crowded than usual. So there was as 
 much cheerful, unalloyed pleasure as 
 Mr, Ruskin himself experienced — and 
 which he believes is not to be had from 
 railway trains or cycles — in our getting 
 into sight of Abbeville far below in the 
 valley of the Somme, two square towers 
 dominant over the clustered house-roofs. 
 On the outskirts of the city we saw 
 the cemetery, a little to our right. The 
 funeral procession, with flags, banners, 
 and crosses borne aloft, was about to 
 return from the grave. We felt so 
 out of keeping with its solemnity that, 
 rather than wait on the sidewalk as it 
 passed, we hurried on at once. — But 
 there was no croingf fast. In a minute 
 we were jolting on the pavd again, 
 
 and
 
 [ 57 ] 
 
 and the street was more crowded 
 than the road. All the zvoi'ld had but 
 begun to go home. People walked on 
 the pavement and in the street. Win- 
 dows were filled with easfer faces ; 
 benches and platforms in front of shops 
 were still occupied. Houses were draped 
 in black, flags hung here, there, and 
 everywhere, and funeral arches were set 
 up at short distances. 
 
 Our position was embarrassing. Try 
 our best, we could not, unnoticed, make 
 our way through the crowd. Every 
 minute we had to call out to citizens or 
 peasants in front to let us by. The 
 people at the windows and on the 
 benches, waiting idly to see the end of 
 the day's solemn show, at once caught 
 sight of the tricycle. Do what we 
 would, all eyes were turned towards it. 
 And, to our horror, the funeral procession 
 gained upon us. The chants of priests 
 
 and
 
 [ 58 ] 
 
 and acolytes were in our very ears. 
 We jumped down and walked. But it 
 was no use. In a few minutes we 
 were on a line with the cross-bearer, 
 leading- the way for clergy and mourners 
 through the streets. There was no 
 escape. We could not turn back ; we 
 could not out-distance them. But, for- 
 tunately, before an archway at the en- 
 trance to a large Place the procession 
 was disbanded. Without further cere- 
 mony, priests, stole and surplice under 
 their arms, stray bishops in purple robes, 
 naval and army officers, gentlemen in 
 dress-coats and many medals, school- 
 boys in uniform, peasants in caps, towns- 
 people in ordinary clothes, walked home- 
 or hotel-wards, we pushing the tricycle 
 in their midst. 
 
 At the Hotel de France we found con- 
 fusion. Waiters tore in and out of the 
 kitchen ; maids flew up and down the 
 
 court-yard
 
 ^v "^^ 
 

 
 [ 59 ] 
 
 court-yard. Frantic men and women 
 surrounded and together asked a hun- 
 dred questions of a poor waiter in the 
 centre of the court ; an EngHsh family 
 clamoured for a private dining-room. 
 — During a momentary lull we stepped 
 forward and told this waiter, who seemed 
 a person of authority, we should like a 
 room for the night. 
 
 There was not one to be had, he said. 
 If we would wait two or three hours, it 
 was just very possible some of these ]\Ies- 
 sieiirs might go back to Paris. If not 
 we must travel into another country ; he 
 knew we should fare no better in any 
 hotel in Abbeville. Last night he had 
 turned away fifty people. 
 
 Where was the next country, asked 
 
 I, for in his disappointment J had 
 
 lost all his French. 
 
 It was only seven kilometres off. But, 
 he added, we could dine in the hotel. 
 
 —Our
 
 [ 6o] 
 
 — Our choice lay between a certain 
 good dinner at once and a mere possi- 
 bility later in a far-off town. We were 
 
 both tired and hungry. 
 
 "It will be dark in half an hour," 
 said I. 
 
 " We can never work after eating 
 
 heartily," said J , and, our objections 
 
 thus disposed of, we decided for imme- 
 diate dinner, and to risk the conse- 
 quences. 
 
 — We wheeled the machine into the 
 stable, conveniently adjoining the din- 
 ing-room. We were not very fresh 
 after a day's ride through the 
 wind, over dry and dusty roads, 
 and as we were to dine in com- 
 pany with dignitaries of State and 
 Church, I said that first we should 
 like to make our toilet. " Oh, cer- 
 tainly," said the waiter, " VoildV 
 and he pointed to a small spicket and a 
 
 handkerchief
 
 [ 6i ] 
 
 handkerchief of a towel at the dining- 
 room door. — With no more elaborate pre- 
 paration than these permitted, we went 
 in and took our seats at table with bishops, 
 officers, and statesmen in full dress. 
 
 It was as we expected. When we 
 had eaten a dinner worthy of the com- 
 pany, we were unwilling to ride farther. 
 We could and would not leave Abbe- 
 ville that night. — J was silent over 
 
 his sponge-cakes and wine, speaking 
 only once, to consult me about the future 
 tense of French verbs. Then he called 
 the waiter. 
 
 " Is there a room yet ? " I asked. 
 
 "Not yet, Aladanie'' and he bowed 
 his reo^rets. 
 
 "Well, then," said J , turning full 
 
 upon him with the speech he had been 
 ten minutes in composing, " nous par- 
 tirons pas si nous dorniirons sur la 
 table''' 
 
 — Hitherto
 
 [ 63 ] 
 
 — Hitherto 1 had been his spokes- 
 woman. The consequence of his sud- 
 den outburst in French was the waiter's 
 hearty assurance that the first room at 
 his disposal was ours, but we must not 
 look for it until nine or ten. It was 
 then a little after seven. 
 
 This interval was spent in wandering 
 about the town. The wind and xk\^ pave 
 together had again made me very tired. 
 1 remember as a restless dream our 
 walk up and down the streets ; into the 
 great Place, a sombre black catafalque 
 on one side, lights burning around it, 
 tall houses back of it, the still taller 
 Church of St. Wulfran rising above the 
 high gables ; and next into the church 
 itself, where the columns and arches and 
 altars, draped in black, and the people 
 kneeling at prayer, or coming and going 
 in the aisles, were but dimly seen by the 
 light of a few candles. I remember 
 
 speculating
 
 ^inf'f Ff 
 
 [63 ] 
 
 speculating on the chance of shelter 
 there, if at the eleventh hour the liotel 
 
 failed us. And then we were shut out by 
 the sacristan, to again wander through 
 narrow^ twisting streets ; through brighter, 
 livelier thoroughfares, the shops open, 
 citizens and peasants laughing and talk- 
 ing ; and so back to the Place, roofs and 
 towers now but a black shadow on the 
 dark blue of the evening sky ; and at 
 last to the hotel, where the good waiter 
 met us with smiles. — A room at last ! 
 It was not very commodious, but it 
 was the best he could do. There 
 followed a melancholy quarter of an 
 
 hour.
 
 [64] 
 
 hour, during- which we sat on a heap 
 of blankets in a dark passage while 
 the garcon laid the sheets. — The waiter 
 was riorht ; the room was not the most 
 commodious. It was directly over 
 the stable, and not larger than an old- 
 fashioned closet. But it was better than 
 church or dining-rooni ; and though the 
 garcon kept passing on the balcony 
 without, and there was a ceaseless 
 clatter in the court below, I was soon 
 asleep. 
 
 
 Faithful
 
 FAITHFUL ABBEVILLE. 
 
 IT is a pity that most tourists go 
 straight from Calais to Amiens, 
 satisfied to know Abbeville as a station 
 by the way. The fault, I suppose, lies 
 with " Murray " and " Baedeker," who 
 are almost as curt with it as with Mon- 
 treuil, orivinof but a few words to its 
 Church of St. Wulfran, and even fewer 
 to its quaint old houses. But the truth 
 is, Abbeville is better worth a visit than 
 many towns they praise. And though 
 Mr. Tristram Shandy objected to one of 
 its inns as unpleasant to die in, I can 
 recommend another as excellent to live 
 in, which, after all, is of more importance 
 to the ordinary tourist. 
 
 We
 
 [ 66 ] 
 
 We remained in Abbeville the next 
 day until noon. We went again to the 
 church. We saw the house of Francis I. 
 We found our way into alleys and court- 
 yards, where grotesques were grinning 
 and winking, as if they thought it an 
 exquisite joke at last to be taken 
 seriously by the few art and architec- 
 tural critics, who now come to look at 
 them. 
 
 Crushed
 
 k iV^^ftJ 

 
 CRUSHED AGA I N. 
 
 AND now Mr. Ruskin writes: — "I 
 not only object, but am quite 
 prepared to spend all my best ' bad 
 language ' in reprobation of bi-tri-and- 
 4-5-6 or 7- cycles, and every other 
 contrivance and invention for supersed- 
 ing human feet on God's ground. To 
 walk, to run, to leap, and to dance are 
 the virtues of the human body, and 
 neither to stride on stilts, wriggle on 
 wheels, or dangle on ropes, and nothing 
 in the training of the human mind with 
 the body will ever supersede the ap- 
 pointed God's ways of slow walking and 
 hard workino^." 
 
 "Oh well, let us go on," said J . 
 
 A
 
 A BY-ROAD 
 
 BECAUSE of our sight-seeing we 
 made a late start from Abbeville. 
 — But then we determined to go no 
 farther than Amiens that day. It was 
 a good ten minutes' walk over \\\q. pavd 
 from the hotel to the end of the long 
 Rue St. Gilles, where it is 
 cn^ssed by the railroad. — 
 Here we were kept waiting 
 another five minutes, in com- 
 pany with a carriage and two 
 covered carts, while the 
 woman in charge, who had 
 shut the gate, put on her 
 official hat and cape. Presently a faint 
 
 whistle was heard. 
 
 " Hold!"
 
 [69 ] 
 
 " Hold ! ' said one of the drivers, " I 
 think lie comes." 
 
 — -And so he did, and at last we 
 were allowed to pass and go our way. — 
 Another weary kilometre of pavd, and 
 then we were on the highroad between 
 the poplars. 
 
 But when we had got off the stones 
 there was still the wind to fiorht. It 
 blew in our faces with never-relaxino- 
 vigour, rushing through the trees and 
 over the plain as if in haste to reach 
 the sea. To make matters worse, the 
 road was bad. The cavalry had ruined 
 it, a stone- breaker said. We were soon 
 ridinof on the side - walk.-— The few 
 white -capped, blue-skirted pedestrians 
 we met went obligingly into the road to 
 let us pass. 
 
 " Pardon, ladies," said we. 
 
 " Of nothing," said they. 
 
 ■' The road is so bad,'' we explained. 
 
 "You
 
 [ 7o] 
 
 " You have reason. A?c revoir^' cried 
 they. 
 
 — The road ran straiQ^ht alonor the 
 edge of the upland. Below, a pretty 
 river wound among reeds and willows, 
 overtopped by tall trees shivering in 
 the wind. But hard work gave us little 
 chance for pleasure in the landscape, 
 until at Pont Remy we stopped on the 
 bridge to take breath. 
 
 We went back to the pedals with sad 
 misgivings, like people who know that 
 the worst is still to come. Just beyond, 
 we left the Route Natioiiale for a by- 
 road and unmitigated misery. Here 
 we were led to believe there was 
 no other road between Abbeville and 
 Amiens. Amiens, " the very city where 
 my poor lady is to come," we could 
 not miss. And yet Italian experience 
 made us doubt the advisability of turn- 
 ing off the highroad. 
 
 The
 
 ■a
 
 [ 71 ] 
 
 The wind was now directly in our 
 faces, and the road was deep with sand 
 and loose with stones, and we had not 
 gone a mile, a mile bnt scarcely one, 
 when we lost our tempers outright and 
 sent sentiment to the winds. First we 
 climbed a long up-grade, passing old 
 crumbling grey churches decorated with 
 grotesques and gargoyles like those on 
 St. Wulfran's, in Abbeville, some perched 
 upon hillocks, with cottages gathered 
 about them, others adjoining lonely cha- 
 teaux ; and riding through forlornly poor 
 villages full of houses tumbling to pieces 
 and vicious dogs. Hills rose to our 
 left ; to our right, in the valley below, 
 were wide marshes covered with a luxu- 
 rious green growth, and beyond, the 
 river, on the other side of which was a 
 town with a tall church rising in its 
 centre. 
 
 Once we got down to drink syrup and 
 
 water
 
 [ r- ] 
 
 water at an inn where a commercial tra- 
 veller catechised us about America. 
 
 "And the commerce, it goes well 
 there ? Yes ? " 
 
 — I suppose he took us for fellow- 
 drummers ; and I must admit the idea 
 of our travelling for pleasure over such 
 roads was the last likely to occur to him. 
 
 Then we went down hill for some 
 distance, but we ran into ridges of sand 
 and brought up suddenly on a stone pile 
 at the bottom. On the level the road 
 became a shady avenue. But it grew 
 worse as it increased in beauty. We 
 wheeled first to one side, then to the 
 other. We even tried the o^rass close 
 to the trees. But soon we were down 
 and walking, and pushing the wretched 
 machine through the sand. And now 
 riding was out of the question, it began to 
 rain. When we came into Hangest 
 
 " We'll take the train," said J . 
 
 —But
 
 [ 73 ] 
 
 — But M^e had first to wait for two 
 hours, during which we ate a lunch at 
 the " Sign of the Duck," and sat at the 
 station watching the passing trains and 
 
 the signals. — In his demoralisation J 
 
 asked at the office for tickets for la trei- 
 zihne ciasse, and then a man joined us 
 and told us of the fine roads in his 
 country, so that we wished we were 
 
 there. Finally our train came. — J 
 
 had some trouble with the machine. 
 At the first bag-o-ao^e-car the conductor 
 declared there was not room for it. The 
 second was full and no mistake. He 
 went back to the first, and while the 
 conductor remonstrated, pushed it in 
 with the help of a porter. He then had 
 just time to jump into the nearest car- 
 riage, which happened to be the same 
 in which I had already found a seat, 
 and the train started. The carriage was 
 
 full. 
 
 " C'csi
 
 [ 74 ] 
 
 " C'est complete liIoiisic7ir,' screamed 
 a little man, in a passion, 
 
 " Certainly, Mousiair,'' said J -, as 
 
 he fastened the door with a click behind 
 him. 
 
 " I tell you it's full," repeated the little 
 man, in his rage dancing to the window 
 and calling the conductor. 
 
 — It was too late. All he could 
 do was to return to his seat and 
 
 glower at J — , who calmly sat in the 
 
 window. 
 
 "We must not make the war," said a 
 good C7irc^ next to him, patting him 
 gently on the shoulder. 
 
 — He restrained his anger with a com- 
 forting drink of brandy. Alonsieiir le 
 Curd fell to saying his beads, covering 
 his mouth with his wide-brimmed hat, 
 while all the other passengers laughed 
 and nudofed each other. A man in the 
 corner, carr)'ing a genuine American 
 
 carpet-bag
 
 [ 75 ] 
 
 carpet-bag, drank something from a 
 gingerbeer bottle, and asked us in good 
 American what we knew of the hotels 
 in Paris. 
 
 At the next station J got out, and 
 
 the man from the country of beautiful 
 roads, who had been sitting in the ad- 
 joining compartment, met him at the 
 door. 
 
 " I render to you my place, Monsieurl' 
 said he. 
 
 — And so in perfect peace we made 
 all possible speed to Picquigny, and from 
 Picquigny to Amiens ; not, however, be- 
 fore we saw from the carriage windows 
 that the road, now running alongside of 
 the railway, was smooth and hard, that 
 the sun shone, and that the wind blew 
 but mildly. 
 
 At Amiens the conductor was waitino- 
 on the platform full of apologies. He 
 had really thought there was no room 
 
 for
 
 [ 76 ] 
 
 for the velocipede. Monsieur must 
 pardon him. 
 
 The French have a charming way of 
 putting you in a good humour. We 
 forgot the attack of the irascible tra- 
 veller, as, let us hope, he forgave the 
 enormity of J 's crime. 
 
 Amiens.
 
 AMIENS. 
 
 W E should alwaysremember Amiens, 
 even were it not for the cathedral, 
 because it was there we had the best 
 dinner we ever ate in France. — In look- 
 ing over my note-book I find 
 I made at the time elaborate 
 mention of the menu, and ap- 
 plied the adjective divine to a 
 course of fresh mackerel served 
 with an exquisite sauce. — As 
 there may be readers who take interest, 
 and perhaps pleasure, in dining well, I 
 will here add that this excellent meal 
 was eaten at the Hotel de I'Univers. I 
 can wish the visitor to Amiens no better 
 
 luck
 
 [ 7S ] 
 
 luck than a dinner in this hotel prepared 
 by the same artist. 
 
 It was a pity that, before leaving Eng- 
 land — we had been so taken up with 
 Mr. Sterne, whose sentiment was not to 
 be distracted with cathedrals and old 
 houses — -we did not consult Mr. Ruskin, 
 who probably thought of nothing else 
 while he was in Amiens.— To the un- 
 sentimental traveller I would recom- 
 mend the traveller's edition of " Our 
 Fathers have Told Us" (Part I. chap, 
 iv.), rather than the " Sentimental Jour- 
 ney," as a guide-book to the town. 
 
 We had two hours of daylight on the 
 afternoon of our arrival, and we re- 
 mained in the city until noon the next 
 day, partly because there were many 
 things to see, and partly on account of a 
 heavv wind and rainstorm in the morninor. 
 We were not much troubled by senti- 
 ment, thouoh here Mr. Sterne's over- 
 
 flowed
 
 [ 79 ] 
 
 flowed into three 
 chapters. But it was 
 of a kind so impos- 
 sible for us to simu- 
 late — not having left 
 an Eliza in Enoland, 
 nor knowing a fair 
 Countess in the town 
 — we put all thought 
 or hope of it aside, 
 and went out to look 
 about. 
 
 What pleased us 
 most were the many J^ 
 canal - like branches 
 of the Somme, old 
 tumbled-down houses 
 rising from the water, 
 and little foot-bridges 
 connecting them with 
 opposite gardens. We 
 liked, too, the wider 
 and
 
 [So ] 
 
 and less modest main current of the 
 river, where men or women in flat boats 
 with pointed prows and square sterns, 
 like inclined planes, were for ever poling 
 themselves down stream beyond the 
 embankment where the poplars begin. — 
 But I remember we lincrered lonorest on 
 a bridge over a tiny canal from which 
 there was a fine view of disreputably 
 shabby back doors, women appearing 
 and disappearing as they emptied their 
 pails and pots, and of battered windows 
 from which hung the family wardrobes. 
 It was then, I believe, we pronounced 
 Amiens the French Venice — an original 
 idea which most likely occurs to every 
 tourist fortunate enough to find his way 
 to the banks of the Somme. Indeed I 
 have since read that in the good old 
 days before a straight street had been 
 dreamed of by city officials, the town 
 was known as Little Venice. 
 
 Delightful
 
 
 
 ^'^■5S«S:^-I "-^Wk
 
 [ 8. ] 
 
 Delightful as were the scenes by the 
 river in the late afternoon, they were 
 even more so in the early morning, 
 when, from under a borrowed umbrella, 
 we watched the open-air market. The 
 embankment was carpeted with greens 
 and full of noisy peasants. The pre- 
 vailing tint, like that of the sky above, 
 was a dull bluish grey, relieved here and 
 there by a dash of white. Fastened 
 to rings in the stone wall of the em- 
 bankment, some thirty or forty of the 
 boats with pointed prows lay on the 
 water. Two, piled high with cabbages 
 and carrots, the brightest bit of colour 
 in the picture, were being poled towards 
 the market-place. Others, laden with 
 empty baskets, satisfied-looking women 
 in the prow, a man at the stern, were on 
 their homeward way. And above the 
 river and the busy people and the back- 
 ground of houses the great cathedral 
 
 loomed
 
 [ 8^ ] 
 
 loomed up, a "mass of wall, not blank, 
 but strangely wrought by the hands of 
 foolish men of long ago." 
 
 We lound a priest saying Mass in 
 the chapel behind the choir, the eas- 
 tern light shining on him at the altar. 
 His congregation consisted of four poor 
 women and one great lady in silk attire 
 kneeling in the place of honour. In the 
 nave and aisles were a handful of tour- 
 ists and two sentimental travellers — i.e., 
 ourselves, who scorned to be classed as 
 tourists — uttering platitudes under their 
 breath about the unspeakable feeling of 
 space and height, as if the cathedral 
 existed but to excite their wonder. 
 
 We went also to the old belfry, a fine 
 substantial pile, allowed to stand, I sup- 
 pose, because to remove it would be too 
 herculean a task. Our attention was dis- 
 tracted from it to a pair of French twins 
 staggering by, arm in arm, both wearing 
 
 baggy
 
 [ 83 ] 
 
 baggy brown velveteen trousers, striped 
 shirts and open coats, and little round 
 caps, which rested on each curly head at 
 exactly the same 
 
 angle. It was 
 rather absurd to 
 discover that they 
 were no greater 
 oddities to us than 
 we were to them. 
 Of one accord they 
 stopped to solemn- 
 ly stare at J 's 
 
 knee-breeches and 
 lonof stockingrs. 
 Indeed I might 
 as well say here, 
 as in any other 
 place, that we 
 were greater objects of curiosity off the 
 machine than on it. — Always, as in 
 Calais, the eminently quiet and respect- 
 G able
 
 [ 84 ] 
 
 able Cyclists' Touring Club uniform 
 seemed to strike every French man 
 and woman as a problem impossible to 
 solve but easy to ridicule. 
 
 Wind,
 
 WIND, POPLARS, AND 
 PLAINS. 
 
 THERE is nothing more pleasing- 
 to a traveller, or more terrible to 
 travel-writers, than a large rich plain, 
 unless it be a straight white poplar-lined 
 road, good as asphalt. After Amiens, 
 as after Abbeville and Neuchatel, there 
 was a poplared avenue over a breezy 
 upland to carry us to the next town, 
 that town little more but a new place to 
 start from to the next plain and poplars, 
 and so on. There were caiitoiiniers 
 still at work, sweeping the highway with 
 
 great brooms. 
 
 "You sweep them everyday.'^" asked 
 
 J- of one. 
 
 " Every
 
 [ 86] 
 " Every day — yes," he answered. 
 
 •,,gAf ^' " 
 
 — And there was still a strong wind 
 rushing down between the trees and 
 blowing my skirts about my feet. Rid- 
 incr asfainst it was such hard work that 
 I walked many kilometres during the 
 morning. But indeed there was scarce 
 any walking with ease. 
 
 We were glad many of the towns 
 and villages were in little valleys. After 
 hours, perhaps, of steady pedalling, it 
 was pleasant to coast down a long hill, 
 while a country postman stopped in his 
 struggle with a French operatic umbrella 
 
 turned
 
 [ 8/ ] 
 
 turned inside out by the wind, to smile 
 and show the loss of 
 all his front teeth, as 
 he cried 
 
 " Ah, but it goes 
 well ! " 
 
 — And then, alas ! 
 came another hill, this 
 time to be climbed, 
 and the admiration 
 changed to sympathy. 
 I remember in particular an old woman 
 on the hill outside of Amiens, who 
 was sorry there was still a long way 
 
 up the mountain. When we asked her 
 
 how far it was to the top 
 
 '• Behold ! "
 
 IT 
 
 [ 88 ] 
 
 " Behold ! '' said she, and pointed a 
 few yards ahead. 
 
 In an insignificant village near the 
 Forest of Drouy — the one 
 wooded oasis in the treeless 
 plain — our caf(f-ati-lait was 
 for the first time served in 
 the basins to whose size our 
 ^^,^\ O / eyes and appetites were 
 quickly to be accustomed. 
 In a second, where there was an old 
 grey church with grinning gargoyles, a 
 pedler's cart, bio^ bell hancrinof in front, 
 
 tempting wares displayed, blocked the 
 way.^ — — ■ 
 
 " It is a hon viarcJu^ you have here," 
 
 said
 
 ^^ 1' * ' W7 X /ft"'* Jit \ H^P^-, 
 
 -V- 9 6 "' V jJ. 
 
 --^ 
 
 
 \Vj 'v 'V TAJ ^-Tym^lil \\---^^^s%. 
 
 ^ u,- 
 
 -... ^i»^''
 
 [ 89 ] 
 said J to the pedler, with a polite- 
 
 ness that would not have disgraced a 
 Frenchman. 
 
 — In Breteuil, 
 a good-sized ^^ "^f^y^ 
 town with fair Xl/A/' ^iL ^\K 
 share of />avc\ f M^^ l\}^ ,'*)^ 
 we met another 
 funeral party — 
 Qfentlemen in 
 
 o 
 
 long black frock- 
 coats and anti- 
 quated silk hats. 
 They had come down from Paris to bury
 
 [ 90 ] 
 
 a most virtuous lady, we learned from 
 the proprietor of the cafL They were 
 vastly taken with the tricycle, however, 
 testine its saddles while we drank our 
 syrup and water. 
 
 It was a beautiful ride we should now 
 have to St. Just, the proprietor foretold. 
 It would be level all the way. — " What ! 
 no hills?" we asked. 
 None, he declared, that 
 deserved the name. — It 
 is needless to add that 
 we at once came to three 
 or four up which we pushed the machine, 
 because of their steepness. But much 
 could we forgive him. He it was who 
 counselled us to spend the night at the 
 Cheval Blanc in St. Just, where we had 
 a plenteous brave dinner and the great- 
 est civility that ever we had from any 
 man, as Pepys would say. Besides, 
 the latter part of the ride was lovelier 
 
 than
 
 [ 91 ] 
 
 than his foretelh'ng. The wind abated, 
 and work was so easy we could look 
 out over the fields to the distant vil- 
 lages, their church spires ^ .— vw,,,, 
 white in the sunlight or fli.?^^f^S1^^^^ 
 turned to grey, even as % J'i,'?^^^^^^i^ 
 we watched, by a pass- "^~'* ^ ■i^^^'^ 
 ing cloud. It is for just 
 such happy intervals the cycler braves 
 wild winds and high hills. The day, 
 it is true, was from beginning to end 
 uneventful. But we had not looked 
 or hoped for adventures. — Of his jour- 
 ney between Amiens and Paris our 
 Master says not a word. Mr. Tristram 
 Shandy recalls his but to regret that he 
 was then prevented by troublesome pos- 
 tillions, from gratifying his kindly pro- 
 pensity to sleep. Therefore we felt, 
 that to-day at least, we had no senti- 
 mental shortcomings with which to 
 reproach ourselves. 
 
 The
 
 [ 9^ 1 
 
 The sun had set, and Gipsies by the 
 roadside were preparing their evening 
 meal when we came to the pavd of St. 
 fust. 
 
 
 
 |1 
 
 ffi 
 
 The
 
 THE COMMERCIAL GENTLEMEN 
 OF ST. JUST. 
 
 AT the Cheval Blanc the landlady 
 ^ ^ gave us a room over the stable 
 on the farther side of a larg-e court-yard. 
 
 From the window 
 we looked down into 
 the court on chickens 
 and ducks, and on a 
 woman watering a small 
 vegetable garden, and 
 the poultry and vege- 
 tables reminded us that 
 we had not dined. So 
 we went to the cafd of 
 the hotel, where Ma- 
 dame stayed our hunger with the over- 
 grown 
 
 ^; 

 
 [ 94 ] 
 
 o-rown ladv fino-ers that are served 
 with dessert at every well - regulated 
 tabic d' hotc, and where a small man in 
 a frock-coat and Derby hat, with a very 
 loud voice, exchanged political opinions 
 with a large man in a blue blouse with 
 no voice to speak of; while a third, in 
 white blouse and overalls, stood and 
 listened in neutral silence. 
 
 The discussion was at its liveliest 
 when the dinner-bell rang, and we hur- 
 ried off in such indecent haste that we 
 were the first to arrive in the dining- 
 room. We knew as soon as we saw 
 the pots of mignonette and geranium 
 and the well-trimmed, well-shaded lamps 
 on the table, that whoever had placed 
 them there must have prepared dishes 
 worthy to be served by their sweet 
 scent and soft light, and we were not 
 disappointed. — I have seldom eaten a 
 better dinner. We were ten altogether 
 
 at
 
 [ 95 ] 
 
 at table. Seven men were guests like 
 ourselves. One w^as an unwearying- 
 sportsman of France. The six others 
 we soon discovered to be commercial 
 gentlemen, though w^hat so many tra- 
 vellers could find to do in one such 
 small place was a mystery we do not 
 pretend to solve. Madame, the land- 
 lady, was the tenth in the company. She 
 presided in person, not at the head, but 
 at the centre of one side of the table. 
 We sat directly opposite, encompassed 
 about with drummers and touters. 
 
 " Monsieur and Madame arrived from 
 Amiens on a velocipede," said the land- 
 lady, opening the conversation and the 
 soup-tureen at the same moment. 
 
 — The sportsman started to speak, 
 hesitated, cout^hed, and fell to feedino- 
 his dogs with bread. The commercial 
 gentlemen wanted to know at what 
 hotel w^e stopped in Amiens. 
 
 At
 
 [96] 
 
 At this moment a diversion was made 
 by the entrance of a stout man with the 
 smile of a clown and the short forked 
 beard of a Mephistopheles, who took 
 his place on Madame s right.- 
 
 '" Mon Dieu, Aladame," said he, as a 
 plate of soup was put in front of him 
 and the tureen carried away, " I came 
 next to you because I love you ; and 
 you would starve me ? You would give 
 me no more soup ! " 
 
 " But you are greedy," said Madame. 
 
 — The soup, however, was left on a 
 side table. 
 
 " I have been starved already to- 
 day," he went on, before we had time 
 to answer the question put to us. " I 
 slept last night at a grand hotel. It 
 was so strand that this morning for 
 breakfast they could give me but cut- 
 lets of mutton and cutlets of pork and 
 ham — and ham, one knows it well, it 
 
 counts
 
 [97 ] 
 
 counts for nothinor. Is this not true, 
 Madame ? " 
 
 — He had had a wide and remark- 
 able experience of hotels. He knew 
 one. Ma foil they swept it every day. 
 But he knew another. Daniel there 
 the Hoors were waxed and rubbed daily, 
 so that if a beefsteak were to fall on 
 them it would be as clean as if it fell 
 upon a plate. For his part, however, he 
 thought no hotel would be perfect until 
 it made a law to give each guest a par- 
 tridge and half a bottle of wine with his 
 candle, in case of hunger during the night. 
 
 A little man with a lis'ht moustache, 
 on Madame's left, as he amiably filled 
 her glass with wine and seltzer, recalled 
 a certain town where the hotels were 
 closed at ten. He arrived at midnight ; 
 every door was shut. What did he do ? 
 He could not sleep in the street. He 
 went to the Mairie, 
 
 H The
 
 [ 9S ] 
 
 The man next to J had heard of 
 
 a hotel where if you stayed out after ten 
 they would not permit you to enter even 
 if they had your baggage. The pro- 
 prietor would come to a window above 
 when you knocked, and throw your 
 trunks down rather than open the door. 
 He then made no charg^e. 
 
 '' Ala foiV' thought Mephistopheles, 
 who could no more have begun a 
 sentence without an ejaculation than 
 he could have eaten his dinner with- 
 out wine, " he would take the pavd and 
 throw it at the head of such a pro- 
 prietor." 
 
 — Then they turned to hear our ex- 
 perience. They appealed to J . 
 
 " O, nous',' he began bravely, " nous 
 avons did en France po7ir deux joitrs 
 seulement " — then suddenly to me, " Oh, 
 bother, you tell the fellow what he 
 wants, and ask them if the\- know any 
 
 decent
 
 [ 99 ] 
 
 decent hotels on the route," and lie took 
 out our route-form. 
 
 — I explained our intention to ride 
 through France into Italy, and asked 
 if they would have the goodness to 
 recommend hotels by the way. 
 
 We could not have paid them a 
 greater compliment. The next minute 
 the route-form was passed from one to 
 the other, and by the name of each town 
 was written the name of a commercial 
 hotel which meant a good dinner and 
 a moderate bill. But not one of the 
 houses in the C. T. C. Handbook was 
 on the list. — Mr. Howells, in his Italian 
 Journeys, declares it to be the evident 
 intention of a French drummer, "not 
 only to keep all his own advantages, but 
 to steal some of yours upon the first 
 occasion." I wish he could have seen 
 these men at St. Just, as each helped 
 his neighbour to wine before filling his 
 
 own
 
 [ loo ] 
 
 own glass. A commercial gentleman 
 apparently would not think of not shar- 
 ing his bottle with some one, or of 
 not calling for another when his first 
 was empty, in obedience to the sign 
 seen in so many hotels, "■ Vin a discre- 
 tion.'" It must be admitted that this is 
 only what an Englishman would call 
 " good form " in commercial circles, 
 since one bottle always stands between 
 two covers. But then, when did " good 
 form " ever serve such practical ends in 
 Enorland ? 
 
 We saw nothing of the French 
 travellers' ill -breeding- of which Mr, 
 Howells so bitterly complains. If they 
 talked, well, is it not their business 
 to talk ? Besides, they never once re- 
 ferred to trade or praised their wares. 
 I know men of far higher professions 
 who cannot boast of a like discretion. 
 Indeed, is it not a common thing for 
 
 great
 
 [ 'oi ] 
 
 great men to give dinners for the ex- 
 press purpose of talking "shop?" — It 
 is true Mephistopheles, when he wanted 
 to call Madame s attention, beat on the 
 table with his knife-handle and shouted 
 in a voice of thunder 
 
 "■Madame! Aladame Emiliel Efnilie ! 
 Bon Dieiil gentlemen, she will not 
 listen ! " 
 
 — But if she took this in perfect 
 good nature it was not for us to object. 
 That she did not find fault was clear. 
 While we were eating mutton I noticed 
 he was served with a special dish of 
 birds. 
 
 The excellence of the dinner and the 
 good - humour of the company came 
 to a climax with the course of beans. 
 Mephistopheles asserted enthusiastically 
 that had they not been invented already 
 he would have invented them himself. 
 Monsietir on Madame s left wondered 
 
 who
 
 [ I02 I 
 
 who broLioht them into France. Some- 
 body suggested the Bishop of Soissons. 
 As they all laughed this must have been 
 a joke, but we could not understand it ; 
 and though I have since spent hours 
 over it in the British Museum, I still fail 
 to see the point, — The traveller next to 
 
 J said nothing, but was twice helped 
 
 to the favourite dish. 
 
 Afterwards in the cafd Madame in- 
 troduced us to an Englishman who had 
 lived thirty years in St. Just, and who 
 was always glad to see his countrymen. 
 We explained we were Americans, but 
 he assured us it was an equal pleasure — 
 he always liked to speak the English. 
 — Whatever else St. Just had done 
 for him, it had made him forg^et his 
 mother tongue. — He was much pleased 
 with our tandem, which he had examined 
 while we were at dinner. He rode a 
 bicycle, and was therefore competent to 
 
 judge
 
 [ I03 1 
 
 judge its merits. He also thought ours 
 a fine journey when we showed him our 
 route on the map. 
 
 In the meantime, the commercial 
 gentlemen had settled down to coffee 
 and the papers, and the evening pro- 
 mised to be peaceful. But presently the 
 little man with the light moustache, who 
 had sat on Madame s left, put his paper 
 down to comment on the advantages 
 of naturalisation, on which subject he 
 had just been reading an editorial. It 
 was a great thing for the country, he 
 thought, that the children of foreigners 
 should be permitted to become French- 
 men. 
 
 But Mephistopheles was down upon 
 him in an instant. He would not hear 
 of naturalisation. — — 
 
 '^ Afon Dieii! I am a Frenchman. I 
 go to America or Austria. A son is 
 born to me there. Is he art Ameri- 
 can
 
 [ I04 ] 
 
 can or an Austrian ? No, Monsieur, 
 he is a Frenchman!" and he glared de- 
 fiance. 
 
 — But the Httle man reasoned that, 
 on the other hand, France was too 
 hospitable not to take in strangers. 
 
 Mephistopheles swore it was not logi- 
 cal, and, what was more, it was against 
 la 7norale, and la morale was prime. 
 This was his clinching argument. 
 
 The dispute grew warm. They both 
 left their coffee and walked up and 
 down the room with great angry strides, 
 beat themselves on their breasts, threw 
 their arms to right and left ; one would 
 have thouofht blows were imminent. In 
 passing they stopped simultaneously 
 before the sportsman, who sat near 
 me. 
 
 " And you, sir, what do you say ? " 
 
 " My faith, gentlemen, I say you are 
 both too violent," 
 
 — -Thus
 
 [ '05 ] 
 
 — Thus startled into speech, he turned 
 to me to explain his views. 
 
 "A man wishes to adopt France. Et 
 bien ? it is reasonable that France should 
 adopt him." 
 
 — When I looked around aeain the 
 argument had been amicably adjusted 
 over a backgammon board. 
 
 Through
 
 THROUGH THE RAIN. 
 
 THOUGH the Englishman was not 
 on hand in the morning, Madaiiie, 
 all the commercial gentlemen except 
 Mephistopheles, the waiter, and the 
 postman, who was just then passing, 
 stood out on the street to see us start. — 
 We carried away from St. Just not only 
 pleasant recollections, but a handful of 
 
 sticking
 
 [ I07 ] 
 
 Sticking labels of advertisement of the 
 Cheval Blanc, which Uladame pressed 
 upon lis as she shook hands. 
 
 The first place of note was Fitz- 
 James, labelled in the convenient 
 French fashion, its aofaressive Eno-Hsh 
 name as unadaptable to foreign pro- 
 nunciation as is English prejudice to 
 foreign customs. There we pushed the 
 tricycle to the other end of the town, 
 then up the long hill into the principal 
 street of Clermont, to find that the hill 
 did not end with the pavd. There still 
 remained a climb of two kilometres. 
 
 From the top of the hill outside of 
 Clermont, six kilometres into Angy, we 
 went with feet up as fast as the clouds, 
 now ominously black. Of such a ride 
 what should one remember save the 
 rapid motion through fresh green coun- 
 try ? Before we realised our pleasure 
 we were in Angy, and then in Mouy, 
 
 which
 
 [ io8 ] 
 
 which is literally next door, and where 
 we lunched at a cafd with as little loss of 
 time as possible. — We hoped to get to 
 Paris that night. We were determined 
 to take the train at Beaumont, since there 
 were forty-seven kilometres oi pavd from 
 that town to the capital. — In our first en- 
 thusiasm, before our troubles came upon 
 us, we had declared that nothing, not 
 even pavd, would induce us to forswear 
 sentiment and go by train. But, thanks 
 to the few kilometres we had already 
 bumped over, we were wiser now. All 
 the old travellers over the post-roads 
 complain oi X\\& pavd. Mr. Sterne, as at 
 Nampont, found it a hindrance to senti- 
 ment. Before his day, Evelyn lamented 
 that if the country, where the roads are 
 paved with a small square freestone, 
 " does not much molest the traveller 
 with dirt and ill way as in England, 'tis 
 somewhat hard to the poor horses' feet, 
 
 which
 
 [ J09 ] 
 
 which causes them to ride more tem- 
 perately, seldom going out of the trot, 
 ox grand pas, as they call it." 
 
 If it is so hard to horses' feet, fancy 
 what it must be to the tyres of a tri- 
 cycle ! 
 
 No sooner were we out of the town 
 than the rain be^jan. At first it was but 
 a soft liorht shower. But it turned into 
 a drenching pour just as we came into 
 a grey thatch- roofed village. We took 
 shelter by a stone wall under a tree. A 
 woman offered to lend us her umbrella ; 
 we could send it back the next day, she 
 insisted. This Vv^as the most disinterested 
 benevolence shown us throuo-hout the 
 journey. 
 
 Presently we set out again, but only 
 to retreat almost at once up a little vine- 
 covered path leading to a cottage whose 
 owner, when he saw us, invited us in- 
 doors. It seemed useless to wait, how- 
 ever.
 
 [ no] 
 
 ever. We had dragged the tricycle 
 under the vines, but the rain dripped 
 through and made the saddles wet and 
 slippery. We thanked him kindly, put 
 on our gossamers, and then plodded on 
 through the driving rain over a sticky 
 clay road. Now, almost blinded, we 
 worked up long ascents between woods 
 and fields where indefatigable sports- 
 men frightened what birds there were. 
 Now we rode through deserted villages 
 and by dreary chateaux. — Occasionally 
 the rain stopped, only to begin the 
 next second with fresh force. Ao-ainst 
 it our gossamers were of no more avail 
 than if they had been so much paper. 
 In half an hour we were uncomfortably 
 conscious that our only dry clothes were 
 in the baof. As misfortunes never come 
 singly, the luggage-carrier loosened and 
 swung aroimd to the left of the back- 
 bone. Every few minutes J was 
 
 down
 
 
 # 
 
 
 1)^ 

 
 [ ill ] 
 
 down in the mud settino- it straiijht 
 again. The water poured in streams 
 from our hats. With each turn of the 
 wheels we were covered with mud. 
 
 It was in this condition we rode into 
 the streets of Neuilly. Men and women 
 came to their doors and laugfhed as we 
 passed. — This decided us. There is 
 nothing- that chiUs sentiment as quickly 
 as a drenchinof and ridicule. We went to 
 the railway station, to learn there would 
 be no train for three hours. It was 
 simply out of the question to wait in 
 our wet clothes for that lencrth of time. 
 That it never once occurred to us to 
 stay in the town overnight shows how 
 poorly we thought of it. Back we went 
 throucrh the streets, acrain sfreeted with 
 the same heartless laughter from every 
 side. If I were a prophet I would send 
 an army of bears to devour the people 
 of Neuilly. 
 
 I The
 
 [ M2 ] 
 
 The rain, the mud, and the li-iggage- 
 carrler had it their own way the rest of 
 the afternoon. When we could we rode 
 as if for our hves. — But every now and 
 
 again we had to stop, that J might 
 
 unlace his boots, take them off", and let 
 the water run out of them. Of course 
 no one was abroad. What sane men 
 would have dared such weather ? We 
 met but one small boy driving a big cart 
 in a zig-zag course, particularly aggra- 
 vating because we were just then on 
 a down-Pfrade. This was the last affront 
 
 that made the rest unbearable. J is 
 
 not a man patient of injuries.- ■ 
 
 " Million names of the name ! Little 
 fly ! " he yelled, and the boy let us 
 pass. 
 
 — When a turn in the road brouQ^ht 
 us out on the banks of the Oise we were 
 so wet that a plunge in its waters could 
 not have made us wetter. — A grey town 
 
 climbine
 
 [ I f 3 ] 
 
 climbing up to a grey church rose on 
 the opposite banks. We supposed it 
 must be Beaumont. But indeed its 
 name just then mattered httle. With- 
 out stopping to identify it, we crossed 
 the brido^e and Qrot down at the first 
 inn we came to. 
 
 An
 
 AN ENGLISH LANDLADY. 
 
 FORTUNATELY the town really 
 was Beaumont, and the first inn, 
 tolerably decent — so decent we won- 
 dered as to our reception. With due 
 respect for the clean floors, we waited 
 humbly at the threshold until the land- 
 lady appeared. 
 
 " We are very wet," said I in French, 
 as if this was not a self-evident truth. 
 
 "Oh!" said she in unmistakable insu- 
 lar English. " Fancy ! " 
 
 - — Here was a stroke of good luck ! 
 A Frenchwoman would have measured 
 our respectability by our looks ; an 
 Englishwoman could judge us by our 
 love for sport. She sent a boy with 
 
 J —
 
 [ "S ] 
 
 J — — to put away the tricycle, and 
 bade me follow her. Where we had 
 stood were two pools of water. She 
 took my gossamer ; a muddy stream 
 ran down the passage. I made a wet 
 trail wherever I went. I followed the 
 landlady up two flights of stairs into a 
 well-furnished bedroom. I thoucjht that 
 now our troubles were at an end. But 
 
 when J joined me I found there 
 
 were two more to add to the list. — It 
 seemed that just as he unstrapped the 
 bag the luggage-carrier snapped at the 
 top. And still worse, the constant 
 swino^inCT of the carrier had worked the 
 bag partly open, and half its contents 
 were well soaked. We manag^ed to s^et 
 together a few dry flannels, and then 
 piled the rest of our wardrobe, from hats 
 to shoes, outside the door — a melancholy 
 monument to our misfortunes. The land- 
 lady, returning just then with two glasses 
 
 of
 
 [ "6 ] 
 
 of hot brandy and water, promised to 
 carry our clothes downstairs and have 
 them dried at once. 
 
 So far, so good ; but what was to be 
 done next ? To remain in our pre- 
 sent thin attire meant certain colds, if 
 nothing more serious. There was but 
 one alternative, and we accepted it. 
 When the landlady unceremoniously 
 opened the door and saw us sitting up 
 in the two little beds, solemnly staring 
 at each other as we sipped the brandy 
 and water, she was so embarrassed she 
 forcrot her Encrlish and broke out in 
 French. It was fluent, but little else 
 could be said for it. In a minute she 
 was out of the room ; in another she 
 was knocking discreetly, and telling us 
 there were dressinof-crowns and shawls 
 and slippers without at our service. 
 She was of the opinion that bed was no 
 place for us, and would not hear of our 
 
 stax'ino"
 
 L "7 ] 
 
 staying there. We must come into 
 her private sitting-room, where there 
 was a fire. As a rule private sitting- 
 rooms and fires in September are not 
 insignificant items in a bill. But she 
 would hear of no excuse, and waited 
 by the door until we dressed, after a 
 fashion. 
 
 I flattered myself that I, in her neat 
 wrapper wath a little white ruffle in 
 the neck, made quite a presentable ap- 
 pearance. J ^'s costume, consisting 
 
 of her husband's dressing-gown and a 
 short kilt improvised out of a plaid- 
 shawl, was more picturesque, but less 
 successful — It was still so wet without 
 that we found comfort in the great wood 
 fire in her room. She gave us easy- 
 chairs, one on either side, and for our 
 entertainment produced Thornbury's il- 
 lustrated London. But we were more 
 taken up in looking at each other, and 
 
 were
 
 ( lis ] 
 
 were reasonably serious only when she 
 was in the room. 
 
 At half-past six she announced dinner, 
 adding that our clothes were not yet dry, 
 though a large fire had been kindled for 
 
 their express benefit. I looked at J . 
 
 No, it was simply impossible to appear 
 at the table cT Jwte with him in his pre- 
 sent costume. Before I had time to tell 
 him so 
 
 " You can't go down as you now are," 
 said he to me. 
 
 — The landlady was of the same mind, 
 for a pretty little maid, coming in just 
 then, laid the cloth on the table in the 
 centre of the room. I thought of our 
 bill the next morning. Private dining- 
 rooms, like private sitting-rooms, are 
 luxuries not to be had for nothino-. 
 
 The dinner was good, and the little 
 maid, be it said to her credit, behaved 
 with great propriety. So long as she 
 
 was
 
 [ 119 ] 
 
 was in attendance she never once 
 smiled. However. I cannot answer for 
 her gravity on the other side of the 
 door. 
 
 It was half-past eight when the land- 
 lady said good-night, assuring us every- 
 thing would be ready early in the morn- 
 ing. — But we went to bed at once. The 
 last thing we heard before we fell asleep 
 was the rain still pouring into the waters 
 of the Oise and upon the paved streets 
 of Beaumont. 
 
 OVKR
 
 ... .■ '-o ■ " ' l^eilS PARIS I 
 
 
 
 Ji 
 
 OVER THE PA V ^. 
 
 NEXT morning, because we were to 
 go by train, we realised the ad- 
 vantage of travelling by tricycle. Early 
 as we were, our clothes, dry and clean, 
 were in readiness. When we appeared 
 in them in the public dining-room the 
 maid at first did not recognise us. — I 
 think it is well worth recording- that our 
 bill amounted to just twelve francs and 
 fifty centimes, though all the items, even 
 to the fire that dried our entire ward- 
 robe, were mentioned separately. — i\fter 
 breakfast J carried the luggage- 
 carrier
 
 [ ■-' ] 
 
 carrier to a blacksmith within a few 
 doors of the hotel. The latter examined 
 it, found the trouble to be but trifling, 
 and accordingly treated it as such, to 
 our later discomfiture. The rain had 
 stopped, though the clouds were still 
 heavy. There was nothinor to detain 
 US save the provoking fact that the train 
 would not start for an hour. It was 
 at these times we best appreciated the 
 independence of cycling. 
 
 This delay gave us a chance to see 
 something of Beaumont, a town we 
 found interesting chiefly because it was 
 there we crossed the route of Mr. 
 Stevenson's Inland Voyage. That what- 
 ever attractions it may possess do not 
 appear on its surface, is shown by this 
 book, since Mr. Stevenson, who on his 
 way down the Oise must have paddled 
 past, never even names Beaumont. 
 Mr. Evelyn, who in the course of his 
 
 travels
 
 [ 122 I 
 
 travels went through it, merely mentions 
 it, while our sentimental Master ignores 
 it altoQrether. It would therefore seem 
 more in his spirit to say as little about 
 it as possible. 
 
 — We left the train at St. Denis, had 
 the tricycle lifted out — always a trouble 
 at way stations — only to be told the 
 CeijiUirc was three-quarters of a mile 
 nearer Paris, and that we could not 
 carry the machine on it, since baggage- 
 cars were never attached to the trains. 
 The porter suggested we could walk to 
 the first Ceintiirc station, and take the 
 train to the Gave de Lyon. He would 
 put the velocipede on another train that 
 would carry it to the Gai'e du Nord. 
 We could on our arrival return to the 
 Gare dii Nord and ride the velocipede 
 across the city. If Mo7isienr\\7}i^ pleased 
 to do this he would charge himself with 
 the machine. This ingenious sugges- 
 tion
 
 [ 123 ] 
 
 tion we dismissed with the contempt it 
 deserved. Then . he said there was 
 nothing to do but to wait at St. Denis 
 for the next train to Paris, due in an 
 hour and a half. 
 
 I declare durino; that loner wasted 
 interval we did not as much as turn our 
 heads on the side towards the Abbey. 
 Richness of their treasury ! Stuff and 
 nonsense ! Bating their jewels, which 
 are all false, I would not give three sous 
 for any one thing in it but Jaidas' lan- 
 tern ; nor for that neither, only as it 
 o-rows dark it micrht be of use. But on 
 second thoughts I doubt if it would be 
 much better than the lamp on the tri- 
 cycle. Of course Mr. Tristram Shandy's 
 words are recognised at once ? But then, 
 why should I not iise them if they set 
 forth the sentiments that certainly would 
 have been ours had we once remembered 
 there was an Abbey at St. Denis ? 
 
 Paris.
 
 PARIS. 
 
 CRACK, crack — crack, crack — crack, 
 crack. So this is Paris ! quoth we, 
 continuing in the same mood, when, hav- 
 ing at last reached the Gave mc Nord, 
 we went out on the street in search of a 
 cab — So this is Paris ! 
 
 The first, the finest, the most brilHant ! 
 
 The cabmen at first would have 
 nothinof to do with us. Take that thinor 
 on their carriage indeed ! Crack, crack 
 — crack, crack — what a fuss they made ! 
 But at last, when chances of a fare 
 grew less, they listened to our expla- 
 nation that the cab was but for me and 
 the bag. 
 
 One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, 
 
 eight,
 
 [ '^5 I 
 
 eight, nine, ten. Ten cafes within three 
 minutes' driving ! To see Paris from a 
 cab, as you cross the city from one sta- 
 tion to another, is to conclude that Pari- 
 sians do nothing but drink coffee. As 
 if he had read my thoughts, and would 
 confirm me in this opinion, the driver 
 set me down in front of the large cafd of 
 the Gare de Lyon. 
 
 Inside the station I waited wnth the 
 usual crowd; — with slouchy, red-trousered 
 soldiers and baggy Zouaves, old curds 
 and one brand-new curd, young ladies 
 with high heels and old women in caps, 
 young men in straight-brimmed tall hats, 
 and s^endarmes in full uniform. At the 
 
 end of an hour J joined me. He 
 
 looked very warm, his clothes were well 
 bespattered with mud, and the lamp was 
 sticking out of his coat pocket. — Though 
 the streets of Paris are no longer villain- 
 ously narrow, it is, I am sure, as difhcult 
 K as
 
 [ '26 ] 
 
 as ever to turn a wheelbarrow in them, 
 because of the recklessness of the drivers 
 
 and the vileness of the pavd. At all 
 events it is no easy matter to wheel a 
 tricycle through the broadest boulevards. 
 
 Still J had much to be thankful for. 
 
 He was run into but twice, and only 
 the luggage-carrier and the lamp were 
 broken. 
 
 We lunched in the cafe. Some of the 
 high-heeled young ladies and high-hatted 
 young gentlemen were lunching there at 
 
 the
 
 I ■-'- ] 
 
 the same time. Fhey and the waiters 
 stared at us too astonished to smile. It 
 
 is true we, and more especially J , 
 
 had not the Parisian air. But stares 
 were the only attentions we received. 
 This made us glad we had decided not 
 to stay several days in Paris in order to 
 go on pilgrimage to Versailles. In the 
 capital, apparently, knee-breeches were 
 too conspicuous for comfort. — It was on 
 business connected with his passport 
 Mr. Sterne went to Versailles. We 
 had no passport ; therefore it would be 
 absurd to follow him thither. This was 
 our aro-ument. But it seemed as if the 
 farther we rode on our journey the more 
 certain we were to make sentimental 
 plans but to break them. 
 
 No ; I cannot stop a moment to give 
 you the character of the people — their 
 genius, their manners, their customs, 
 their laws, their reliction, their o^overn- 
 
 ment.
 
 [ >28 ] 
 
 ment, their manufactures, their com- 
 merce, their finances, with all the re- 
 sources and hidden springs that sustain 
 them — qualified as I may be by spend- 
 ing three hours amongst them, and dur- 
 ing all that time making these things 
 the entire subject of my inquiries and 
 reflections. 
 
 Still, — still we must away — the roads 
 were paved ; we could not ride ; the 
 train went at 12.15; 'twas almost noon 
 when we finished our lunch. 
 
 The notice inside the station an- 
 nounced the departure of the train at a 
 quarter past twelve ; but on the plat- 
 form a porter, pointing to a second offi- 
 cial placard that changed the hour to 
 twelve, hurried the tricycle into the bag- 
 eaofe-car, and us into the first second- 
 class carriage we came to. It seemed 
 that notices were set up at the Gare cie 
 Lyon for the confusion of travellers ! 
 
 The
 
 [ 1^9 ] 
 
 The carriage was empty save for a bag 
 and one overcoat. 
 
 At the last moment — the train, in 
 utter disregard of both notices, starting 
 at five minutes after twelve — the owner 
 of the bag jumped in. He gave us one 
 glance, seized his property, and fairly 
 fled. — I might have fancied we were not 
 concerned in his flight had it not been 
 for the sequel at Melun. Here at the 
 
 station J , with the bag, was out 
 
 even before the train stopped. When 
 I followed to the door the man was 
 already on the platform. The moment I 
 stepped out he stepped in, shut the door 
 with a bang, and from the window 
 watched our suspicious movements. — I 
 wondered what he thought when he saw 
 the tandem. 
 
 The porters and station-master imme- 
 diately were for showing us the road to 
 Barbizon. That the little village was 
 
 our
 
 [ I30 ] 
 
 our destination they had no doubt. Did 
 they not see Monsieur s portfolio ? — They 
 were mightily interested in the tricycle, 
 and leaned over the railroad bridge above 
 the road to watch it out of sight. But by 
 shouting down useless parting directions, 
 they made it seem as if they were there 
 for our convenience rather than for their 
 curiosity. — As for Melun, though it was 
 of old a Roman town, and later was 
 made famous by Abelard, I can say 
 nothing of it, for the good reason that 
 we at once turned our backs upon its 
 
 A
 
 :\ TALK ABOUT M. MIL- 
 LET AND MR. STEVEN- 
 SON, AND FROM MR. 
 PENNELL. 
 
 T 
 
 HE ride from Melun 
 to Barbizon and 
 through the Forest of Fontainebleau 
 was a pilgrimage within a pilgrimage. 
 Like Christian, we were tempted to 
 desert the straight course, and, like 
 him, we yielded. We turned out of 
 our sentimental way to see M. Millet's 
 house for pleasure. — To be strictly 
 truthful, I must add that another good 
 reason for going by Barbizon was the 
 knowledge that the pave' of the national 
 
 road
 
 [ '32 ] 
 
 road only came to an end at Fontaine- 
 bleau, together with our eagerness to 
 be out of the train and riding again 
 as soon as possible. — By following the 
 Chailly and Barbizon road to the Forest 
 we could have our desire and spare the 
 tricycle. 
 
 It considerately cleared with the early 
 afternoon, and the cloud masses, now 
 white and soft, drifted apart, to leave 
 blue spaces between. — We had a shower 
 or two, but so light we were not wet ; 
 and presently the sun coming out set the 
 rain -drops on the bushes and heather 
 by the wayside to glittering. 
 
 Not far from Melun we met four bi- 
 cyclers. Much has been said about the 
 "freemasonry of the wheel." There is 
 a pleasant suggestion of good-fellowship 
 in the expression, but I think it merely 
 means that cyclers, who abroad will 
 speak to any other cycler who gives 
 
 them
 
 [ ^33 ] 
 
 them the chance, at home ignore all 
 but friends and acquaintances. At least 
 this is the definition which French, like 
 English, riders practically accept. — Of 
 the four near Melun, two wheeled by 
 as if they did not see us, and the third 
 tried not to smile. The fourth, however, 
 wished us a Bon jour, but it was scarcely 
 disinterested. It turned out he had just 
 ordered a Rotarie from Bordeaux, and 
 wanted to know something of the sys- 
 tem of cur tandem. 
 
 In how many ways could it be used, 
 for example ? and what time could we 
 make on it } 
 
 — The freemasonry in his case only 
 carried him over level ground. At the 
 foot of the first hill he left us. 
 
 We were in a humour for fault-find- 
 ing. The luggage - carrier, of course, 
 was to blame. Like Christian, we were 
 punished for going out of our way, I 
 
 suppose.
 
 [ '34 ] 
 
 suppose. Certain it is that before long 
 we stood still, as he did, and wotted not 
 what to do. — If the blacksmith at Beau- 
 mont had been a little more serious in 
 his work, the accident in Paris might 
 not have happened ; or indeed, to go 
 back to the beginning of the evil, if 
 H umber & Co. had only known as 
 much as they think they know about 
 their own business, we should not have 
 found ourselves half-way to Chailly with 
 the luggage-carrier hanging on by one 
 screw. — We managed to keep it in place 
 after a fashion ; but there was no riding 
 fast, and I do not believe in the whole 
 course of our journey we ever sighted a 
 town so joyously as we did Chailly, lying 
 "dustily slumbering in the plain." 
 
 In our struggles we had pulled off 
 a strap, and I went to the harness- 
 maker's to see if it could there be re- 
 fastened, while j knocked at the 
 
 blacksmith's.
 
 [ 135 ] 
 
 blacksmith's. For five minutes no one 
 answered ; and then at last an old 
 woman, clean and neat as her village, 
 opened the door, and made quite a show 
 of briskness by asking what I wanted. 
 She said of course the matter could be 
 attended to. But when I represented I 
 must have it done at once 
 
 " My dear Madam, it is impossible," 
 she said. " The workmen have been 
 gone two days, and I cannot tell when 
 they will return." 
 
 — At the blacksmith's J 's knocks 
 
 summoned only two children, who stared 
 as if nothing was more unlooked for at 
 the shop than a customer. — Our needs 
 were urgent, and it was useless to at- 
 tempt to make them understand. J 
 
 went boldly in, and helped himself to 
 wire and a nail. — While he was black- 
 smithing for himself their mother came 
 out and bade him take whatever he 
 
 wanted.
 
 [ 136 ] 
 
 wanted. The workmen had been away 
 a week, and she did not know when 
 they woukl be back again. — That work- 
 men should leave Chailly to find some- 
 thing to do did not seem surprising. 
 The only wonder was they should think 
 it worth their while to stay there at all. — 
 
 As we stood in front of the shop, J 
 
 mending the luggage - carrier with an 
 energy I am sure had never gone to the 
 operation before, a little diligence carry- 
 ing a young lady and an artist in Tarn 
 o' Shanter — there was no mistakincr his 
 trade — passed with a great jingling of 
 bells. But even it failed to awake 
 Chailly from its slumbers. 
 
 The blacksmith's wife refused to take 
 any money for the wire and nail. — How- 
 ever, J insisting on making some 
 
 payment, the woman told him he could 
 orive sous to the children. I have never 
 seen anything to equal her honesty. 
 
 When
 
 [ '37 ] 
 
 When she found that two of her neigh- 
 bour's Httle orjrls had come in for a share 
 of the profits, she forced them to rehn- 
 quish it, while she would not allow her 
 own children to keep more than two 
 sous a-piece. Nothing we could say 
 could alter her resolution, and with Spar- 
 tan-like heroism she seized the extra sous 
 
 and thrust them into J ^'s hand. 
 
 After experiencing these things, we 
 rode out on the great plain of Barbizon. 
 It would be affectation to pretend we 
 
 ; - — ', ^J tAiVT -ir>^i&5^^^^'" 
 
 i 
 
 did not at once think and speak of 
 Millet. Was it not partly to see his 
 house and country we had come this 
 way } His fields, with here and there 
 scattered grey boulders, and in the 
 middle distance a cluster of trees, 
 
 stretched
 
 [ '38] 
 
 Stretched from either side of the road 
 to the far low horizon, the beauty of 
 their monotony being but accentuated 
 by the afternoon's soft cloud -shadows. 
 It seemed to us a bright, broad pros- 
 pect, though I suppose we should have 
 found it full of infinite sadness. — There 
 was not much pathos in near cabbage- 
 
 
 m 
 
 '^' '^,^^r^''/ 
 
 patches glowing and shining in two 
 o'clock sunlight, and we could not be- 
 lieve the weariness of the peasants to 
 be quite genuine. Their melancholy 
 seemed less hopelessness, than conscious- 
 ness of their duty to pose as pathetic 
 features in the landscape. — Elven an old 
 
 woman,
 
 [ K->9 ] 
 
 woman, a real Millet, with sabots and 
 handkerchief turban, and a bundle of 
 grass on her back, stopped on 
 her homeward way to strike a '^>^'*^V^ 
 weary attitude on a stone heap ^'^^%' 
 
 by the wayside the minute she ^' /^^J^*^ 
 
 saw J 's sketch-book. — / |p| 
 
 The peasants of Barbizon have ^--h^A 
 not served an apprenticeship w:^i^i^ 
 as models for nothing. They have learned 
 to realise their sufferings, and to make 
 the most of them. 
 
 " Now I know," said J , putting 
 
 up his sketch-book, " if I were to tell 
 her to put her arms or her legs or head 
 in another position, she would say, ' Mais 
 non, Monsieur, it was thus I posed for 
 Monsietir Millet,' or Monsieur somebody 
 else. Bah ! it's all a fashion ! " 
 
 — The old woman, disappointed, got 
 up and walked onwards, to be speedily 
 out-distanced by us. 
 
 But
 
 [ I40 ] 
 
 But J , as is his habit when he 
 
 once " gets going," went on. 
 
 " How's a picture painted here now-a- 
 days any way ? Nothing could be simpler. 
 First you get your model ; — she's most 
 probably stood for hundreds of other 
 men, and knows more about the busi- 
 ness than you do yourself ; your master 
 tells you how to pose her ; you put her 
 in a cabbage-patch or kitchen prepared 
 for the purpose, like those in Chailly, for 
 example ; paint the background as care- 
 fully as you know how, and your pic- 
 ture's made. It's easier to learn how to 
 paint than to find motives for yourself; 
 so follow as closely as possible in other 
 men's steps ; choose the simplest sub- 
 jects you can ; above all, be in the 
 fashion. There are as good subjects at 
 home as in Barbizon for Americans who 
 would but go and look for them." 
 
 — By this time, fortunately, we were 
 
 in
 
 [ HI ] 
 
 in Barbizon, and the necessity of evolv- 
 ing a French sentence with which to 
 
 ask his way brought J s lecture to 
 
 an end. — There could be no doubt that 
 the village was the headquarters for 
 artists. Here and there and every- 
 where, among the low grey gabled 
 houses, were studios ; and scarcely were 
 we in the village street before we found 
 an exhibition of pictures. — It has been 
 recorded that already Barbizon's artistic 
 popularity is waning, and that even its 
 secondary lights have deserted it. We 
 were convinced of its decline when we 
 saw that several of the studios were for 
 rent, and confirmed in this conviction 
 by a visit to the Exhibition. It was a 
 shade worse than a Royal Academy, 
 and at a first glance appeared to be a 
 collection of fireworks. On a close ex- 
 amination the fireworks resolved them- 
 selves into green trees sprawling against 
 L patches
 
 [ '4^ ] 
 
 patches of vivid blue sky, and flaming 
 yellow flowers growing in rank luxuri- 
 ance in low-toned plains, — There were 
 one or two Millets, of course ; but what 
 would Millet himself have said to them ? 
 It is only fair to add that a few small un- 
 pretending canvases were not without 
 merit. 
 
 From what we saw in Barbizon, I do 
 not think it improbable that in another 
 generation there will not be an artist 
 in the village, and that Millet will have 
 been forgotten by the villagers. — Though 
 his family still live there, the children of 
 the place seem to know nothing of his 
 greatness. The first boys of whom we 
 asked the way to the house, pointed 
 vaguely down the long winding street, 
 and thought, but were not quite sure, 
 we should find it if we kept straight on. 
 After we left the Exhibition, other boys 
 whom we questioned declared they had 
 
 never
 
 [ -43 ] 
 
 never heard the name of Millet; and 
 when we refused to let them off so 
 easily, told us we must go back in the 
 very direction from which we had come. 
 No, we insisted, it was not there. 
 
 " Ah ! " they thought, " Moiisiem^ 
 must mean Monsietir Millet le char- 
 domtjer." 
 
 —Such is fame at home ! 
 
 Finally, after many explanations on 
 our part, and conversation with unseen 
 elders behind a garden wall on theirs, a 
 man near by explained just where the 
 Maisoii Millet was. 
 
 A few steps farther on we reached it. 
 As, I suppose, many other pilgrims have 
 done, we sat a while on the shady stone 
 seat opposite. A rather abrupt turn just 
 there hid the road as it wound towards 
 the forest. But we could look back 
 some distance down the long village 
 street at the low houses and high gar- 
 den
 
 [ 144 ] 
 
 den walls. — The famous Maison Millet, 
 built right on the road, grey, with brown 
 moss-grown roof, did not differ from the 
 other peasant cottages. Even the one 
 large window, extending almost the en- 
 tire height of the house, was scarcely a 
 mark of distinction in studio - crowded 
 Barbizon ; just as, probably, during Mil- 
 let's lifetime, his poverty and troubles, 
 and failure to make both ends meet, 
 were matters of course among the hard- 
 working villagers. — And yet this humble 
 cottage is already better known and 
 honoured as a place of pilgrimage in 
 the artistic world, than the palaces that 
 crown Campden Hill and cluster around 
 Palace Gate, Kensington ; even as 
 the works that came from it will be 
 remembered when the pictures painted 
 within the palace-studios have long since 
 been forgotten. — We did not ask to go 
 into the house. I believe visitors are 
 
 admitted :
 
 L 145 ] 
 
 admitted ; but it seems almost cruel to 
 treat it as a mere museum for curious 
 tourists, while the Millet family is still in 
 charge. So we rested in the pleasant 
 shade, lookino- over to the unassumine 
 grey cottage where one or two plaster- 
 casts showed through the window, the 
 branches of a tall tree waved over the 
 chimney, and an elder-bush, beneath the 
 weight of its berries, bent far over the 
 garden wall, on the other side of which 
 Millet so often walked and stood to 
 watch the west and the setting sun. — No 
 one was to be seen but two or three 
 children, who examined the tricycle as 
 they talked in whispers. But we could 
 hear near voices and the clatter of dishes. 
 And then the wind would come in great 
 austs from over the forest, shakino- down 
 the leaves on its way, and drowning all 
 other noises. 
 
 We felt the great contrast when we 
 
 went
 
 [ -46 ] 
 
 went from the little house where life was 
 always sad, to Siron's, " that excellent 
 artist's barrack, managed upon easy prin- 
 ciples." — Its cheerfulness was proclaimed 
 by its large sign representing a jolly 
 
 landlord holding a pig's head on a dish, 
 while a young lady and gentleman, ap- 
 parently in an ecstasy of content at the 
 prospect of a good meal, lay prostrate 
 
 before
 
 [ 147 ] 
 
 before it, one on cither side, and an 
 appreciative dog sniffed at it from the 
 foreground. — It seemed more eloquent 
 in its way than the sign before the other 
 village inn, whereon a young lady sat at 
 her easel, and two or three young men 
 peeped over her shoulder, and he who 
 painted it for his dinner was no poor 
 artist in one sense of the word. 
 
 Often enough at Siron's, as at the 
 Maison Millet, there has been the diffi- 
 culty of making both ends meet. But 
 at the inn it has been turned into 
 comedy rather than tragedy, and if 
 money has not been forthcoming at 
 once, Siron has been willing to wait, 
 knowing that it would in the end. — Men 
 of other professions, if they lived to- 
 gether in communities, as artists often 
 do, could hardly show so fair a record. 
 For all the talk and definitions of so- 
 called Bohemianism, an artist is never 
 
 in
 
 [ MS ] 
 
 in debt lonq-er than he can help.— It 
 would be fortunate for tradespeople if 
 the same could be said of all men. 
 
 A waiter in a dress-coat, which was 
 certainly not what we had come to Barbi- 
 zon to see, showed us into the " high inn- 
 chamber panelled " with sketches, where 
 we took great pleasure in noting that 
 the best were by Americans. — We next 
 ordered groseillc, for which it was our 
 privilege to pay double the price asked 
 elsewhere. I hope the charges for artists 
 living in Barbizon are not the same as 
 those for an artist passing through, dis- 
 guised as a tricycler. — But Siron's, with 
 its elegant waiter and prices, and its 
 Exhibition open to the public, was not 
 the Siron's we had expected. We had 
 thought to find a true artists' inn, like 
 certain Venetian and Florentine dens 
 we knew of; — we had come instead to a 
 show for the tourist. — And indeed all 
 
 Barbizon,
 
 [ 149 ] 
 
 Barbizon, with its picture galleries and 
 studios to let, and posing peasants, 
 seemed no better than a convenient 
 stopping-place, to which drivers from 
 Fontainebleau could bring travellers, 
 and allow them to spend their francs 
 for the benefit of Barbizonians. — Thus, 
 from Millet's misery the people have 
 reaped a golden harvest. 
 
 Stranger still is the fact, that the 
 country where Millet could see but 
 suffering humanity, with a forest or open 
 landscape in harmony with it. is now 
 recommended as a place in which to 
 learn mirth and vivacious contentment. 
 — Millet's portion in Barbizon was head- 
 ache and heartache, so that now and 
 then, in his despair, he cried out to his 
 friends that physically and morally he 
 was going down hill. Over the way at 
 Siron's other men stayed on in the vil- 
 lage, because near the forest they were 
 
 sure
 
 [ I50] 
 
 sure of physical and moral good health, 
 air, light, perfumes, and the shapes of 
 things concording for them in happy 
 
 harmony. 
 
 " There is no place," says Mr. Steven- 
 son, " where the young are more gladly 
 conscious of their youth, or the old 
 better contented with their aere." 
 
 In
 
 IN THE FOREST. 
 
 THE waiter having overcharged us 
 for the groseille, we thought it 
 only fair he should give us information 
 for nothing. He told us the forest was 
 just around the corner, which we could 
 see for ourselves, and he directed us on 
 our way with such care that we forgot 
 his directions the next minute. 
 
 The forest is still "horrid and solitary," 
 as Evelyn has it, just as when he rode 
 through it and between its "hideous 
 rocks." We do not know to this day 
 in what part we were, nor what roads 
 we followed. We made no effort to go 
 out of our direct course in search of the 
 placarded places which it is the tourist's 
 
 duty
 
 [ -5^ ] 
 
 duty to visit. — Wc did think something 
 of looking for the rock with the plaques 
 set up on it, in memory of Millet and 
 Rousseau. In tellin^ us how to find it 
 the waiter's words had been many and 
 explicit. But when we tried to recall 
 them we could not ; nor were we more 
 successful in our endeavours to find the 
 rock for ourselves. However, I do not 
 think it mattered much. It was enough 
 to know the way was beautiful and the 
 road good. — No such perfect afternoon 
 had come to us since our departure from 
 Calais ; and one reason of its perfect- 
 tion was, that our pleasure in the love- 
 liness of the place was so great, we cared 
 little or not at all for names and famous 
 sights. If we return at some future day 
 to Fontainebleau, we shall probably ex- 
 plore its valleys and rocks, its groves 
 and thickets. But even were we never 
 to go back, we should not wish that 
 
 one
 
 [ 155 I 
 
 one ride to have been in any way 
 different. 
 
 We rode for miles, and yet the only 
 monotony was in the good road. Now, 
 we passed great rocks, some grey and 
 riven, moss and lichens clinging to them, 
 
 and bushes and trees striicrorlinor from 
 their crevices and o-rowinsr on their sum- 
 mit; others bare and shadeless. Here, 
 
 stretchinfj
 
 [ '34 ] 
 
 Stretching from boulder to boulder, were 
 deep beds of purple heather paled by the 
 sun — the heather on which Millet used 
 to love to lie and look up to the clouds 
 and the blue sky ; and there, feathered 
 ferns, yellow and autumnal in the open 
 spaces, green and fresh in the shade of 
 rocks and trees, "made a luxurious couch 
 more soft than sleep." — Now the way 
 went through the very heart of a pine 
 wood ; pine needles instead of heather 
 covered the ground, and even carpeted 
 the road ; a spicy fragrance, sweetest of 
 all sweet forest scents, perfumed the air ; 
 the wind sighed softly through the top- 
 most branches, and the tricycle wheeled 
 without a sound over the brown car- 
 pet, on which shadows fell and the sun 
 shone. 
 
 Then the pine scent changed to a rich 
 earthy smell, and to the right the pines 
 gave way to beeches, tall and slim, grow- 
 in "■
 
 [ >55 ] 
 
 ing in groups of two or three together, 
 with here and there grassy glades lead- 
 
 
 ing to dense thickets ; on the left a close 
 M undergrowth
 
 [ -56 ] 
 
 undergrowth, hio^h enouo-h to shut out 
 the prospect, made a hedge-like border 
 to the road. And then again, on either 
 hand old moss-grown trees rose to a 
 venerable height, their branches meet- 
 ing overhead. 
 
 There is something in a forest, as in 
 a cathedral, that makes one quiet. We 
 rode for miles in silence. Then at last, 
 in the green aisle, enthusiasm breaking 
 all bounds 
 
 " This is immense I " cried J . 
 
 — And so indeed it was, in more than 
 the American sense. 
 
 But even the vast Forest of Fontaine- 
 bleau cannot o-q on for ever, — We were 
 not a little sorry when we wheeled out 
 into an open space at the top of a long 
 hill, where children were chattering and 
 playing and two nuns were sitting on 
 the grass. But we were sorrier when, 
 at the beginning of the coast, the brake 
 
 went
 
 [ '57 ] 
 
 went all wrong and refused to work. 
 The hill was steep. All we could do 
 was to run into a bank by the road, 
 when the machine stopped. 
 
 
 ^' «3^' * ^^> 
 
 
 ;^ 
 
 FONTAINEBLEAU
 
 FONTAINEBLEAU. 
 
 ALL you need say of Fontainebleau 
 (in case you are asked) is, that it 
 stands about forty miles (south some- 
 thing) from Paris, in the middle of a 
 large forest, and that there is something 
 great in it. 
 
 Before we went to sleep that night 
 we took counsel together, and it came to 
 nought. For we determined to be up 
 in the morninor with the sun, and to 
 devote the day to the forest. Of course 
 we overslept ourselves. The sun had 
 been up three or four hours when we 
 awoke, though as yet it had refused to 
 show itself A light cold drizzle was 
 
 falling. 
 
 "We'll
 
 [ 159 J 
 
 "We'll go instead," said J , over 
 
 his coffee, "to the Palace." 
 
 " I'll go see any Palace," quoth I, for 
 I was all compliance through every step 
 of the journey. 
 
 We had not a guide-book with us. 
 We could not tell which was the Gallery 
 of Francis I., which the Court of Diane 
 de Poitiers, which the Court dcs Adieux. 
 But had we stopped to turn over the 
 pages of a Baedeker, I believe we should 
 have lost our impression of the princely 
 scale with which kings in the good old 
 times provided for their pleasures. — 
 Court opened into court, one as deso- 
 late and deserted as another ; pavilion 
 succeeded pavilion ; and the grey 
 walls, with their red brick facings and 
 proud roofs, as Ruskin would call them, 
 seemed never endinor. There is nothino^ 
 that describes this great pile as well 
 as the saying of an Englishman, that 
 
 Fontainebleau
 
 [ iSo ] 
 
 Fontalnebleau is a reiidez - voiis of 
 chateaux. 
 
 When we walked in the garden, and 
 saw that the sun was beginning to shine, 
 and that it was a quarter of eleven by the 
 clock in the clock-tower- 
 
 " We had better be off," said we. 
 
 As we passed the walls of the Palace 
 gardens the clock struck the hour. It 
 was not too late. We could still go in, 
 listen to the guide, and be prepared now 
 to take up above fifty pages with his 
 words and our reflections upon them. 
 
 But, courage, gentle reader ; in the 
 words of our Master, 'tis enough to have 
 thee in our power! but to make use of 
 the advantage, which the fortune of the 
 pen has now gained over thee, would be 
 too much. 
 
 So, put on, my brave travellers, and 
 make the best of your way to Nemours. 
 
 Through
 
 ^■vm^ 
 
 THROUGH A FAIR COUNTRY. 
 
 TO Nemours all the way was plea- 
 santness, and all the path was 
 peace. There was nothing to note but 
 the beauty and excellence of the road. 
 Only once we came \.o pavd. Then, how- 
 ever, as it was at the bottom of a hill, it 
 was like to be our ruin. Rosin, back- 
 pedalling, and clever steering to the side- 
 path saved us. A couple of tramps 
 asked if we had not an extra seat to 
 spare. 
 
 As for Nemours, we could go on for 
 ever in its praise, we found it so pretty ; 
 but for its inhabitants, the less, I think, 
 we say of them the better. — At three 
 
 cafd
 
 [ i62 J 
 
 cafe restaurants — one we passed just as 
 we went into the city, two were in its 
 very heart — food was refused to us. 
 There was no reason oriven for this re- 
 fusal. The people were disagreeable, 
 that was all. — We lunched in true tramp 
 fashion, on whatever we could pick up 
 by the way. At one end of the town we 
 ate pears, at the other cake. If our meal 
 was scanty, we at least had all out of doors 
 instead of a close cafd for dining-room. 
 We rode a little distance by the canal, 
 
 f,>- -- 
 
 and then went into the town to come 
 
 quite
 
 [ 163 ] 
 
 quite unexpectedly upon its castle, which, 
 with its grim grey walls and turrets, was 
 the first real castle we had seen in all our 
 journey. But old carts and lumber lay 
 familiarly in its courtyard, as if to remind 
 the chance visitor of its useless old age. — 
 We liked it better from the other side of 
 the river, where all belittling details were 
 lost, and we saw the grey pile sternly 
 outlined against the sky and softly re- 
 flected in the water. 
 
 Beyond Nemours the same fine road, 
 like a park avenue, went with the pop- 
 
 lared river until the latter ran oft with 
 a great curve across the broad green 
 fields, to keep well out of sight until it 
 
 turned
 
 [ i64 ] 
 
 turned back to meet us at Fontenoy. 
 Here were two canoeists. — The sun 
 shone on the water, but failed in soft 
 
 
 shadows on the meadows beyond and on 
 the road. Everything was still and at 
 rest but the river and ourselves. 
 
 But, quiet as the country was, there 
 was nothing to remind us it was Sun- 
 day. Peasants were at work. Old 
 women here and there cut grass by the 
 wayside, or carried it home in large 
 
 bundles
 
 [ 165 ] 
 
 bundles on their backs. In one place 
 cantonniers were busy covering the road 
 
 
 with broken stones. In another we 
 passed travellers footing it over the 
 white highway ; one who walked bare- 
 foot, with his boots and his umbrella 
 strapped to his back, was singing as he 
 went. — Only once we heard church bells. 
 In the little grey stone villages, at whose 
 entrance poplars stood for sentinels, there 
 were more people about than usual. And 
 at Souppes, where we stopped for coffee, 
 the cafd was full of men in blouses, play- 
 ing cards and drinking beer. 
 
 In
 
 [ i66 ] 
 
 In the course of the afternoon we left 
 the department of the Seine-et-Loire for 
 the Loiret, where the road, thouQ^h not 
 bad, was not quite so good, and where 
 the kilometre-stones no longer marked 
 
 
 
 
 
 m 
 
 
 the distance, but were newly white- 
 ened, looking for all the world, as 
 
 J suggested, like tombstones of 
 
 dead kilometres. — Then we came to the 
 
 first
 
 [ i67 ] 
 
 first vineyard on our route, in which the 
 vines, heavy with purple clusters, clung 
 to low poles, with none of the grace of 
 the same vines crossing from mulberry 
 to mulberry in Italy, or of the hops in 
 England, — Up and down the road took 
 us — now giving us a glimpse of an old 
 farm-house on a hillside, and then of a 
 far chateau half hidden in the trees, until 
 we began to meet many carriages. — A 
 few minutes after these signs of city life 
 appeared, we were in Montargis. 
 
 MoNTARGIS
 
 MONTARGIS. 
 
 THE landlady was full of apologies 
 for the dulness of the town. The 
 band always played on Sunday after- 
 noons on the Place in front of her house, 
 she said ; but now the troops were away 
 for the autumn manoeuvres, and Mon- 
 tarms was sad in their absence. We 
 thought, however, she might better have 
 apologised for the lateness of her dinner- 
 hour. — But it was, after all, fortunate, 
 for it so chanced we saw more of Mon- 
 targis than we expected. 
 
 Though little is said about it in guide 
 and other books, it is one of the prettiest 
 towns in all France. A river, an old 
 church, and a mediaeval castle are al- 
 ways
 
 [ '69 ] 
 
 ways elements of picturesqueness, and 
 these Montargis has used to the very- 
 best advantao^e. — We found the church 
 grey and weather-worn of course. 
 
 1^ j'^jl ^^^""^ 
 
 
 The castle, closed about with high 
 walls, stood gloomily apart, and over- 
 looked
 
 [ TO] 
 
 looked the town. A narrow hilly street, 
 lined with little houses, led to its heavy 
 gateway, against and above which leaned 
 the poor and shabby roofs of the near- 
 est dwellings. 
 
 But we took greatest pleasure in 
 the river, which wandered around and 
 through the town, as if bent on seeing 
 as much of city life as possible ; — now 
 flowing between stone embankments, 
 from which men and boys for ever 
 fished and caught nothing, while the 
 castle frowned down upon it ; now, tired 
 already of city ways and sights, running 
 peacefully between green banks and 
 trees whose branches met above ; again, 
 crossing the street and making its way 
 by old ruinous houses. We stood on a 
 near bridge while a funeral passed. Two 
 men carried a coffin, adorned with one 
 poor wreath, and so small we knew the 
 body of a child lay within ; for mourners 
 
 there
 
 a r^ 
 
 
 
 
 N
 
 [ 171 ] 
 
 there were half a dozen women in white 
 caps. The very simphcity of the Httle 
 procession made it the more solemn. At 
 its approach voices were hushed and hats 
 lifted. And yet, as they went over the 
 bridge, the acolytes and the chanters, 
 even the priest himself, stole a mo- 
 mentary inquiring glance at J 's 
 
 stockings. 
 
 It was in Montaro;is the Enfjlish 
 drowned Joan of Arc. My authority 
 is an eminently respectable stationer on 
 the right-hand side of the principal street 
 as you enter the town from the north. 
 He assured us of the truth of his state- 
 ment ; and as he had always lived in 
 Montargis and we were strangers, we 
 did not see our way to dispute it. 
 
 In Montargis we heard for the first 
 time the story of the lady tricycler, after- 
 wards repeated at almost every stage of 
 our journey. The landlady served it to 
 
 us
 
 r >72 ] 
 
 us with the dessert. — Only a few days 
 before, it seemed, two gentlemen arrived, 
 each riding a velocipede, and each wear- 
 ing long stockings and short pantaloons, 
 like Monsieur. 
 
 Show these gentlemen to No. 14, she 
 said to the chamber-maid. Take these 
 towels up to CCS messieurs in No. 14, she 
 said to the same chamber-maid a few 
 minutes later. When the dinner-bell 
 rang there came down from No. 14, not 
 two gentlemen, but a gentleman and a 
 lady ; and, if we would believe it, the 
 lady had on a black silk dress. And 
 the next morning, my faith, two gentle- 
 men rode away ! 
 
 — In the cafi, after dinner, we watched 
 four citizens of Montargis gamble reck- 
 lessly at corks. One, an old fat man in 
 a blouse, who stood on one leg and 
 waved the other in the air when he 
 played, ran great risks with his sous, 
 
 and
 
 [ '73 ] 
 
 and usually won, to the discomfiture of 
 a small man who hit feebly and lost 
 steadily. 
 
 " It is that you are wanting in cour- 
 age, my child," his successful rival kept 
 telling him. 
 
 — The few soldiers left in Montargis 
 were making the rounds of the town 
 with great blowing of bugle and beating 
 of drum when we went to our room in 
 the Hotel de la Poste. 
 
 How
 
 HOW WE FOUGHT THE WIND 
 FROM MONTARGIS TO COSNE. 
 
 FROM Montargis to Cosne we foug-ht 
 a mighty wind. The greater part 
 of the day our heads were down, and 
 we were workinof as one never works 
 except for pleasure. — Under these cir- 
 cumstances we saw Httle of the country 
 through which we passed. We were 
 just conscious of the tramps we had 
 seen the day before, now resting by the 
 roadside ; and of a blue blouse on an 
 old boneshaker flying triumphantly with 
 the wind down a long hill up which we 
 were painfully toiling. 
 
 The long day was marked only by 
 our halts for rest. At the first town, 
 
 but

 
 L '75 ] 
 
 but ten kilometres from Montargis, we 
 stopped nominally for syrup, but really 
 to take breath. As we drank the gro- 
 scille, which was bad, the proprietress 
 of the cafc^ told us what we should have 
 seen in Montargis. 
 
 Bah ! the chateau, that was nothing. 
 But hold ! the brand - new caoutchouc 
 factory ; there was something. 
 
 — An hour later we dismounted again, 
 to pick blackberries from the hedge. 
 And then we went doggedly on, pedal- 
 ling away until we reached the next vil- 
 lage, many kilometres beyond. There 
 w^as just outside a pretty, shady road, 
 which we remember gratefully, since on 
 it w^e had our first bit of easy riding. 
 Adjoining was a chateau with high 
 walls, over which came the sound of 
 gay music. 
 
 To whom did it belonof } we asked 
 an old woman on the road. 
 
 -To
 
 [ '/-e ] 
 
 " To a Monsieur who is enormously 
 rich," she said. " Mais, tout le mane " — 
 "But, all the same" — "he is bottr- 
 geois ! " 
 
 The villacre was just beyond, and in 
 its inn we had lunch. — While we were 
 eatiuL^ bang went a drum on the street, 
 and a bell began to ring. It was a ped- 
 ler, who had drawn up his cart. When 
 we strolled out to the street he had col- 
 lected quite a crowd. 
 
 " Look at these," he was saying, as he 
 showed a package of flannels ; " in the 
 town the price is three francs. I ask 
 thirty-five sous. I pray you, ladies, do 
 me the favour to feel them. Are they 
 not soft ? But this is the last package I 
 have. And now, all those who want a 
 pair, hold up their hands." 
 
 — There was a scramble; more hands 
 than could be filled were raised ; his 
 assistant took down the names of the 
 
 buyers
 
 L '77 I 
 
 buyers, and then — the pedler produced 
 just such another package from his 
 cart. 
 
 " Noni dc Diett ! ivhat longness ! " he 
 cried, as he held up a specimen in front 
 of the nearest woman. 
 
 — At this every one laughed. 
 
 " But, my children " — mes en/ants, 
 that is what he called them — "we are 
 not here to amuse ourselves." 
 
 — And so the sale went on. Every 
 article exhibited was the last of the 
 kind until it was sold. He knew them 
 in this country here, this prince of 
 pedlers told them. They did not like 
 to buy dear. — When we turned away 
 he had just sold a piece of corduroy — 
 town price, twelve francs ; pedler's price, 
 five francs fifty — to an old man who 
 went off grinning, his prize under his 
 arms. 
 
 — The villagers were all talking to- 
 gether.
 
 [ '7S ] 
 
 eether, but above their voices we heard 
 that of the pedler, loud and reproach- 
 ful. 
 
 " Que vous etes bavards ici!" 
 — Reluctantly we returned to work. 
 The wind was in no friendlier mood, and 
 we rode, as in the morning, with heads 
 down and thoughts fixed upon the 
 pedals. — At Briare — you may despatch 
 it in a word : 'tis an uninteresting town ! 
 — we had our first view of the Loire. 
 For the rest of the day the river was 
 always on our right ; sometimes far off, 
 and only indicated by its rows of tall 
 trees ; sometimes near, a line of grey or 
 silver, as the wind drove the clouds 
 above or beyond it. — We met the Ca/d 
 of tJie Sun, travelling on wheels. 
 
 We were some little time in Bonny. 
 
 Every one came out to watch J , as 
 
 he opened his sketch-book, and in a 
 minute we were surrounded. 
 
 " Is
 
 '■'■''' '^iiHmiL
 
 I 179 ] 
 
 " Is Jllofisicur making- pkins lor 
 houses ? " asked one old woman, 
 
 — But the event of the day was in 
 Neuvy. There we found a great crowd 
 in the narrow street, and in the midst 
 stood a tricycle. A Frenchman in flannel 
 shirt, grey linen, and gaiters, with a 
 handkerchief hantringr from his hat over 
 his neck, at once made his way through 
 the crowd and came towards us. — At last 
 we were to have a proof of the free- 
 masonry of the wheel. But he intro- 
 duced himself with a circular, and was 
 friendly in the interests of the manu- 
 facturers for whom he travelled. He 
 did not think much of the "Humber;" 
 its wheels were so small. He knew 
 all the English makes, because he had 
 an English brother-in-law who lived 
 in Portsmouth. Look at his machine, 
 now ; it had a wheel of a pretty height. 
 We must try it, as he was sure we 
 
 should
 
 [ >8o ] 
 
 should once we read the circular, and 
 give up the " Humber." 
 
 Our tandem, with its symmetrical 
 parts and modest coat of varnish well 
 covered with mud, was indeed insignifi- 
 cant compared with the nickel - plated 
 glory of his three wheels, no two of 
 which were of the same size, the largest 
 being as tall as a bicycle.* At all 
 events the people of Neuvy, most of 
 whom were armed with circulars, 
 thought so. They looked at us, be- 
 cause a meeting of tricyclers was not an 
 everyday occurrence in their town, but 
 we gathered no crowd of admirers. 
 
 " How many kilometres do you make 
 in a day ? " asked the Frenchman. 
 
 J said that we had left Montar- 
 
 gis, and were going on to Cosne — 
 seventy kilometres in all. 
 
 * For ihc cycler it suffices to say that it was an 
 overgrown " Bayliss & Thomas." 
 
 " Seventy
 
 [ 'Xl I 
 
 "Seventy kilometres! It is too much 
 for Madame^' said the Frenchman, with 
 a bow. 
 
 — In my heart I was of the same 
 opinion. But I declared the ride to be 
 a mere nothing, and almost apologised 
 for not makinof it loncjer. 
 
 He rejoiced in the exercise, he de- 
 clared with enthusiasm. It was a little 
 fatiguinof sometimes, but what would 
 you have ? And it seemed that his love 
 for the sport occasionally carried him to 
 the excess of thirty kilometres in a day. 
 At La Charite, between Cosne and 
 Moulins, he had met two Englishmen 
 who were riding safety bicycles with 
 an interpreter. We asked him if he 
 had ever ridden in England. He said 
 No ; French roads were so good, and 
 French country so beautiful. 
 
 " Ah, Madauic^' — with his hand on his 
 
 heart of course — " I adore the France ! " 
 
 o — Then
 
 [ 182 ] 
 
 — Then we shook hands, to the vis- 
 ible deHght of the lookers-on, and, with 
 another bow, he told us we had nothin^: 
 but great beauty from Neuvy to Cosne, 
 a distance of fifteen kilometres. — The 
 whole town watched our start, and, I 
 think, in our shabbiness we must have 
 served the agent's purpose even better 
 than his circular. 
 
 As we wheeled on we saw his tracks, 
 makinsr a zi^-zao- course aloncj the road, 
 with little credit to his steering. And 
 in front of a lonely farm-house a small 
 boy at our coming drew a long sigh. 
 
 " But here is another ! " he called to 
 some one indoors. 
 
 - — -The country really was beautiful. 
 But I was so tired ! Every turn of the 
 pedals I felt must be the last. And the 
 thought that we should reach Cosne but 
 to begin the same battle on the morrow, 
 did not help to keep up my spirits. In 
 
 vain
 
 [ 'SS ] 
 
 vain I tried to be sentimental. For the 
 hundredth time I admitted to myself 
 
 that sentiment might do for a post- 
 chaise, but was impossible on a tricycle, 
 
 — And all the time J kept telling 
 
 me that if I did not do my share of 
 the work I should kill him. Certainly 
 seventy kilometres against the wind were 
 too much for Madame. 
 
 A
 
 A GOOD SAMARITAN. 
 
 ALONG, ugly, stupid street leads 
 to the principal Place of Cosne. 
 Its pai'ii is surely the vilest to be found 
 in all the length and breadth of France. — 
 When we came into the town it was 
 full of slouchy, disorderly soldiers. We 
 pushed the tricycle to the Hotel d'Etoile, 
 which the commercial ofentlemen of St. 
 Just had praised. We should forget the 
 miseries of the day over a good dinner. 
 — The landlady came to the door and 
 looked at us. She had no room, she de- 
 clared, and could do nothing for us. Her 
 house was full of officers 7sx\A gentlemen. 
 
 J asked what other hotel she would 
 
 recommend. 
 
 She
 
 [ i«5 1 
 
 She pointed to an aiiberge across tlie 
 street. It was small and mean, with 
 soldiers standing' in the doorway and at 
 the windows. She could not in words 
 have said more plainly what she thought 
 of us. 
 
 Was there a table ifhote over there ? 
 
 She did not know, with an indifferent 
 shrug of her shoulders. 
 
 If we could not sleep in the Etoile, 
 could we eat in it ? 
 
 " No, that is altogether impossible," 
 and she turned her back upon us and 
 went into the house. 
 
 - — I could have cried in my disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 The landlady of the Grand Cerf re- 
 ceived us with smiles. 
 
 Had we both travelled on that one 
 little velocipede ? 
 
 — But J was in no humour for 
 
 compliments. 
 
 Could
 
 r ^^^ 1 
 
 Could she Q-ive us a room ? 
 
 There was not one in the house, slie 
 said ; these autumn manoeuvres had 
 brought so many people to town. She 
 had just that moment given up hers to 
 two gentlemen who had telegraphed 
 that they would arrive by a late train, 
 and she and her daughter must spend 
 the night in a friend's house. 
 
 — She must have seen the despair in 
 our eyes, for, before we had time to 
 speak, she added, that she would send 
 to a neighbour's to see what could be 
 done for us there. 
 
 Her messenger, however, came back 
 to say there was not one room to spare. 
 But suddenly, with a happy inspiration, 
 the landladv bade us come in, and sue- 
 gested that if we were willing to wait, 
 and would be satisfied with makeshifts, 
 she could put up two beds in a small 
 dining-room so soon as dinner was over. 
 
 — Makeshifts
 
 [ 187 ] 
 --Makeshifts indeed ! She was offerino- 
 
 luxuries. 
 
 In the meantime, since the two (gentle- 
 men had not arrived, we could use her 
 room to prepare for dinner. 
 
 — Though the Grand Cerf was not 
 the commercial house of Cosne, it was 
 that ni^ht full of commercial gentlemen, 
 
 ready for friendly talk. After dinner 
 
 in its cafe J asked the waiter what 
 
 there was in the town ? 
 
 ''Mais,
 
 [ 'S8 ] 
 
 ^' Mais, Monsieur, there are many 
 officers and soldiers." 
 
 That was not what he meant, J 
 
 explained. Was there a castle or a fine 
 church, for example ? 
 
 — At this point the commercial gentle- 
 men at the nearest table made bold to 
 interfere. There was nothing in Cosne, 
 they said, and were for sending iis off 
 on a castle hunt to Touraine at once. 
 They had the map out in a trice, and dur- 
 ing the next few minutes sent us flying 
 from one end of it to the other. 
 
 They will give us no rest, thought I. 
 
 — But presently one of the company 
 asked how we liked Paris compared to 
 London ? 
 
 " London is a great town, is it not?" 
 said he, looking to us for support, so 
 that we could do no less than agree 
 with him. " But then, if you want 
 coffee or something else to drink on the 
 
 Sunda\',
 
 [ iS9 ] 
 
 Sunday, what is to be done ? Syrups 
 are sold in the pharmacy, and the phar- 
 macy is closed. The beer-houses are 
 shut till one, and even after that hour, 
 you go in, you are asked what you will 
 have, the beer or the brandy is poured 
 out, you drink it, and then you go at 
 once. It is always like this, every day. 
 You drink and you go." 
 
 " But that it is bizarre ! " said a young 
 man opposite, who had never been in 
 England. 
 
 " I think well that it is bizarre!'' con- 
 tinued the other; " but you do not know 
 what it is to live there in a family hotel. 
 No shops are open the Sunday, and 
 the landlady must buy everything the 
 Saturday. What does she do ? She 
 buys a piece of rosbif. She gives it 
 to you hot the Saturday, and cold for 
 breakfast, dinner, and supper the Sun- 
 day ; and the butcher, he never brings 
 
 fresh
 
 [ I90 ] 
 
 fresh meat the Monday, and you eat 
 your rosbif co\d again for dinner. And 
 then you have a gooseberry tart. My 
 God, how it sticks to your teeth ! It is 
 like this one eats in England." 
 
 "It is not astonishinof," thougfht a 
 serious, elderly gentleman on his right, 
 "that the rich English come to France 
 to dine." 
 
 — At an early hour we went to the 
 room which the landlady promised 
 should be ours once dinner was well 
 over. — The beds were not yet made, 
 though mattresses and bedclothes were 
 piled in one corner. The landlord and 
 a lady and gentleman we had seen at 
 the table d'hote sat by a table. They 
 invited us politely to be seated.- 
 
 " I should like to go to bed," said I, 
 in the language of our country. 
 
 " We cannot send them away," said 
 
 J — ■ 
 
 —And
 
 L 191 I 
 
 — And so, making the best of the 
 matter, we sat clown with them, and 
 talked about travelling and Italy and 
 snoring and velocipedes and Mount 
 Vesuvius, and, I think, of some other 
 things which I have forgotten. — Mon- 
 sieur and Madame, who had voyaged 
 much, also urged a journey to Touraine 
 to see the castles. • 
 
 " Bother the castles," thought I to 
 myself. 
 
 " Hang 'em," said J audibly, but 
 
 in American. 
 
 — But the landlady, just then coming 
 in, asked if we should like to see our 
 room. 
 
 " It is here," said we. 
 
 " It is on the other side of the hall," 
 said the landlady, and she led the way 
 without more ado. " See the two little 
 iron beds," she cried on the threshold, 
 " and the tiny toilet table ! 'Tis like a 
 
 prison
 
 [ 192 ] 
 
 prison cell ; " and nc^thing would please 
 her but she must bring Monsieur and 
 Madame and her husband and daughter 
 to look. 
 
 — In the morning, in her bill, however, 
 it was no longer a prison cell, but a best 
 bedchamber. Ikit if a Good Samaritan 
 does overcharge you, what can you do ? 
 
 ^^^- ^^\^ 
 
 Rv
 
 BY THE LOIRE. 
 
 WE rested so well in our 
 little iron beds that 
 in the morningf we >■; 
 
 took a lonof walk 
 through Cosne be- : 
 fore we went back to 
 work. We found it 
 chiefly remarkable 
 for its high sweep- 
 inor roofs and strik- 
 ino weather-vanes. 
 
 The ride from Cosne was very much 
 like that from Montargis, only fortu- 
 nately there was less wind, and the wide 
 poplared Loire was on our left from our 
 start. Between us and it, however, were 
 the pleasant fields and meadows through 
 which Mr. Evelyn, with Mr. Waller and 
 some other ingenious persons, footed it, 
 
 and
 
 [ 194 ] 
 
 and shot at birds and other fowls, or else 
 sang and composed verses during their 
 
 
 i-3-.- ^"^^ttsi 
 
 ■■ -'3'; h:f-5i. i'" ii « 
 
 S^Ft 
 
 ,■7 pr^T^\ 
 
 r 5 
 
 voyage up the river. — Though we never 
 dropped into poetry or song, with us, as 
 with them, nothing came amiss. Every- 
 thing was a pleasure, from the clouds 
 chasing each other lazily above the 
 Loire and occasionally uncovering the 
 sun, showing us how hot the day might 
 be, to the old women and little girls in 
 blue skirts and sabots, each watching 
 one cow or a couple of white turkeys or 
 geese, whom we met at intervals all day 
 
 lonq- ;
 
 
 ^#5;
 
 L '95 I 
 
 long; from the seemingly endless kilo- 
 metres of level white road between pop- 
 
 
 
 lars to the too short down-grade between 
 vineyards into Pouilly. The only incident 
 throughout the mornino- was the dis- 
 covery of two men stealing grapes from a 
 vineyard. We took them to be its owners, 
 and would have offered to buy their 
 fruit had they not at once looked to us 
 for sympathy with a friendly smile that 
 p showed
 
 [ '96 ] 
 
 showed they had no right to be there. 
 — It was just after Pouilly, we passed 
 
 a Httle solitary inn that facetiously an- 
 nounced on its sign : " To-day one pays 
 money ; to-morrow, nothing." 
 
 At noon we climbed into La Charite, 
 thoueh I think we mio^ht have been 
 spared the climb had we followed the 
 road on the river-bank. As it was, we 
 entered the town at the upper end, under 
 its old gateway, topped with grey stone 
 figures, and had a good view of its mas- 
 sive walls and fortifications. Within 
 the ramparts we found a winding street 
 
 descending
 
 L 197 J 
 
 descending precipitately towards the 
 Loire, a church in ruins, and people 
 
 with absolutely nothing to do. As if 
 glad of an occupation, they gathered 
 around the tricycle and examined it 
 with their eyes and hands ; and while a 
 waiter in a caf^ bestirred himself to 
 overcharge us, and a man in a cake- 
 shop, with unlooked-for energy, sold us 
 his stalest cakes, they even went so far 
 as to roll it up and down to test the 
 tyres. — Nor was this curious idle crowd 
 to be got rid of so long as we were in 
 La Charite, and our stay there was not 
 short ; for as we followed the wind- 
 ings
 
 [ 198 ] 
 
 ings of the street, just as it widened 
 into a Place before turninor to take a 
 
 
 'n iif ' 
 
 
 ■■^ "* . - Ji\T) 
 
 straight course towards the river, we 
 came out upon the old church doorway, 
 its countless niches empty, or filled with 
 
 headless
 
 [ 199 ] 
 
 headless statues. Grass-grown steps 
 led up to it, and one tall tower, with 
 carven decorations half effaced, but rows 
 of low arcades uninjured, rose at its side 
 from the top of a small house ; on its 
 lowest arch was a staring announcement 
 of Le Petit yoiLrnal. But of church walls, 
 or of door to open or close, there was no 
 sign. The arched entrance gave admit- 
 tance into a large court. We stopped at 
 
 the opposite corner, and J had his 
 
 sketch-book out in a minute, to the 
 evident satisfaction of the people. But 
 a woman from a near cafc\ as idle but 
 more friendly than the rest, came over 
 to say it was a pity Monsieur could not 
 get a photograph of the ruin ; a photo- 
 graph was so much prettier than a 
 
 drawing. J jumped at this sensible 
 
 suggestion, and she sent him to a notary 
 on the fourth floor of a house in a back 
 street. But this gentleman was out ; 
 
 and
 
 [ 200 ] 
 
 and as the photographer of La Charite 
 apparently, was the last person to be 
 
 applied to, J had to content himself 
 
 with a sketch after all. — While he was 
 at work the same woman, whose only 
 duty seemed to be to do us the honours 
 of the place, showed me the old church. 
 
 When I went back J was still 
 
 struggling with the sketch, and with 
 small boys who could not keep their 
 hands off the machine. Women stood 
 around him in a semicircle, passing a 
 baby, which they called cher petit chiffon, 
 from one to the other, and only leaving 
 space for an inner ring of workmen. 
 Before I heard the words of the latter 
 I knew by their gestures they were dis- 
 cussing the famous velocipede with the 
 tall wheels. — We asked them about the 
 race won by the Englishman. — It was no 
 great thing, one said. The weather had 
 been against it, and there was not much 
 
 of
 
 [ 20I ] 
 
 of the world there. Some people started 
 to come from other countries in the cars. 
 But the porters and conductors told 
 them there were no races at La Charite, 
 and so they went on or back, he was 
 not sure which. The Englishman had 
 gone away again, he did not know where. 
 — I suppose the mistake was natural. 
 Few tourists who travel by rail stop at 
 La Charite, though it is a pretty town, 
 as Mr. Evelyn says. 
 
 Following the Loire, the sand-banks 
 
 ^^^il 
 
 in its centre widening, the green wilder- 
 ness growing greener and wilder, the 
 town on the far hilltop fading softly 
 into blue shadow, we came, in the middle 
 
 of
 
 1 202 ] 
 
 of the afternoon, to Pougres-les-Eaux, a 
 fashionable invalid resort. 
 
 — After this, there was but a short 
 way to go by the river. And though 
 the little safety-wheel now worked loose 
 from no possible cause, unless, perhaps, 
 because it had not been used once in all 
 our ride ; and though the rubber fasten- 
 ing in the lamp needed attention every 
 few minutes, we reached Nevers — enter- 
 ing by the gate where Gerars so cun- 
 ningly played and sang — early enough 
 to see the town and the cathedral. 
 
 
 TllK
 
 THE BOURBONNAIS. 
 
 THE next morning when we awoke 
 it was pouring ; but, the shower 
 moderating into a drizzle, we made an 
 early start after breakfast. — Monsieur, 
 the landlord, was distressed when he 
 saw both lamp and little wheel tied on 
 with pink string. He hoped the veloci- 
 pede had not been injured in his stables. 
 — Madame, in white cap and blue rib- 
 bons, with her babies at her side, was so 
 sorry for me when she heard we were to 
 ride all the way to MouHns that day — 
 fifty-three kilometres, Mon Dieic ! 
 
 I felt sorry for myself before the 
 morning was over. The road was 
 sticky, the wind and the rain — for it 
 
 rained
 
 [ 204 ] 
 
 rained ae^ain once we were out of the 
 town and had turned our backs upon the 
 Loire— were in our faces, and the up- 
 grades were long and steep. — In all the 
 villages through which we passed people 
 lauohed and dog's barked at us.— -The 
 trees were yellow and autumnal, and 
 
 
 ^5f*"S ^^JJK-f-^v ■^r a> 
 
 
 the road was strewn with leaves. A 
 grey rainy mist hung over the fields, 
 —The country was dreary, and in my 
 heart I could but rue the day when 
 sentiment sent us on this wilci journey. 
 My legs and back ached ; every now 
 and then I gasped for breath, and all 
 the blood in niy body seemed to have 
 
 irone
 
 [ 205 J 
 
 gone to my head, since it was impossible 
 to sit upright in the face of such a wind. 
 Truly it was a pitiful plight! 
 
 But all this was changed at St. Pierre, 
 where the sun came out, and the road 
 turning, the wind was with us. 
 
 Gone were the troubles of the morn- 
 ing, forgotten with the first kilometre. 
 And the country was as gay and smiling 
 as at an earlier hour it had been sad and 
 mournful. — We were travellin"^ throuoh 
 " the BoLirbonnais, the sweetest part of 
 France," and for the first time since we 
 had left Paris we could look to Mr. 
 Sterne for guidance. — But it was not 
 for us to see Nature pouring her abun- 
 dance into every one's lap, and all her 
 children rejoicing as they carried in her 
 clusters, though for the Master, in his 
 journey over the same road. Music beat 
 time to Labour. — 'Tis pretty to write 
 about, and there is nothing I should like 
 
 better
 
 [ 206 J 
 
 better than to here describe all flesh 
 running and piping, fiddling and danc- 
 ing, to the vintage. But the truth is, 
 we saw but one or two small vineyards 
 in the Bourbonnais, and the heyday of 
 the vintage had not yet come. — With 
 the best will in the world our affections 
 would not kindle or fly out at the groups 
 before us on the road, not one of which 
 was pregnant of adventure. There was 
 
 4 '• fflii:».ii;i:ff^"i'^ 
 
 
 
 
 just its possibility in a little Gipsy en- 
 campment in a hollow by the roadside, 
 
 but
 
 [ 20- J 
 
 but after my misadventure near Bou- 
 logne I fought shy of Gipsies. 
 
 And now that we had got within the 
 neighbourhood where Maria 
 lived, and having read the 
 story over but the night be- 
 fore, it remained so strong in 
 minds, we could not 
 one of the many little 
 rivers without 
 stopping to de- 
 bate, whether 
 it was here Mr. 
 Sterne 
 discover- 
 ed her, — 
 her elbow 
 on her 
 lap, and 
 her head 
 
 leaninor on one side within her hand. 
 And as there were many poplars by 
 
 every 
 
 mt:^^^ 
 
 Uanur y^M iiAju^i<-f^
 
 [ 2o8 J 
 
 every turn of every stream, this was no 
 easy matter to decide. — ■ — • 
 
 "It must be here," said we, when the 
 river, after running under the road, 
 
 \ 
 
 h 
 
 
 ^b^ 
 
 '^ 
 
 l-^f 
 
 danced out in delight. But the next 
 
 minute 
 
 " No, it is here ! " we cried, when, hav- 
 ing lost its way in a thicket, the stream 
 suddenly wandered back to the poplars 
 and the open sunlight. 
 
 —In
 
 [ 209 ] 
 
 — In this manner we lingered lov- 
 ingly in the sweet Bourbonnais ; and 
 it so happened that when the cathedral 
 
 Ox^Co-^-J'-^ 
 
 spires of Moulins came in sight we had 
 settled upon a dozen resting-places for 
 poor Maria, who has long since found 
 her last ; in fancy had a dozen times 
 wiped her eyes with Mr. Sterne, and felt 
 the most indescribable emotions within 
 us, and had made a dozen declarations 
 that we were positive we had a soul.-— 
 Q It
 
 [ 2IO ] 
 
 It was a serious tax upon sentiment. 
 
 But when we entered IMoulins 
 
 "At least now," we said, "there can 
 be no doubt that just here they walked 
 together, her arm within his, and Sylvio 
 following by the lengthened string." 
 
 ■;■■■-•■' '-^V 
 
 & It 
 
 
 
 
 ■ VTvA.* ^ 
 
 
 MOULINS
 
 M O U L I N S. 
 
 lyyrOULINS is a stupid town with a 
 ^^-^ very poor hotel and an Ameri- 
 can bar. It is true there is a cathedral, 
 and a castle also. But, for one reason or 
 another — perhaps because 'tis so mon- 
 strous high there was no avoiding- taking 
 notice of it — we only looked at the clock- 
 tower. 
 
 However, we made a show of interest 
 in the laro-e Place in front of the hotel, 
 deciding to our own satisfaction that it 
 was the market-place where Mr. Sterne 
 stopped to take his last look and last 
 farewell of Maria.— 
 
 "Adieu, poor luckless maiden! Im- 
 bibe the oil and wine which the com- 
 passion
 
 [ 212 J 
 
 passion of a stranger, as he journey- 
 eth on his way, now pours into thy 
 wounds. The Being who has twice 
 bruised tliee can only bind tliem up for 
 ever. 
 
 "And so we have done with Maria," 
 
 said J , shutting up the book in a 
 
 business-Hke manner. 
 
 The only people we met in Moulins 
 were at the table d'hote. 
 
 One man told tales of gore terrible 
 to hear in such peaceful surroundings. 
 After his cominof the dinincj-room smelt 
 like a perfumery shop, so that we thought 
 he must be in the perfumery line. But 
 as he talked he launched us all upon a 
 sea of blood. He in fancy fought now 
 with men, now with beasts. He defied 
 us to our faces. Give him a horse he 
 couldn't subdue, indeed! And with knit 
 brows and clenched fist he struggled 
 again for our benefit with a famous 
 
 steed.
 
 [2.3] 
 
 Steed, the officers in his rci^imcnt called 
 2111 vrai diable. 
 
 " I will master it if I pay with my 
 life. The blood flows from my ears, 
 my eyes, my nose, my mouth ! I faint. 
 A man who sees me fall cries, ' There 
 lies a corpse ! ' I am in bed for a week. 
 But, Davie, now a child can ride that 
 horse." 
 
 — His next battle we had the awful 
 pleasure to witness was with the land- 
 lady. It was in the morning-. She sat 
 in the court-yard ; he brushed his hair at 
 an upper window. She had forgotten 
 to call him. Here was a pretty state of 
 things ; he would miss his train. Well, 
 
 if he did, he would come back, and 
 
 We lost the rest as he disappeared to- 
 wards his dressing-table. We thought 
 of the mastered horse, and shuddered. 
 But the landlady bore it calmly. 
 
 Et bien ! what was to be done with a 
 
 man
 
 [ 214 1 
 
 man who, when he was called, turned on 
 his pillow and went to sleep again ? she 
 wanted to know. 
 
 — He tore out, his cravat in one hand, 
 his coat in the other, scenting the air in 
 his flight.— Ten minutes later, as we 
 waited by the railroad for the train to 
 pass, we saw him at a carriage window 
 adjusting his cravat, and we knew the 
 peace of Moulins would not be disturbed 
 that day. 
 
 The
 
 THE BOURBONNAIS AGAIN. 
 
 THERE was nothing from which 
 we had painted out for ourselves 
 so joyous a riot of the affections, as in 
 this journey in the vintage through this 
 part of France, But the absence of 
 vineyards was an obstacle to the realisa- 
 tion of the picture. From Moulins to 
 
 La Palisse, and indeed to La Pacaudiere, 
 
 we
 
 I -'^ ] 
 
 we saw not one. Instead there was a 
 rich green meadowland, or a desolate 
 plain, with here and there a lonely pool, 
 lender the hedges women knit as they 
 watched their pigs. Donkey- 
 carts rattled by, huge hay- 
 carts lumbered along at snail's 
 pace, and from the fields came 
 voices of peasants at work. — 
 " Sacred name of Thomas ! " 
 we heard one call to his oxen. — Now 
 and then the Allier, with its poplars, 
 showed itself in the distance. Far in 
 front were low^ green hills, and beyond 
 them rose the pale blue range of the 
 Cevennes. 
 
 Three several times we loitered ter- 
 ribly. Once at St. Loup, where we ate 
 an omelette. The second time at Va- 
 rennes, where the river, with its border 
 of white-capped washerwomen, made a 
 pretty picture. The third, by a field 
 
 where
 
 [ ^'7 ] 
 
 where oxen were ploughing-, and on the 
 farther side of which we could see a tiny 
 
 village with a church steeple spiring 
 above its cottages. A ploughman, in 
 short blue jacket and low wide-brimmed 
 black hat, left his plough to come and 
 
 look at us. 
 
 '' Dieul but it's a fine machine!" he 
 said, after he had walked all around 
 it. And where was it made ? for in 
 France he knew there were only veloci- 
 pedes with two wheels. He at least 
 had not seen the French tricycler. And 
 
 it
 
 r -'8 ] 
 
 ii must have cost a good deal — two hun- 
 dred francs, for example ? 
 
 " More than that/' J • told 
 
 him. 
 
 " Name of a dog ! 'twas a big price ! " 
 But if he'd only the money he'd buy one 
 just like it. Then he called a friend 
 from a near field. — If it was not asking 
 too much, the latter said, would we tell 
 him where we came from ? Ah, from 
 America ? And was it better there for the 
 poor ? Did the rich give them work ? 
 When they saw the sketch-book they 
 pointed to the church and said it would 
 be pretty to draw. And were we travel- 
 ling for pleasure ? they asked as J 
 
 offered them cigarettes, and they in 
 return gave him a light. 
 
 'Twas in the road between Varennes 
 and La Palisse, but nearer La Palisse, 
 where there was a steep hill to be 
 coasted, that we began to meet a great 
 
 crowd
 
 crowd of people ; — men in blue and 
 purple blouses, wide-brimmed hats, and 
 sabots ; and women in sabots and frilled 
 white caps, with fresh ribbons at their 
 necks. A few trudged on by themselves, 
 but the £rreater number led cows, or 
 sheep, or calves. Sometimes one man 
 followed half a dozen cows, sometimes 
 one cow was followed by half a dozen 
 men. — In donkey-carts womenrode alone, 
 the men, whip in hand, walking by their 
 side ; and in waggons drawn by oxen 
 were young pigs, or else an old woman 
 and a refractory calf sitting together 
 on the straw. — On footpaths across the 
 fields, or on distant roads, more peasants, 
 were walking away, cattle at their heels. 
 —-The nearer we came to the town, the 
 greater was the crowd. The worst of it 
 was, the people were surly ; not one 
 would get out of our way until the last 
 minute, and many pretended not to 
 
 see
 
 [ 220 ] 
 
 see us coming, though the machine, 
 held in by the brake, squeaked a pitiful 
 warning. 
 
 Finally, in the street of La Palisse, 
 we could hardly get on for the cows and 
 oxen, and donkeys and people. 
 
 " 'Twas no great thing," said an old 
 man in blouse and sabots of whom we 
 asked what was going on. 
 
 " 'Twas no great thing ! " repeated a 
 stout manufacturer in frock-coat and 
 Derby hat, adding that it was merely 
 the yearly fair. A tricycle that stood 
 in his front-yard served as introduction. 
 " Tricycling is no way to get fat," he 
 
 remarked, looking critically at J , 
 
 and as he was very stout, we fancied this 
 was his reason for riding. And what 
 time did we make ? It takes a peasant 
 to understand riding for pleasure. He 
 had a friend who rode two hundred 
 kilometres in a day, going backwards 
 
 and
 
 [221 I 
 
 and forwards between La Palissc and 
 Moulins. 
 . — Now, as we never made any time 
 
 
 
 
 
 worth bragging about, and as we had a 
 climb of nineteen kilometres to St. 
 
 Martin
 
 r 2 2 2 1 
 
 Martin still before us, we waited to 
 hear no more of the feats of French 
 champions. 
 
 We left L.a Palisse, and rode up a 
 narrow pass, hills, now bare and rocky, 
 now soft and purple with heather, on 
 every side, in company with peasants 
 going home from the fair. 
 
 " Is there a third seat ? " asked one, 
 
 " It walks 1 " cried another. 
 
 — The ascent was so gradual and the 
 gradient so easy that only once was 
 I forced to get down and walk. — But 
 what's wrong now ? The lamp of course. 
 Three times did it fall on the road just 
 as we were going at good pace. Once 
 
 J picked it up quietly ; next he 
 
 kicked it and beat it in place with a 
 stone ; the third time, "Let it lie there! " 
 said he. A peasant stopped to get it, 
 examined it and — put it in his pocket.— 
 The road wound slowly up to St. Mar- 
 tin
 
 [ 223 ] 
 
 tin. — La Pacaudierc, the next village, 
 was seven kilometres farther on, and 
 there was but one short hill to climb on 
 the way, a boy told us. And so to La 
 Pacaudiere we went. 
 
 In a few minutes we were at the 
 top, and far below, a broad valley, 
 well wooded, and now bathed in soft 
 
 evenino- lisfht, stretched to hills we knew 
 were the Cevennes we must cross on 
 the morrow, no longer blue and in- 
 distinct, as in the morning, but green 
 and near.— We let the machine carry us, 
 flying by pretty sloping orchards and 
 
 meadows
 
 [ 224 J 
 
 meadows when the descent was steep, 
 creeping between them when it was but 
 sheht.— The sun was low in the west, 
 and the evening air dehciously cool. 
 We had left the peasants many kilo- 
 metres behind, and we had no company 
 save once when a girl in a scarlet cloak 
 walked along a footpath on the hillside, 
 sinorina as she went. 
 
 
 
 With
 
 WITH THE WIND. 
 
 N 
 
 AME of God! it is six hours!" 
 and a loud hammerino- at the 
 window below wakened us with a start, 
 and then we heard shutters banofinof and 
 the wind blowing a blast over the hills. 
 For ^the first time in our journey we 
 were out of bed before seven, and the 
 
 next minute J 's head was out of the 
 
 window. The trees on the hilltops were 
 all bent towards the Cevennes, and as 
 he pulled in his head the shutters came 
 
 crashing after him. 
 
 R "If
 
 [ 226 I 
 
 " If the road's right," cried he, "we'll 
 have the wind behind us all the way," 
 and we dressed with a will. 
 
 We were off, flying with the hurricane 
 down the hillside towards the valley.— 
 A storm had burst over the hills, only 
 to be driven onwards by the wind. 
 As we rode we saw it relinquish one 
 post after another. On the nearest 
 hilltop a little white village shone in 
 clear sunlight, a bricrht rainbow above 
 it ; over the second the clouds were 
 breaking, while the third was still 
 shrouded in showers.— Before us was 
 greyness, the Cevennes lost in blue 
 mist ; behind, a country glowing and 
 golden. The early morning air was 
 cold, but sweet and pure, and almost all 
 the way our feet were on the rests, and 
 we had but to enjoy ourselves. For 
 another such ride I would willingly 
 spend ten days fighting the wind. 
 
 Hv
 
 [ 2 = 7 1 
 
 By nine we were in Roanne, a town 
 remarkable for nothing but dust and 
 delicious peaches and grapes. 
 
 The road crossed the Loire, and went 
 straight through the valley to the Ce- 
 vennes.— The peasants we met were 
 blown about by the wind, turning their 
 backs to each strong gust, that almost 
 blinded them, but drove us on the 
 faster.— At the very foot of Mt. Ta- 
 rare, closed in with high hills, was an 
 old posting village, with four or five 
 large hotels falling to ruin. It was 
 hereabouts a shoe came loose from the 
 fore-foot of Mr. Sterne's thill-horse. But 
 we met with no accident, nor, for the 
 sake of sentiment, could we invent one. 
 —The road began to go over the moun- 
 tain ; and we wound with it, between 
 high cliffs on one side and an ever- 
 deepening precipice on the other. We 
 left the river and the railroad further 
 
 and
 
 and further below, until the latter dis- 
 appeared into a tunnel and the former 
 was just indicated by its trees. 
 
 At St. Symphorien we stopped for 
 lunch. At the cafd-restaiirani we were 
 rc;fuscd admittance. This turned out to 
 be in a measure fortunate, for at the 
 hotel we were taken in ; and there, as it 
 was an old posting-house, the court-yard, 
 with its stables and old well, and the 
 enormous kitchen huno^ with shininor 
 coppers w^ere worth looking at. Bicycles 
 were always passing that way, the 
 landlady assured us. Therefore, it 
 seemed, it was our looks and not the 
 tricycle that shut the door of the cafe in 
 our faces, and I bepan to wonder how 
 we should fare in Lyons.— The landlady, 
 with an eye to profit, thought we ate too 
 little, but her daughter understood : it 
 was not good to eat too much in the 
 middle of the da\ when you \\ere taking 
 
 exercise.
 
 [ 229 1 
 
 exercise. A gentleman on a walking- 
 tour once came to their hotel for his 
 midday meal, but would have only bread 
 and cheese. And yet she knew he was 
 a gentleman by the diamond on his 
 finger and the louis in his purse.— We 
 thought of Mr. Stevenson — it would 
 have been pleasant to have him, as 
 well as Mr. Sterne and Mr. Evelyn, 
 for fellow-traveller over Mt. Tarare — 
 but at once we remembered he wore a 
 silver ring like a pedler ; and, besides, 
 il you will look on our map you will see 
 that, though we were in the Cevennes, 
 we were not in the Cevennes made 
 famous by Modestine and Camisards.— 
 The landlady, who liked the sound of 
 her own voice, went on to say that we 
 had twelve kilometres to climb before 
 we should come to the top of the pass, 
 and that a good horse leaving St. Sym- 
 phorien early in the morning might get 
 
 into
 
 r 230 ] 
 
 into Lyons by evening. There was 
 small chance, she thouQfht, of our reach- 
 ing that city until the next day. 
 
 But we hurried away to make the 
 best of the wind while it lasted.— With 
 every mile the view back upon the 
 mountains widened. When we looked 
 behind, it was to see a vast mass of 
 hills, some g-reen or red, with a touch 
 of autumn, others deep purple or grey ; 
 over them the clouds, hunted by the 
 wind, cast lono- trailino- shadows, and 
 in and out and up and up wound the 
 white highway. — One or two tumbled- 
 down posting hotels and forlorn farm- 
 houses, sheltered under friendly hills, 
 were scattered by the way. Probably 
 in one of these Mr. Sterne sat at his 
 feast of love ; in front of it watched 
 the dance in which he beheld RehVion 
 mixing. But they were desolate and 
 deserted. I fear, had sentiment sent us 
 
 walking
 
 [ 231 ] 
 
 walking into them, wc should have 
 found no honest welcomes, no sweet 
 morsels, no delicious draiiQ^hts.— At this 
 height children and stone-breakers were 
 the only beino;s to be seen on Mt. 
 Tarare. 
 
 Not far from a lonely, wind-bent 
 black cross, that stood on a high point 
 in the moorland, we reached the summit, 
 and looked down and not up to the 
 winding road.— When you have gained 
 the top of Mt. Tarare you do not 
 come presently into Lyons ; with all due 
 reverence for our Master's words, you 
 have still a long ride before you.— -How- 
 ever, the wind now fairly swept the 
 tricycle in front of it, as if in haste to 
 bring us into Tarare.— The road kept 
 turning and turning in a narrow pass. 
 A river made its way, no longer to the 
 Loire, but to the Rhone. But we rode 
 so fast, we only knew we were flying 
 
 throutdi
 
 [ 232 ] 
 
 throuQ-h this beautiful o-reen world. The 
 clear air and cold wind gave us new life. 
 We must keep going on and on. Rest 
 seemed an evil to be shunned. For that 
 afternoon at least we agreed with Mr. 
 Tristram Shandy, that so much of motion 
 was so much of life and so much of 
 joy ; — and that to stand still or go on 
 but slowly is death and the devil. We 
 said little, and I, for my part, thought 
 less. 
 
 But at last J could no longer con- 
 tain himself 
 
 " Hang blue china and the eighteenth 
 century, Theocritus and Giotto and 
 Villon, and all the whole lot ! A ride 
 like this beats them all hollow ! " he 
 broke out, and I plainly saw tliat his 
 thoughts had been more definite than 
 mine. 
 
 Tarare was an ugly town, and in its 
 long narrow street stupid people did 
 
 their
 
 
 
 si/ 
 
 h. 
 
 i^^-^
 
 [ ^33 ] 
 
 their best to be run over. As we 
 coasted down into it, we had one of 
 those bad minutes that will come occa- 
 sionally to the most careful cycler. 
 J. had the brake on, and was back- 
 pedalling, but after a many miles' coast 
 a tricycle heavily loaded like ours will 
 have it a little its own way.— Some 
 women were watching a child in front 
 of a house on the farther side of the 
 street. They turned to stare at us. 
 The child, a little thing, four years old 
 perhaps, ran out directly in front of the 
 machine. We were going slowly enough, 
 but there was no stopping abruptly at 
 such short notice. J steered sud- 
 denly and swiftly to the left ; the large 
 wheel grazed the child's dress in pass- 
 ing. It was just saved, and that was 
 all.— The women, w^ho alone were to 
 blame, ran as if they would fall upon 
 
 us. 
 
 " Name
 
 [ =34] 
 
 " Name of names ! Dog ! Pig ! Xam.e 
 of God !" cried they in chorus. 
 
 " Accidente ! Maladetta ! Bruia ! " an- 
 swered I . And this showed how 
 
 ereat the strain had been. In a foreign 
 land, in moments of intense excitement, 
 he ahvays bursts out in the wrong 
 language. But the child was not hurt, 
 and that was the great matter. We 
 did not wait to hear their curses to the 
 end. 
 
 We had another bad quarter of a 
 minute later in the afternoon, when we 
 were climbing a hill outside L'Abresle. 
 Two boys had carried a bone-shaker up 
 among the poplars. As they saw us one 
 jumped on, and with legs outstretched, 
 sailed down upon us. He had abso- 
 lutely no control over his machine, which, 
 left to its own devices, made straight 
 for ours. And all the time he and his 
 companion yelled like young demons.— 
 
 There
 
 L =35 ] 
 
 There was no time to get out of his 
 way, and I do not care to think what 
 might have been if, when within a few 
 feet of the tandem, the machine had 
 not darted off sideways and suddenly 
 collapsed, after the wonderful manner of 
 bone-shakers, and brought him to the 
 eround. 
 
 (I leave this void space 
 
 that the reader may swear into it any 
 oath he is most unaccustomed to. If 
 
 ever J swore a wJiole oath into a 
 
 vacancy in his life I think it was into 
 that.) — He was for getting down and 
 thrashing the boy for his folly. But I 
 was all for peace, and fortunately win- 
 ning the day, we climbed on, while 
 the cause of the trouble still sat in the 
 road mixed up with his bone-shaker, 
 mutterinfr between his teeth somethini»^ 
 
 about
 
 [ -^36 ] 
 
 about, " Oh, if it were only not for 
 Madame ! " 
 
 All afternoon we rode up and down, 
 through valleys, by running- streams, 
 over an intricate hill country, with here 
 and there a glimpse of distant mountains, 
 to fill us with hope of the Alps, meet- 
 ing, to our surprise, the railroad at the 
 highest point ; and in and out of little 
 villages, which, with their white houses 
 and red-tiled roofs, were more Italian 
 than French in appearance. 
 
 I do not think we rested once during 
 that lon(3f afternoon. But after a hundred 
 kilometres I must confess we began to 
 lose our first freshness. There were so 
 many long up-grades, the roads were 
 not so good, the peasants were dis- 
 agreeable, trying to run us down, or 
 else stupid, refusing to answer our ques- 
 tions ; and the sign-posts and kilometre- 
 stones were all wrong. We were so 
 
 near,
 
 ^^i^V 
 
 
 
 ;v: 
 
 
 
 " ^7 '^ I 
 
 I'^^i:. 
 
 ^u^^'j'^/^ 
 
 « 
 
 Iffly.v'-'^-',
 
 near, it seemed foolish not to push on 
 to Lyons. For once we would make a 
 record, and beat the crood horse from St. 
 Symphorien. But it was hard work the 
 last part of the ride.— And when we 
 came to the suburbs of the city the 
 people laughed and stared, and screamed 
 after us, as if they had been Londoners. 
 We had their laughter, /'(:?z/(/, carts, and 
 street cars the rest of the way; and when 
 we crossed the river, " I had better get 
 down," said I ; and so I walked into 
 
 Lyons, J on the tricycle moving 
 
 slowly before me over the pav^ and 
 between the carts.— No one could or 
 would direct us to the hotel ; police- 
 men were helpless when we appealed 
 to them ; but just as J was open- 
 ing his mouth to crive them to the 
 devil — 'lis Mr. Sterne's expression, not 
 
 mine or J 's— a small boy stepped 
 
 nimbly across the street and pointed 
 
 around
 
 [ ^38] 
 
 around the corner to the Hotel des 
 Negociants. 
 
 That evening in the cafd we read in 
 the paper that the wind had been blowing 
 sixty-six kilometres an hour ! 
 
 
 -i'bff 
 
 "■<r 
 
 
 
 ^•.i..-*!!^^«^"*"- - ;^^^^ ^^ 
 
 &V.|*''*'/t 
 
 ♦-- 
 
 ..vDi*' 
 
 Lyons
 
 •f^^'i 
 
 ^i:p,fiiA-y^,~ 
 
 
 
 LYONS. 
 
 TO those who call vexations vexations, 
 as knowing what they are, there 
 could not be a greater than to be the 
 best part of a day at Lyons, the most 
 opulent and flourishing city in France. 
 It has an old cathedral, a castle on a 
 hillside, ruins if I be not mistaken, two 
 rivers, and I know not what besides. 
 Baedeker devotes pages to it. More- 
 over, there is associated with it a story, 
 that, to quote Mr. Tristram Shandy, who 
 tells it, affords more pabulum to the 
 
 brain
 
 L 240 J 
 
 brain than all the Friists and Crusts and 
 Rusts of antiquity, which travellers can 
 cook np for it. You remember the 
 tale? It is that of fond lovers, cruelly 
 separated. 
 
 Amandus — He, 
 Amanda — She, 
 
 each ignorant of the other's course ; 
 
 He — east, 
 She — west ; 
 
 and finally, to cut it short, after long 
 years of wandering for the one, im- 
 prisonment for the other, both coming 
 unexpectedly at the same moment of 
 the night, though by different ways, to 
 the gate of Lyons, their native city, and 
 each in well-known accents calling out 
 aloud 
 
 Is Amandus ) .,, ,. ^ 
 . , ^ still ahve } 
 
 Is my yVmanua ) 
 
 then.
 
 ■[ =41 1 
 
 then, flying into each other's arms, and 
 both falHng down dead for joy, to be 
 buried in the tomb upon which Mr. 
 Shandy had a tear ready to drop. But, 
 alas ! when he came — there was no tomb 
 to drop it upon ! 
 
 We expected letters, and began the 
 day by a visit to the Post Office, where 
 the clerk, after the manner of his kind 
 in all countries, received and dismissed 
 us with contemptuous incivility.— To be 
 rid of all business, we next went to the 
 Credit Lyonnois to have some Bank of 
 England notes chancfed for French o-old. 
 
 o o o 
 
 But the cashier looked at them and 
 us with distrust, and would have nothing 
 to do with our money. 
 
 Where was our reference ? he asked. 
 
 This was more than enough to put 
 
 us in ill-humour. But J , having 
 
 looked up in his C. T. C. Handbook 
 the address of the agent for cycle re- 
 pairs
 
 L 242 ] 
 
 pairs in Lyons, and his place being found 
 with difficulty, we walked in under a pre- 
 text of asking about the road to Vienne, 
 but really, I think, in search of sympathy. 
 We introduced ourselves as fellow- 
 cyclers who had ridden all the way from 
 Calais. But the agent was calmly in- 
 different, and scarcely civil.— Where 
 should we find the national road to 
 Vienne ?— We had but to follow the 
 Rhone, on the opposite bank, and he 
 bowed us towards the door. But just 
 as we were going, he stopped us to ask 
 
 what time we could make. J told 
 
 him that jesterday we had come from 
 La Pacaudiere, a ride of one hundred 
 and twenty odd kilometres, which was 
 perfectly true. But that, it appeared, 
 was nothing. The agent could not bear 
 to be outgone, and so, of course, had a 
 friend who could ride four hundred 
 kilometres in tweniy-eight hours.— Then 
 
 J — .
 
 [ 243 ] 
 
 J , to my surprise, proceeded to tell 
 
 him of the wonderful records we had 
 never made. But the agent always had 
 a friend who could beat us by at least a 
 minute or a kilometre. In their excitement 
 each was bent on breaking the other's 
 record, not of cycling, but of lying. 
 
 At the end J had worked him- 
 self up to quite a frenzy. When we 
 were alone, and I took him to task, he 
 was not at all repentant, but swore he 
 was tired of such nonsense, and would 
 outlie the fellows every time. 
 
 It was now noon, and we had already 
 seen more than we wanted of Lyons. 
 We went back to the hotel, strapped 
 the bag on the tricycle, and without 
 CTivinor another thoufjht to the cathedral 
 and the curiosities we had not visited, 
 we sallied forth to follow the Rhone, 
 determined never to set foot in this 
 flourishing city again. 
 
 The
 
 THE AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. 
 
 AFTER Lyons, adieu to all rapid 
 movement ! 'Tis a journey of 
 caution ; and it fares better with senti- 
 ments not to be in a hurry with them. 
 
 Before we were out of the city limits 
 we lost our way, and went wandering 
 through lanes hunting for a road by the 
 river. One led us to a blank wall, 
 another to a stone pile ; and when we 
 consulted passers-by they sent us back 
 towards the town, and into a broad 
 street running through endless ugly 
 suburbs, and far out of sight of the 
 Rhone.— So much for a fellow-cycler's 
 directions. 
 
 In the open country the national road 
 
 was
 
 [ ^45] 
 
 was bad and full of stones. It is only 
 fair to add that the agent in Lyons had 
 said we should find little orood riding 
 between Lyons and Vienne. The wind, 
 tired with its efforts of yesterday, had 
 died away, and it was warm and close on 
 level and hill.— And we were as changed 
 as the country and weather! Gone with 
 the wind and good roads and fair land- 
 scape was the joy of motion ! Our force 
 was spent, our spirit exhausted with the 
 shortest climb. — In the first village we 
 stopped for groseille and to rest. We 
 sat at a little table in front of the cafd, 
 silent and melancholy ; and when the 
 landlady came out and asked if my seat 
 was on the luggage carrier, and if, per- 
 haps, we could reach Vienne by evening 
 (the distance from Lyons being twenty- 
 seven kilometres), we were too weary 
 to be amused. In parting she told us 
 we had still four hills to cross ; she 
 
 ouoht
 
 [ ^46 ] 
 
 ought rather to have said a dozen. — 
 The whole afternoon we toiled up long 
 ascents. 
 
 In near hills and v^alleys the French 
 army was out manoeuvring. We could 
 
 ^IX^.^^--" ^•• 
 
 hear the cannon and guns, and see 
 clouds of smoke before we came in sight 
 of the battle.— We had glimpses, too, of 
 
 reserves
 
 
 <j|/r>; m' / \
 
 [ ^47 ] 
 
 reserves entrenched behind hillocks and 
 wooded spaces, and once we almost 
 routed a detachment of cavalry stationed 
 by the roadside. Scouts and officers 
 on horseback tore by ; soldiers hurried 
 through the streets of a narrow hilly 
 village.— What with the noise and the 
 troops, the road was lively enough. 
 And presently from a high hilltop we 
 overlooked the field of action. A fort 
 was being stormed ; as we stopped a 
 new detachment of the enemy charged 
 it. They marched in good order over 
 a ploughed field, and then across green 
 pastures. Both sides kept up a heavy 
 firing. 
 
 " The French army amuses itself down 
 there," said a grinning peasant, who 
 watched with us. 
 
 — Indeed all the peasants seemed but 
 little edified by the fighting. Many 
 ignored it. Others laughed, as if it had 
 
 been
 
 [ -MS ] 
 been a farce played for their amuse- 
 
 ment.— 
 
 "It is (^ood there are no balls," 
 remarked an old cynic when we drew 
 up to have a second look ; " if there 
 were, then would it be Saitve qui 
 pent /" 
 
 At last guns and smoke were out 
 of sight and hearing. But the road 
 still ran between dry fields and over 
 many hills, and the peasants were dis- 
 agreeable. It seemed in keeping with 
 the day's experiences that the long hill 
 leading down into Vienne, should be so 
 steep that I had to get off the machine 
 and walk. We were both in a fine 
 
 temper, J , moreover, complaining 
 
 of feeling ill by the time we were fairly 
 in the city. — Here, a priest and his 
 friend, for fear we might not under- 
 stand their directions, politely came with 
 us from the river, through twisting 
 
 streets,
 
 [ 249 ] 
 
 streets, to the hotel. I do not believe 
 we thanked them with half enough 
 warmth. 'Twas the first, and I wish 
 it had been the last, civility shown us 
 that day. 
 
 ViENNE
 
 \' I E N N E. 
 
 SO now we were at the ancient city of 
 Vienne as early as three o'clock, 
 
 and J too exhausted to ride farther 
 
 that afternoon. We never yet went on 
 a long trip, as ev^erybody must or ought 
 
 to know by this time, that J did not 
 
 break down at least once on the way. 
 The matter threatened to be serious ; 
 but after half an hour or more of despair 
 — for we thought now surely we are done 
 with sentiment — we went out in search 
 of food, the first and most natural medi- 
 cine that suggested itself, as in our 
 haste to be out of Lyons we had taken 
 but a meagre lunch. — It is a peculiarity 
 of Vienne, a town of cafds, that all its 
 
 restaurants
 
 [ =5. ] 
 
 restaurants are on the same street. When 
 we were about giving up the search we 
 by chance turned in the right direction, 
 and found more than a dozen in a row. 
 We chose one that looked quiet, and 
 
 there J • ate a bowl of soup and 
 
 drank a glass oi gojuute, and at once was 
 himself aofain. — I have mentioned this 
 affair, slight as it was, because I think 
 the merits of gonime but little known, 
 and therefore hope the knowledge may 
 be of use to other sentimental travellers 
 in similar straits. Besides, it is the rule 
 with cyclers to recommend the most 
 disagreeable drinks that can be imagined, 
 and I believe there is nothino- viler than 
 gonwie. The truth is, we ordered it by 
 mistake for another syrup the name of 
 which we did not know. And now let 
 there be an end of it. 
 
 It was fortunate J recovered : 
 
 there are few pleasanter cities for an 
 
 afternoon
 
 [ ^5-^ ] 
 
 afternoon ramble than Vienne. The 
 hills look down from round about the 
 town, here and there a grey castle or 
 white farm-house on their vine-clad 
 slopes, and from the new broad boulevard 
 or old narrow streets you have near and 
 distant views of the rapid Rhone. Now 
 you come out on the brown crumbling 
 cathedral, raised aloft and towering 
 above the houses, grass growing on the 
 high flight of stone steps leading to its 
 richly sculptured portals, bricks in places 
 keeping together its ruinous walls, time's 
 traces on its statues and gargoyles. 
 Now, you wander into a clean, quiet 
 Place, from the centre of which a 
 Roman temple, in almost perfect pre- 
 servation, frowns a disdainful reproach 
 upon the frivolous cafds and confec- 
 tioners, the plebeian stores and lodgings, 
 that surround it. And again, you follow 
 a dark winding alley under a fine 
 
 Roman
 
 L ^53 ] 
 
 Roman gateway, and find yourself in an 
 old amphitheatre, houses built into its 
 walls and arches, and windows full of 
 flowers and clothes drying in the sun. 
 
 On the whole, I believe the pleasant- 
 est place in all Vienne to be the qiuii. 
 —The sun had set behind the opposite 
 hills when we returned to it after our 
 walk. A bell jingled close to our 
 ears, and behold, a tricycler, in spot- 
 less linen on a shining nickel-plated 
 
 machine, came that way. But J 
 
 stopped him, and consulted him about 
 the road to Rives ; and he, as polite as 
 
 his
 
 [ -^54 ] 
 
 his machine was elegant, gave us minute 
 directions. — Beware of the road to the 
 left, it is bad and mountainous ; keep to 
 the right in leaving the town, then you 
 will have it good and level ; — this was 
 the orJst of his advice. And then he too 
 must know what time we made, and 
 "Ah, no great thing!" was his verdict 
 upon the bravest feats J could in- 
 vent, and then he rode on into the 
 twilioht. 
 
 The
 
 THE FEAST OF APPLES. 
 
 T DO not know why it was, but no 
 ■^ sooner had we gone from Vienne by 
 the road to the right, than we distrusted 
 the directions of the tricycler we had 
 met the night before. We asked our 
 way of every peasant we saw. Many 
 stared for answer. Therefore, when 
 others, in a vile patois, declared the 
 road we were on would take us to 
 Chatonnay and Rives, but that it would 
 be shorter to turn back and start from 
 the other end of Vienne, we foolishly 
 set this advice down to the score of 
 stupidity, and rode on, — But, indeed, in 
 no part of France through which we had 
 ridden were the people so ill-natured 
 
 and
 
 C ^56 ] 
 
 and stolid. They are certainly the 
 Alpine-bearish liurgundians Ruskin calls 
 them. — In the valley on the other side 
 of the hills we came to a place where 
 
 four roads met. A woman watched one 
 cow close by.— Would she tell us which 
 
 road
 
 [ 257 ] 
 
 road we must follow? asked J politely. 
 
 —She never even raised her head. He 
 shouted and shouted, but it was not until 
 he beo^an to call her names, after the 
 French fashion, that she looked at us. 
 —We could take whichever we wanted, 
 she answered, and with that she walked 
 away with her cow. 
 
 Fortunately there was a little village 
 two or three kilometres farther on. A 
 few well-dressed women and children 
 were going to church, for it was Sunday. 
 But the men of the commune stood 
 around a cafd door. They assured us, 
 we were on the wronof road, and had 
 come kilometres out of our way, but 
 that all we could do was to p"o on to a 
 place called Lafayette. There we should 
 find a highway that would eventually 
 lead us into the Route JVatio7iale.—T\\\s 
 was not encouraging. It was oppres- 
 sively hot in the shadeless valley. The 
 
 road
 
 [ =5S ] 
 
 road was bad, full of stones and ugly 
 ruts and ridcres, and before lono; des^ene- 
 rated into a mere unused cow-path, over- 
 grown with Qrrass, crossinof the fields. 
 We tried to ride ; we tried to walk, push- 
 ing the machine. Both were equally 
 hard work. 
 
 " To a Frenchman any road's good 
 so he don't have to climb a hill," said 
 
 J , in a rage. " If I only had that 
 
 fellow here ! " 
 
 — We were walkinof at the mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " Get on ! " he cried, and I did. 
 
 — We bumped silently over the 
 ruts. 
 
 "Get off!" he ordered presently, and 
 meekly I obeyed, for indeed I was be- 
 CfinninQr to be alarmed. 
 
 — He took the machine by the handle- 
 bars and shook it hard. 
 
 "You'll break it!" cried I. 
 
 "I
 
 [ ^59 ] 
 
 " I don't care if I do, " growled he, 
 and he gave it another shake. 
 
 — But at this crisis two women com- 
 ing towards us, he inquired of them, 
 with as orood crrace as he could com- 
 mand, the distance to Lafayette. They 
 stood still and laughed aloud. He re- 
 
 O 
 
 peated his question ; they laughed the 
 louder. The third time he asked, they 
 pointed to a solitary farm-house stand- 
 ing in the fields. He paused. I saw he 
 was mentally pulling himself together, 
 and I wished the women were out of 
 harm's way. 
 
 ' ' Nous — somnies — ici — dans — lui — 
 nation — de — betes — de — -foiis I " he broke 
 out, this time in French, a pause between 
 each word. " Onz — toz^s — detes — tous — 
 fans— Vous — -fous — azissil " 
 
 — The women turned and ran. 
 
 I think they were right about La- 
 fayette after all. In a few minutes we 
 
 came
 
 [ 260 ] 
 
 came to a <'Ood road. An intbero-e stood 
 to one side, and a man at once approached 
 us.- 
 
 We must come in, he said ; it was a 
 fete day, and we should be served with 
 whatever we wanted. 
 
 But J was not to be so easily rid 
 
 of his troubles. 
 
 "6^;2 — Frail fais — datis — Vienne'' he 
 explained ; '■'71071s — a — eiivoyer — Id — bas. 
 — // — est — fon ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " said the man soothingly ; 
 but, all the same, as it was a feast day, 
 it seemed we must come to the auberge. 
 
 The feast consisted of boiled beef and 
 rabbit ; the holiday-makers, of a few 
 peasants eating at rough wooden tables 
 in front of tlie inn, a father and his 
 four small sons drinkincf wine toQfether 
 and solemnly clinking glasses, and one 
 man shooting with a cross-bow at diminu- 
 tive Aunt Sallies.— We made a fair lunch, 
 
 thouirh
 
 [ 26i ] 
 
 though when we refused wine the land- 
 lady asked, with disg-ust 
 
 " Then you do not mean to eat ? " 
 
 We sat with the peasants, who fell 
 into conversation with us. When 
 they heard how we had come from 
 Vienne, they thought we must have 
 had commerce in the villages in the 
 valley to take such a route. And 
 
 though J again explained about 
 
 that fool in Vienne, they would have it 
 we were pedlers. 
 
 When we set out, our first friend was 
 at hand to ask if we had had all we 
 wanted. The next day we saw by a 
 printed notice that Sunday had been the 
 Feast of Apples — a day whereon the 
 people were begged to show every 
 kindness to travellers through their 
 land ; and then we understood his 
 politeness. 
 
 Perhaps a kilometre or two from the 
 
 anberge
 
 [ 262 J 
 
 auberge we turned into the Grenoble 
 road, and from that time onward there 
 were but few sign-posts and the cross- 
 roads were many. — It promised to be a 
 day of misfortunes. The country was 
 hilly ; we were always working up, with 
 only occasional short coasts down, now 
 through villages on the hillside, and now 
 between steep wooded banks. — Once, 
 when, sore perplexed to know which 
 way to go, we were pedalling slowly 
 in indecision, the road made a sudden 
 curve, the banks fell on either side, 
 and there at last they were, the long 
 blue ranges, and, away beyond, one 
 snow-crowned peak shining in sunlight. 
 —After that, they — the delectable moun- 
 tains of our Sentimental Journey — were 
 always hopefully before us. 
 
 — Just outside St. Jean Bournay we 
 came upon the right road from Vienne, 
 but twenty-two kilometres from that 
 
 city.
 
 
 
 •tf" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1- ^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 3 ^;^^,., 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 
 
 -I' 
 
 •^■r,- ^■' 
 
 '" 
 
 _-'-^'i---r*_ ,^%. , „ ^..^ 
 
 
 
 ■J,
 
 [ 263 ] 
 
 city, we saw on the kilometre-stone, and 
 we had already ridden forty-four ! 
 
 — At the other end of the town we 
 passed a theatre, a large canvas tent 
 with two or three travellincr vans close 
 by. A crowd had gathered around it, 
 and were staring with interest at a printed 
 notice hunof in front. It was an old 
 American poster, picked up, who knows 
 
 |VtRft = «-'«<i^'^ 
 
 ./. 
 
 
 STI8EI.5/> -* 
 
 ni W ATWt I. */> — 
 
 where ? with the name of the play in 
 French above and below it. 
 
 A woman in the crowd explained that 
 
 a negro was the slave of a planter. 
 
 u "Or
 
 [ -^64 ] 
 
 "Or a Prussian, perhaps?" a man 
 su<jorested. 
 
 " No ; to be a negro, that is not to be 
 a Prussian," arofued the woman.* 
 
 After La Cote St. Andre the road 
 ran between low wahiut-trees.-— Now and 
 then the monotony of their endless lines 
 was broken by a small village, where 
 men played bov/ls ; and now and then 
 the road was lively with well-dressed 
 people, who jumped as the machine 
 wheeled past them.^ 
 
 " But that it frightened me, for ex- 
 ample ! " cried one. 
 
 But later a peasant called out — " O 
 nialheur, la femme eii avant ! " 
 
 — By-and-by the way grew lonelier, 
 and we had for company the cows, great 
 white stupid creatures, going home from 
 pasture, and their drivers stupid as they, 
 
 * We have never ceased regretting that we did not 
 go to see Crasmagiic cii Amcriqtic. 
 
 who
 
 'If'>r^i.:^''^^2^ 
 

 
 [ ^65 ] 
 
 who roused themselves but to swear by 
 the name of God, or to call out, " Thou 
 beast of a pig! " to a cow frightened into 
 the fields by the tricycle.— At last we 
 turned into a broad road, where the 
 walnuts gave place to poplars, and the 
 level came to an end. At the foot of 
 a long steep straight hill was Rives, 
 deep down in a narrow valley. 
 
 Rives.
 
 R I \^ E S . 
 
 AT the Hotel de la Poste a middle- 
 ^ ^ aged fille-dc-chambre, in a white 
 cap — another Alpine - bearish Burgun- 
 dian — looked upon us with such dis- 
 favour we could scarce persuade her to 
 show us our room. 
 
 The dining-room was full of noisy 
 men in blouses and big hats. No place 
 was left for us at the Ion or table, that 
 stretched the entire length of the room; 
 and we sat together in a corner.— The 
 dinner was excellent. But the enemy 
 in white cap was down upon us in a 
 minute, and gave us no peace. She 
 raised a window upon our backs, and 
 as often as we shut it was at our side 
 
 to
 
 [ 267 ] 
 
 to open it again. We had the worst of 
 it, for with the salad we seized our wine 
 and napkins and retreated to the opposite 
 corner, giving up our table to four men, 
 who took off their blouses and coats — 
 but not their hats — for their greater 
 comfort, as they sat down and them- 
 selves opened the window. What would 
 have been pneumonia, or colds in the 
 heads for us, was health for them. 
 
 But there was no rest for us at Rives. 
 —We went to bed early, but until late 
 at night men in heavy boots tramped up 
 and down the narrow carpetless hall out- 
 side our door, and in and out the room 
 overhead. They began again at four 
 o'clock in the morning.— As there was 
 no more sleep to be had,- 
 
 " We might as well make an early 
 start," said J , and we were down- 
 stairs by six. 
 
 — When we had had our coffee I 
 
 returned
 
 L 268 ] 
 
 returned to our room to pack the bag, 
 
 and J went to the stable to get the 
 
 tricycle. Presently he came up and 
 joined me. — I had not expected him so 
 soon, and was not quite ready. 
 
 " Something has happened," said I as 
 soon as I looked at him, but still folding 
 flannels. 
 
 " We cannot go on," said he. 
 
 "Why?" cried I, jumping up and 
 dropping the flannels. 
 
 " I'll tell you," said he ; " be- 
 cause " 
 
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