FRANCE

FRANCEJe voudrais n'être pas Français pour pouvoir dire,—Que je te choisis, France, et queJe te proclameMa patrie et ma gloire et mon unique amour!Victor Hugo, A La France.Oh, to have been born elsewhere, that I might choosethee, France, and proclaim thee my country, my gloryand my own!Translation byEleanor Everest Freer.PARIS:Thecaptain advised us to remain on deck while the ship was entering the harbor at Havre, and we were repaid for the midnight vigil by the brilliancy of the scene. The port itself is narrow, but the effect of space is given by the numerous basins and the canal, filled with craft and sails of every description. The splendid masonry stands out strong and beautiful under the multitude of electric lights which line the shore on either side.I was surprised to find Havre so large and fine a city. Neither Baedeker nor Hare tell about its beauties nor its harbor. We had more time there than we had counted on because we missed the earlymorning train to Rouen, but we passed it very pleasantly in this bright Norman city.It is the rural part that has made Normandy famous, and that part which lies between Havre and Rouen is beautiful. It lies low and is checkered with little silver streams that flow this way and that through every section.Rouen, too, keeps up the Normandy record for quaintness. Suzanne and I would have been willing to settle right down there and stay, but we stopped only long enough to see St. Ouen, one of the most beautiful Gothic churches in existence, and the Palais de Justice, which is a splendid copy of Belgian architecture.I must tell you what a joy you are! You have contented yourself with the daily post-card and the by-weeklybillet-doux, which have beenplus doux que long, I fear, but without the usual weekly budget.We have been going so fast that I think it wise to wait a bit and endeavor to digest the knowledge gained in travel before writing of it. As I look back over what I have seen in the last few months, both in art and nature, I realize the truth of a little thing I once read, taken from a letter bya well-known writer of short stories to William Dean Howells.She said that we must have some atmosphere, some distance, between ourselves and our theme in order to get perspective, whether one be painter or writer. So I feel sure that this budget will lose nothing by the waiting when I tell you what I have picked up by the way inBeau Paris.If you can come but once, do not come in July or August, the tourist season. Paris is a dream of beauty at all seasons, but the charm of any city is obscured when it is crowded as Paris is during those months.Come in May. Do you not remember what Victor Hugo said in "Le Proscrit"?"Le mois de mai sans la France,Ce n'est pas le mois de mai."We did a wise thing in choosing from among our numerous addresses apension"downtown." It saves us time, strength and money. It is not one of thosepensionsLongfellow used to tell about, which had inscribed on its front:"Ici on donne à boire et à manger;On loge à pied et à cheval!"Literally, "Here we give to drink and to eat; we lodge on foot and on horseback."Ourpensiononly gives to eat and to lodge "on foot." I do not mention the drinking, for seldom, I find, can one get a good cup of coffee anywhere. The chocolate and tea are perfect, however, and the little crescent-shaped rolls and the fresh, unsalted butter are delicious.We are on the Rue de la Bienfaisance, just off the Boulevard Haussman, not far from the beautifulégliseSaint Augustin, where many of the weddings of the Paris four hundred are celebrated, and only a few minutes' walk from the Gare Saint Lazare.We call each morning for our English friends, who live in the Rue des Pyramides, near the Rue de Rivoli, at the place where stands the bronze statue of Jeanne d'Arc.The Louvre Palais, which contains the Musée, and the Tuileries are just across the Rue de Rivoli, with the Place de la Concorde a little farther up. The Grand Opéra is but a few squares away, with the American Express office near it, and the Church of the Madeleine hard by.RUE DE RIVOLI, SHOWING TUILERIES GARDENSThe Place de la Concorde is an immense square with mammoth pieces of sculpture at each corner, representing the provinces taken from the Germans. One of theseprovinces was recaptured by the Germans, but instead of marring the Place by removing the statue, it is kept draped with crêpe and wreaths of flowers. In the center of the square is the obelisk, with fountains playing about it.The roads are as white as snow, both through and around the Place. It is framed in green by the Tuileries, the Champs Elysées, and the banks of the Seine.There is a view one gets right here which cannot, perhaps, be excelled in all the world. If you stand at the court of the Louvre in the space where theArc du Carrouselmeets the Louvre Palais, and look through the arch, the eye catches at once the green of the Tuileries garden and its trees, the dazzling brightness of its marbles, the sparkling of its fountains, the obelisk, and far on through the Champs Elysées, the Arc de Triomphe, which makes a fitting finish for this most glorious vista.I am at loss to tell you just what to do with only a week in this little world, but let nothing deter you from coming. I would rather have come for one day than never to have seen it at all. With a week on your hands, and an inclination in yourheart, you can do wonders in this the most fascinating city on the globe.Were one to be here but a short time, a drive over the city should occupy the first day. Parties are sent out every day, with guides who know the best routes, and it is not a bad idea to join one of them. Do not, however, go with a party to see interiors or the works of art, for one is so hurried that one scarcely knows what has been seen.As an illustration: Two young girls stopping at ourpensionjoined one of these parties going to Versailles the same day that Suzanne and I went.We had seats on top of the steam tram which leaves every hour from the foot of the Place de la Concorde Bridge. We spent the entire day at Versailles, and came away after dark feeling that we had had the merest peep at the parks and gardens, vast with miles of marble terraces, miles of lime-tree bowers, fountains of gold, of silver and of bronze, green of all shades, flowers of all colors, staircases of onyx, paintings, sculptures and relics of untold value. We walked miles and had been driven tens of miles through the parks and gardens of the Grand and Petit Trianon.We had stood by the most stupendous series of fountains the world has ever known. And we crawled home weary, but happy at heart for all this beauty, to find that our poor little friends had been there but two hours,—that they had galloped from place to place, catching but little, if anything, of the foreign names pronounced so differently from the way we are taught.Versailles is one of the places where there are official guides, and it pays to hire one by the hour.Of the museums, see the Luxembourg first, because, while the gardens are beautiful, they are not so well kept nor to be compared with those of the Louvre or Versailles. The works of art are placed in the Luxembourg gallery during the lifetime of an artist, if his works merit that honor; if his fame lives for ten years after his death, they are transferred to the Louvre. Hence it is in the Luxembourg one will find the best works of living artists.The Louvre Musée is a vast collection of classified art, and occupies the palace of that name, any room of which will repay one's effort to see it.Just wander about alone until some work of art compels you to stop before it.Then look at your Baedeker and see if it is something noted. It tickles one's vanity to find one has selected a masterpiece without having it pointed out. Speaking of guide-books, Baedeker is by far the best, and rarely fails one excepting in galleries, where it is impossible to keep an accurate list of the works of art, as they are frequently moved from room to room, or are loaned to some world's exposition.In the Louvre are many of the pictures which every boy or girl knows. Well-known masterpieces of Titian, Raphael, Van Dyke, Rembrandt, Rubens, Murillo and Fra Angelico make one agree with Marie Corelli, that the old masters took their secret of colors away with them.I astonished my English friends by announcing that I did not like Dickens, and now I'll shock my Holland friends by not liking Rubens.One should get catalogues of both the Louvre and Luxembourg galleries.If you can make time see Cluny, Guimet, the Musée des Religions, the Musée Gustave Moreau, the Musée Cernuski—almost wholly oriental,—the Musée Brignoli-Galliera, the magnificent display of stained glass in the Sainte-Chapelle—thison a bright, sunshiny day,—and that most wonderful of modern paintings on the wall of the large amphitheatre of the Sorbonne University done by Puvis de Chavannes.The best manner to see the Bois de Boulogne is to take a boat on the Seine at the Pont Royal, stopping at St. Cloud and Sèvres, and, after an hour of exquisite rest amid the dreamland on either side, disembark at Suresnes, cross the bridge, and walk back to Paris through the forest. We took the earliest morning boat. As it chanced to be the day of theBataille des Fleurs, we spent some time viewing this beautiful scene. We stopped frequently at little cafés for tea or rest, and six o'clock found us at the Arc de Triomphe hailing a cab to take us home. It was fatiguing, but in no other way could we have seen so well the splendid woods and the glimpses of family life among thehaute bourgeoisie.The day you go to Notre Dame, cross the Pont d'Arcole, and that brings you right into the gardens of the Hôtel de Ville, which is beyond doubt the most magnificent palace of justice in the world. Its decorations rival those of the Louvre. The entrance, the galleries, the ballroomand the banquet hall are splendid beyond description. The ceiling decorations are all by noted artists, and represent some type of Plenty, Music, or Love. It is marvelous, the art these French have put into their architecture.The crowning delight, that of a visit to the tomb of Napoleon, awaits your week's end. The tomb is in the crypt under the Dome des Invalides, a home for old soldiers, and is reached by walking through the gardens and long, cloister-like passages of the Invalides. As I entered, my eyes fell on an immense altar, through the amber window of which a flood of golden light poured on a colossal cross, lighting the face of the bronze figure of Christ nailed to it, making a most dramatic picture. This figure was cast from one of Napoleon's cannons.The tomb itself is a large marble basin, over the edge of which you look down onto the sarcophagus cut out of a huge block of reddish-brown granite. It stands on a mosaic pavement, in the form of a laurel wreath, and around the walls are twelve colossal statues representing the twelve victories."I wish I had been born either rich or a hod-carrier!" The very idea of a woman of my parts countingcentimes! Instead of telling my friends how to come on the least money, I'd rather say, Wait—until you have millions to buy the dainty confections with which Paris abounds. It gives me heartaches "to look and smile and reach for, then stop and sigh and count the aforesaidcentimes." From this you have, perhaps, surmised that we have been going over theprosandconsof shopping—principally thecons.How foolish of me to tell any one not to come to dear, mad, wild, glorious Paris! Why, I'd come, if only to remain a day, and though I had nothing to eat for a year thereafter.Last night when I wrote, I was "way back at the end of the procession," but this morning I am "right up behind the band." And the reason? Never ask a woman sojourning on foreign shores for amotif. There is but one that, far from those she loves, makes or mars the pleasure of being, brings the sunshine or the cloud, regulates the pulse-beats of her very existence, and that is—A LETTER!I have not told you. For some days I have had no word, hence my lowly position of yesterday. But on this bright, beautiful morning I found on my breakfast tray a packet of many-stamped, much-crossed and often-forwarded letters. And now, although it is raining in torrents, and the coffee is—not coffee,—I can see only golden words, and those through rose-tinted glasses."Ah, what care I how bad the weather!"Mademoiselle D. is here, the guest of friends at their country house at Fontainebleau. The day she was our hostess she met us at the station, and we were driven through a long lane, flanked on either side by immense trees, to the Château of Fontainebleau.No other palace has aroused so keen an interest as has the interior of this noble old mediæval fortress, which Francis I. converted into the present château. In this palace are tapestries of rare worth and weave, jardinières in cloisonné, bas-reliefs in jasper, masterpieces of marquetry, and priceless bric-a-brac, found nowhere else in such lavish profusion.Mademoiselle's hostess sent her servants with a dainty luncheon, which they served for us on the marble steps leading froml'Etang des Carpesto the water's edge. The afternoon and early hours of the evening were spent in driving through the forest and at Barbizon.Oh, the air of artistic Bohemia, the atmosphere of achievement which dominates this world-renowned Barbizon! It does not seem possible that the Barbizon of which Will Low gives a description in his "A Chronicle of Friendships" could have remained unaltered since the early seventies, but it has. Both his brush and pen pictures are so vividly accurate, that I pointed out many of his old and beloved haunts before Mademoiselle had time to tell me. Often she would say, "You have been here before,n'est-ce-pas?" I always assured her to the contrary, but always added, "I shall surely come again."At the very word "Barbizon" the thoughts fly back, involuntarily, to those painters whose names stand for all that is highest and best in Art. Their early life songs ran in minor chords, to be sure, but the vibrations have lost the pathos, and we hear only of the beauty and joy theyhave left behind them for their fellow men.Every child knows "The Angelus," and every lover of the truth in picture, song or story pauses a moment before the bronze face of Millet, set into a rock that lies on the edge of this wee village.The forest of Fontainebleau embraces over fifty square miles, and its magnificent timber and picturesque splendor are not surpassed in all France.We were guests at the American Ambassador's reception yesterday. His house, just off the Champs Elysées, is furnished with elegance and taste. The gowns worn by both the French and American women were most of them airy creations of lace, many of them gorgeous, all of them graceful and fetching. Lace is the prominent factor in gowns here.Refreshments were served from abuffetset in one of the drawing-rooms, and gentlemen, instead of ladies, assisted the hostess about the rooms.BOIS DE VINCENNESCHÂTEAU D'AMBOISEThe Bois of Vincennes is a park covering some two thousand acres laid out with drives, walks, lakes and islands, and whileless frequented than the Bois de Boulogne, it is fully as attractive. Louis IX. hunted in this forest in 1270, but Louis XV. transformed it into a park in 1731.Fontenay-sous-Bois, an odd little village, is charmingly situated on the edge of these woods. We had taken a great fancy to thepetits gâteauxof France, and, happily for us, we found them at Fontenay as good as in Paris. We would stop at the oldpatisserieto get them, on our way to the Bois, where we went every afternoon to write or to study and to hear the band.Not far from Fontenay is the antiqueal frescotheatre of Champigny where the leading actors of France can be seen during the summer months.BOULOGNE-SUR-MER:I startedto spend a few days at Paris-Plage, one of the fascinating seasides of France, where is found that rare combination, an excellent beach with shade trees; but, instead, I stopped two months at Etaples, a little fishing village, about a mile from the Plage, with a shady path through the woods between the two places.Etaples is the old sketching-ground ofMillais and Whistler, near Boulogne-sur-Mer, and is crowded with artists. It is on an arm of the sea, when the tide isin, but when that incomprehensibly weird thing isout, it is on a waste of dry sand. Etaples is but a short distance from the village of Montreuil, with its outdoor summer school for sketching. Because of the old Roman ramparts which are still standing and because of its quaintness and its antiquity, Montreuil also attracts a large colony of painters.I am often asked what foreign language I would suggest as most useful for travelers. I answer unhesitatingly, "French!"French is taught in the schools of every nation save our own, and it is spoken by every educated foreigner. Whenever I could not ask for what I wanted in the language of the country, invariably I was asked by host, "boots," or with whomever I was gesticulating,—"Parlez vous Français?"The study of French is a subject to which every parent should give serious consideration. No nation is so under-languaged as ours; and no language is so necessary to a traveler as French. It helpsone with his own language and adds an interest and enjoyment to intercourse with our foreign cousins; whilewithoutit, we stand mute and helpless and ofttimes bewildered, and advantage is taken of our seeming stupidity.Study English first and always, and polish it by the study of French.In spite of the fact that Boulogne-sur-Mer is full of English pleasure-seekers, we spent restful, happy days there in apensionwhich occupies an old monastery.BLOIS:Do yourecall how Athos of "The Three Musketeers" fame was continually reminding D'Artagnan that the "purest French in all France is spoken in Blois"? And it was because of my interest in Dumas's heroes that, when the time came for me to visit the château country I made Blois my home.I am unable to pass upon the "purest French," but I can assure you that I watch in vain for the polished Athos, or the reckless, dashing D'Artagnan of former days. Ididfind the youthful Aramis—but not at Blois. This one wasen routeto Waterloo.The only time I feel inclined to forgive Henry James for the unkind things he has said of my countrywomen, is when I read his French sojourns and recall his advice that the best economy is to stop at Blois first when on a visit to this fascinating region.If you desire a unique experience and would haveentréeas a parlor boarder to the fashionable school fordemoiselles, go to Blois armed with letters from the president, the king or emperor of your fatherland. Fortunately, the day I arrived with my credentials, two English girls had been called home, and when at last I was permitted to matriculate, I had their room alone, with windows giving on the terrace and the Loire.I fell into line with the rules of the institution, and studied, recited, walked out each evening chaperoned by one of the mistresses, and took my holiday every Thursday with the other students.Sometimes I asked and was given permission to add Friday and Saturday to my holiday when I wished to stop longer than one day at some of the old châteaux. I always returned, however, proud that my Château of Blois was the finest of them all.The Château of Blois was erected on a colossal foundation, both strong and high, but the castle itself is light and graceful, with its wonderful staircase and court of François I. I used often to take my book to the little park in front of the château and sit for hours—not reading, but gazing at the old castle and dreaming of Bragelonne and Louise.The Château of Chambord is counted as one of the finest specimens of the Renaissance in existence. Here is found that wonderful double spiral staircase so arranged that one can go up and another down at the same time without each seeing the other.If your time is limited, make up a motor party and visit the Châteaux of Cheverny and Beauregard on the same day you go to Chambord, returning by the Valley of Cesson. In the same manner—that is, from Blois and by motor—visit Amboise and Chaumont. Both can be explored in one day. Both overhang the Loire, and both teem with history and beauty.Make Tours your headquarters from which to visit the châteaux of Touraine.Some one has said: "Normandy is Normandy, Burgundy is Burgundy, but Touraine is France." It is the home of Balzac, Rabelais, Descartes, châteaux, books, beautiful women and romance.We lived in an old château on Rue de Cygne. You may have a suite of rooms and keep house, if you wish, and Madame will find you an excellentbonne; or, you may simply have lodgings and dine where you will.Tours is a good place in which to spend an entire summer. From there should be visited the châteaux and towns of Chinon, Azay-le-Rideau, Montbazon, Loches, and, last, the exquisite Château of Chenonceaux with its lemon color. It recalls Venice, for it is built on piles in the River Cher.MARSEILLES:FromTours to Paris, from Paris to Geneva, to Aix-les-Bains, to Turin, to Genoa and the French Riviera—such was our somewhat roundabout route to Marseilles.It would be difficult to imagine a journey filled with more magnificent and varied scenery and with more of romantic interest.CAMPO SANTO, GENOAWe have climbed up and around andover the Alps, following the gorge of the upper Rhone. For nearly a day we threaded the mountains, their tops veiled by the clouds. Scarcely ever were we out of sight of a leaping cascade or a picturesque village perched high above, or far below us, except when rushing in and out of the countless short tunnels. Of only less interest was the crossing of the Apennines from Turin to Genoa.From Genoa, we have traversed the Riviera by train, tram, carriage and on foot—from the Promenade d'Anglais at Nice to the famous Corniche road between Nice and Monaco.On a Sunday afternoon at Monte Carlo we had our tea on the terrace of the Casino to the accompaniment of a sacred concert by an exquisite orchestra on the one side, and the sharp click of thecroupier'srake in the gamblingsalleon the other.Amidst such bewitching surroundings—the balmy air, the profusion of flowers, the towering Maritime Alps, and the blue Mediterranean at the feet—one can easily fancy oneself in an earthly paradise.You have, of course, read much of the principality of Monaco embracing its eightsquare miles of territory, with itsopéra bouffegovernment, and how, surrounded by French territory, its independence has been recognized for several centuries. It is needless to tell you, too, of the gambling carried on in its Casino, hedged in by every external element of alluring culture and refinement. But, I dare affirm that, apart from its gambling, Monaco is one of the enchanted spots of earth. TheCôte d'Azur, as this coast is affectionately named, haunts me still.Have I mentioned the masonry of this region? All through the Alps, the Apennines and along the Riviera are massive walls of masonry, supporting a mountain road, forming the graceful arches of some viaduct or holding back the mighty waves of the sea. Much of this work was completed by Napoleon I. Coming, as I do, from a younger civilization, its magnitude appears marvelous to me.VALLEY OF THE RHONECORNICHE ROAD BETWEEN NICE AND MONACOMarseilles is a place about which the casual traveler knows but little, and yet it is one of the oldest and most important seaports in the world. So long ago as 600 years before Christ, the Greeks sailed into this natural harbor and made it "masterof the seas." Marseilles carries on a large oriental trade, which accounts for the fancy-dress-ball appearance of its quay and streets.Then there is the Cannebière.Do you know what the Cannebière is? Well, it's a street, or, rather, three streets in one, each with a double row of trees meeting in an arch overhead, and each of these rows of trees flanked by broad walks which are formed into open-air cafés, served from the hotels and restaurants which face them. Here the multitude gathered from all nations may be found—quite the most cosmopolitan of my experience—and here we have our tea each afternoon.All European cities have open-air cafés, but none of them can duplicate the Cannebière, The Marseillaise are very proud of it, and have a song which runs:"Si Paris avait une Cannebière,Paris serait une petite Marseilles."(If Paris had a Cannebière, it would be a little Marseilles.)Those who named the streets in Marseilles must have had their share of sentiment and romance. One of them is named "Rue Paradis," and its principal shop iscalled "Paradis de Dames." Anotherrueis named "Pavé d'Amour," which doesn't quite harmonize with the odor of the favorite dish,bouillabaisse, of which Thackeray wrote.The Château d'If, made famous by Dumas's "Monte Cristo," is on a barren rock which rises out of the sea within sight of the harbor of Marseilles.The château was, until recently, a political prison, and many notable men have been confined within its dungeon cells. It is now kept for the inspection of tourists, and one is shown the inscriptions carved on its begrimed walls by Edmond Dante and the learned Abbe Faria during their fourteen years' imprisonment in cells where daylight never penetrated.If time should hang heavily on your hands at Marseilles, go to Aix-en-Provence—not that there is anything especial to see at Aix except the quaintly rural landscape, nor yet anything especial to do except to taste thecalisson, an almond cake of which Aix holds the secret recipe. But, go! It is in thegoingthat your time will beunhung.CHÂTEAU D'IFALMERIA, SPAINThe tram leaves from the Vieux Port,and if you go down at the hour advertised, just place a book or your top-coat on a seat to reserve it, and then go to get yourgrand déjeuner, to take a nap, or to shop, returning at your leisure, and you'll have ample time.Local freight is carried on a little trailer car, and the car is moved alongside the freight that has been dumped in the middle of the street near the track. This looks so easy that before the car is loaded, it is moved a half block or so, and the freight is carried to the new location of the car and againdumped on the ground. After this operation has been repeated several times, the ludicrousness of it all dawns on one, and turns the tears of anger caused by the delay, to laughter.It really seems as though some of these foreign cousins of ours endeavored to do things in the most difficult way.

Je voudrais n'être pas Français pour pouvoir dire,—Que je te choisis, France, et queJe te proclameMa patrie et ma gloire et mon unique amour!Victor Hugo, A La France.

Je voudrais n'être pas Français pour pouvoir dire,—

Que je te choisis, France, et que

Je te proclame

Ma patrie et ma gloire et mon unique amour!

Victor Hugo, A La France.

Oh, to have been born elsewhere, that I might choosethee, France, and proclaim thee my country, my gloryand my own!Translation byEleanor Everest Freer.

Oh, to have been born elsewhere, that I might choose

thee, France, and proclaim thee my country, my glory

and my own!

Translation byEleanor Everest Freer.

Thecaptain advised us to remain on deck while the ship was entering the harbor at Havre, and we were repaid for the midnight vigil by the brilliancy of the scene. The port itself is narrow, but the effect of space is given by the numerous basins and the canal, filled with craft and sails of every description. The splendid masonry stands out strong and beautiful under the multitude of electric lights which line the shore on either side.

I was surprised to find Havre so large and fine a city. Neither Baedeker nor Hare tell about its beauties nor its harbor. We had more time there than we had counted on because we missed the earlymorning train to Rouen, but we passed it very pleasantly in this bright Norman city.

It is the rural part that has made Normandy famous, and that part which lies between Havre and Rouen is beautiful. It lies low and is checkered with little silver streams that flow this way and that through every section.

Rouen, too, keeps up the Normandy record for quaintness. Suzanne and I would have been willing to settle right down there and stay, but we stopped only long enough to see St. Ouen, one of the most beautiful Gothic churches in existence, and the Palais de Justice, which is a splendid copy of Belgian architecture.

I must tell you what a joy you are! You have contented yourself with the daily post-card and the by-weeklybillet-doux, which have beenplus doux que long, I fear, but without the usual weekly budget.

We have been going so fast that I think it wise to wait a bit and endeavor to digest the knowledge gained in travel before writing of it. As I look back over what I have seen in the last few months, both in art and nature, I realize the truth of a little thing I once read, taken from a letter bya well-known writer of short stories to William Dean Howells.

She said that we must have some atmosphere, some distance, between ourselves and our theme in order to get perspective, whether one be painter or writer. So I feel sure that this budget will lose nothing by the waiting when I tell you what I have picked up by the way inBeau Paris.

If you can come but once, do not come in July or August, the tourist season. Paris is a dream of beauty at all seasons, but the charm of any city is obscured when it is crowded as Paris is during those months.

Come in May. Do you not remember what Victor Hugo said in "Le Proscrit"?

"Le mois de mai sans la France,Ce n'est pas le mois de mai."

"Le mois de mai sans la France,

Ce n'est pas le mois de mai."

We did a wise thing in choosing from among our numerous addresses apension"downtown." It saves us time, strength and money. It is not one of thosepensionsLongfellow used to tell about, which had inscribed on its front:

"Ici on donne à boire et à manger;On loge à pied et à cheval!"

"Ici on donne à boire et à manger;

On loge à pied et à cheval!"

Literally, "Here we give to drink and to eat; we lodge on foot and on horseback."Ourpensiononly gives to eat and to lodge "on foot." I do not mention the drinking, for seldom, I find, can one get a good cup of coffee anywhere. The chocolate and tea are perfect, however, and the little crescent-shaped rolls and the fresh, unsalted butter are delicious.

We are on the Rue de la Bienfaisance, just off the Boulevard Haussman, not far from the beautifulégliseSaint Augustin, where many of the weddings of the Paris four hundred are celebrated, and only a few minutes' walk from the Gare Saint Lazare.

We call each morning for our English friends, who live in the Rue des Pyramides, near the Rue de Rivoli, at the place where stands the bronze statue of Jeanne d'Arc.

The Louvre Palais, which contains the Musée, and the Tuileries are just across the Rue de Rivoli, with the Place de la Concorde a little farther up. The Grand Opéra is but a few squares away, with the American Express office near it, and the Church of the Madeleine hard by.

RUE DE RIVOLI, SHOWING TUILERIES GARDENS

The Place de la Concorde is an immense square with mammoth pieces of sculpture at each corner, representing the provinces taken from the Germans. One of theseprovinces was recaptured by the Germans, but instead of marring the Place by removing the statue, it is kept draped with crêpe and wreaths of flowers. In the center of the square is the obelisk, with fountains playing about it.

The roads are as white as snow, both through and around the Place. It is framed in green by the Tuileries, the Champs Elysées, and the banks of the Seine.

There is a view one gets right here which cannot, perhaps, be excelled in all the world. If you stand at the court of the Louvre in the space where theArc du Carrouselmeets the Louvre Palais, and look through the arch, the eye catches at once the green of the Tuileries garden and its trees, the dazzling brightness of its marbles, the sparkling of its fountains, the obelisk, and far on through the Champs Elysées, the Arc de Triomphe, which makes a fitting finish for this most glorious vista.

I am at loss to tell you just what to do with only a week in this little world, but let nothing deter you from coming. I would rather have come for one day than never to have seen it at all. With a week on your hands, and an inclination in yourheart, you can do wonders in this the most fascinating city on the globe.

Were one to be here but a short time, a drive over the city should occupy the first day. Parties are sent out every day, with guides who know the best routes, and it is not a bad idea to join one of them. Do not, however, go with a party to see interiors or the works of art, for one is so hurried that one scarcely knows what has been seen.

As an illustration: Two young girls stopping at ourpensionjoined one of these parties going to Versailles the same day that Suzanne and I went.

We had seats on top of the steam tram which leaves every hour from the foot of the Place de la Concorde Bridge. We spent the entire day at Versailles, and came away after dark feeling that we had had the merest peep at the parks and gardens, vast with miles of marble terraces, miles of lime-tree bowers, fountains of gold, of silver and of bronze, green of all shades, flowers of all colors, staircases of onyx, paintings, sculptures and relics of untold value. We walked miles and had been driven tens of miles through the parks and gardens of the Grand and Petit Trianon.We had stood by the most stupendous series of fountains the world has ever known. And we crawled home weary, but happy at heart for all this beauty, to find that our poor little friends had been there but two hours,—that they had galloped from place to place, catching but little, if anything, of the foreign names pronounced so differently from the way we are taught.

Versailles is one of the places where there are official guides, and it pays to hire one by the hour.

Of the museums, see the Luxembourg first, because, while the gardens are beautiful, they are not so well kept nor to be compared with those of the Louvre or Versailles. The works of art are placed in the Luxembourg gallery during the lifetime of an artist, if his works merit that honor; if his fame lives for ten years after his death, they are transferred to the Louvre. Hence it is in the Luxembourg one will find the best works of living artists.

The Louvre Musée is a vast collection of classified art, and occupies the palace of that name, any room of which will repay one's effort to see it.

Just wander about alone until some work of art compels you to stop before it.Then look at your Baedeker and see if it is something noted. It tickles one's vanity to find one has selected a masterpiece without having it pointed out. Speaking of guide-books, Baedeker is by far the best, and rarely fails one excepting in galleries, where it is impossible to keep an accurate list of the works of art, as they are frequently moved from room to room, or are loaned to some world's exposition.

In the Louvre are many of the pictures which every boy or girl knows. Well-known masterpieces of Titian, Raphael, Van Dyke, Rembrandt, Rubens, Murillo and Fra Angelico make one agree with Marie Corelli, that the old masters took their secret of colors away with them.

I astonished my English friends by announcing that I did not like Dickens, and now I'll shock my Holland friends by not liking Rubens.

One should get catalogues of both the Louvre and Luxembourg galleries.

If you can make time see Cluny, Guimet, the Musée des Religions, the Musée Gustave Moreau, the Musée Cernuski—almost wholly oriental,—the Musée Brignoli-Galliera, the magnificent display of stained glass in the Sainte-Chapelle—thison a bright, sunshiny day,—and that most wonderful of modern paintings on the wall of the large amphitheatre of the Sorbonne University done by Puvis de Chavannes.

The best manner to see the Bois de Boulogne is to take a boat on the Seine at the Pont Royal, stopping at St. Cloud and Sèvres, and, after an hour of exquisite rest amid the dreamland on either side, disembark at Suresnes, cross the bridge, and walk back to Paris through the forest. We took the earliest morning boat. As it chanced to be the day of theBataille des Fleurs, we spent some time viewing this beautiful scene. We stopped frequently at little cafés for tea or rest, and six o'clock found us at the Arc de Triomphe hailing a cab to take us home. It was fatiguing, but in no other way could we have seen so well the splendid woods and the glimpses of family life among thehaute bourgeoisie.

The day you go to Notre Dame, cross the Pont d'Arcole, and that brings you right into the gardens of the Hôtel de Ville, which is beyond doubt the most magnificent palace of justice in the world. Its decorations rival those of the Louvre. The entrance, the galleries, the ballroomand the banquet hall are splendid beyond description. The ceiling decorations are all by noted artists, and represent some type of Plenty, Music, or Love. It is marvelous, the art these French have put into their architecture.

The crowning delight, that of a visit to the tomb of Napoleon, awaits your week's end. The tomb is in the crypt under the Dome des Invalides, a home for old soldiers, and is reached by walking through the gardens and long, cloister-like passages of the Invalides. As I entered, my eyes fell on an immense altar, through the amber window of which a flood of golden light poured on a colossal cross, lighting the face of the bronze figure of Christ nailed to it, making a most dramatic picture. This figure was cast from one of Napoleon's cannons.

The tomb itself is a large marble basin, over the edge of which you look down onto the sarcophagus cut out of a huge block of reddish-brown granite. It stands on a mosaic pavement, in the form of a laurel wreath, and around the walls are twelve colossal statues representing the twelve victories.

"I wish I had been born either rich or a hod-carrier!" The very idea of a woman of my parts countingcentimes! Instead of telling my friends how to come on the least money, I'd rather say, Wait—until you have millions to buy the dainty confections with which Paris abounds. It gives me heartaches "to look and smile and reach for, then stop and sigh and count the aforesaidcentimes." From this you have, perhaps, surmised that we have been going over theprosandconsof shopping—principally thecons.

How foolish of me to tell any one not to come to dear, mad, wild, glorious Paris! Why, I'd come, if only to remain a day, and though I had nothing to eat for a year thereafter.

Last night when I wrote, I was "way back at the end of the procession," but this morning I am "right up behind the band." And the reason? Never ask a woman sojourning on foreign shores for amotif. There is but one that, far from those she loves, makes or mars the pleasure of being, brings the sunshine or the cloud, regulates the pulse-beats of her very existence, and that is—A LETTER!

I have not told you. For some days I have had no word, hence my lowly position of yesterday. But on this bright, beautiful morning I found on my breakfast tray a packet of many-stamped, much-crossed and often-forwarded letters. And now, although it is raining in torrents, and the coffee is—not coffee,—I can see only golden words, and those through rose-tinted glasses.

"Ah, what care I how bad the weather!"

Mademoiselle D. is here, the guest of friends at their country house at Fontainebleau. The day she was our hostess she met us at the station, and we were driven through a long lane, flanked on either side by immense trees, to the Château of Fontainebleau.

No other palace has aroused so keen an interest as has the interior of this noble old mediæval fortress, which Francis I. converted into the present château. In this palace are tapestries of rare worth and weave, jardinières in cloisonné, bas-reliefs in jasper, masterpieces of marquetry, and priceless bric-a-brac, found nowhere else in such lavish profusion.

Mademoiselle's hostess sent her servants with a dainty luncheon, which they served for us on the marble steps leading froml'Etang des Carpesto the water's edge. The afternoon and early hours of the evening were spent in driving through the forest and at Barbizon.

Oh, the air of artistic Bohemia, the atmosphere of achievement which dominates this world-renowned Barbizon! It does not seem possible that the Barbizon of which Will Low gives a description in his "A Chronicle of Friendships" could have remained unaltered since the early seventies, but it has. Both his brush and pen pictures are so vividly accurate, that I pointed out many of his old and beloved haunts before Mademoiselle had time to tell me. Often she would say, "You have been here before,n'est-ce-pas?" I always assured her to the contrary, but always added, "I shall surely come again."

At the very word "Barbizon" the thoughts fly back, involuntarily, to those painters whose names stand for all that is highest and best in Art. Their early life songs ran in minor chords, to be sure, but the vibrations have lost the pathos, and we hear only of the beauty and joy theyhave left behind them for their fellow men.

Every child knows "The Angelus," and every lover of the truth in picture, song or story pauses a moment before the bronze face of Millet, set into a rock that lies on the edge of this wee village.

The forest of Fontainebleau embraces over fifty square miles, and its magnificent timber and picturesque splendor are not surpassed in all France.

We were guests at the American Ambassador's reception yesterday. His house, just off the Champs Elysées, is furnished with elegance and taste. The gowns worn by both the French and American women were most of them airy creations of lace, many of them gorgeous, all of them graceful and fetching. Lace is the prominent factor in gowns here.

Refreshments were served from abuffetset in one of the drawing-rooms, and gentlemen, instead of ladies, assisted the hostess about the rooms.

BOIS DE VINCENNESCHÂTEAU D'AMBOISE

BOIS DE VINCENNES

CHÂTEAU D'AMBOISE

The Bois of Vincennes is a park covering some two thousand acres laid out with drives, walks, lakes and islands, and whileless frequented than the Bois de Boulogne, it is fully as attractive. Louis IX. hunted in this forest in 1270, but Louis XV. transformed it into a park in 1731.

Fontenay-sous-Bois, an odd little village, is charmingly situated on the edge of these woods. We had taken a great fancy to thepetits gâteauxof France, and, happily for us, we found them at Fontenay as good as in Paris. We would stop at the oldpatisserieto get them, on our way to the Bois, where we went every afternoon to write or to study and to hear the band.

Not far from Fontenay is the antiqueal frescotheatre of Champigny where the leading actors of France can be seen during the summer months.

I startedto spend a few days at Paris-Plage, one of the fascinating seasides of France, where is found that rare combination, an excellent beach with shade trees; but, instead, I stopped two months at Etaples, a little fishing village, about a mile from the Plage, with a shady path through the woods between the two places.

Etaples is the old sketching-ground ofMillais and Whistler, near Boulogne-sur-Mer, and is crowded with artists. It is on an arm of the sea, when the tide isin, but when that incomprehensibly weird thing isout, it is on a waste of dry sand. Etaples is but a short distance from the village of Montreuil, with its outdoor summer school for sketching. Because of the old Roman ramparts which are still standing and because of its quaintness and its antiquity, Montreuil also attracts a large colony of painters.

I am often asked what foreign language I would suggest as most useful for travelers. I answer unhesitatingly, "French!"

French is taught in the schools of every nation save our own, and it is spoken by every educated foreigner. Whenever I could not ask for what I wanted in the language of the country, invariably I was asked by host, "boots," or with whomever I was gesticulating,—

"Parlez vous Français?"

The study of French is a subject to which every parent should give serious consideration. No nation is so under-languaged as ours; and no language is so necessary to a traveler as French. It helpsone with his own language and adds an interest and enjoyment to intercourse with our foreign cousins; whilewithoutit, we stand mute and helpless and ofttimes bewildered, and advantage is taken of our seeming stupidity.

Study English first and always, and polish it by the study of French.

In spite of the fact that Boulogne-sur-Mer is full of English pleasure-seekers, we spent restful, happy days there in apensionwhich occupies an old monastery.

Do yourecall how Athos of "The Three Musketeers" fame was continually reminding D'Artagnan that the "purest French in all France is spoken in Blois"? And it was because of my interest in Dumas's heroes that, when the time came for me to visit the château country I made Blois my home.

I am unable to pass upon the "purest French," but I can assure you that I watch in vain for the polished Athos, or the reckless, dashing D'Artagnan of former days. Ididfind the youthful Aramis—but not at Blois. This one wasen routeto Waterloo.

The only time I feel inclined to forgive Henry James for the unkind things he has said of my countrywomen, is when I read his French sojourns and recall his advice that the best economy is to stop at Blois first when on a visit to this fascinating region.

If you desire a unique experience and would haveentréeas a parlor boarder to the fashionable school fordemoiselles, go to Blois armed with letters from the president, the king or emperor of your fatherland. Fortunately, the day I arrived with my credentials, two English girls had been called home, and when at last I was permitted to matriculate, I had their room alone, with windows giving on the terrace and the Loire.

I fell into line with the rules of the institution, and studied, recited, walked out each evening chaperoned by one of the mistresses, and took my holiday every Thursday with the other students.

Sometimes I asked and was given permission to add Friday and Saturday to my holiday when I wished to stop longer than one day at some of the old châteaux. I always returned, however, proud that my Château of Blois was the finest of them all.

The Château of Blois was erected on a colossal foundation, both strong and high, but the castle itself is light and graceful, with its wonderful staircase and court of François I. I used often to take my book to the little park in front of the château and sit for hours—not reading, but gazing at the old castle and dreaming of Bragelonne and Louise.

The Château of Chambord is counted as one of the finest specimens of the Renaissance in existence. Here is found that wonderful double spiral staircase so arranged that one can go up and another down at the same time without each seeing the other.

If your time is limited, make up a motor party and visit the Châteaux of Cheverny and Beauregard on the same day you go to Chambord, returning by the Valley of Cesson. In the same manner—that is, from Blois and by motor—visit Amboise and Chaumont. Both can be explored in one day. Both overhang the Loire, and both teem with history and beauty.

Make Tours your headquarters from which to visit the châteaux of Touraine.Some one has said: "Normandy is Normandy, Burgundy is Burgundy, but Touraine is France." It is the home of Balzac, Rabelais, Descartes, châteaux, books, beautiful women and romance.

We lived in an old château on Rue de Cygne. You may have a suite of rooms and keep house, if you wish, and Madame will find you an excellentbonne; or, you may simply have lodgings and dine where you will.

Tours is a good place in which to spend an entire summer. From there should be visited the châteaux and towns of Chinon, Azay-le-Rideau, Montbazon, Loches, and, last, the exquisite Château of Chenonceaux with its lemon color. It recalls Venice, for it is built on piles in the River Cher.

FromTours to Paris, from Paris to Geneva, to Aix-les-Bains, to Turin, to Genoa and the French Riviera—such was our somewhat roundabout route to Marseilles.

It would be difficult to imagine a journey filled with more magnificent and varied scenery and with more of romantic interest.

CAMPO SANTO, GENOA

We have climbed up and around andover the Alps, following the gorge of the upper Rhone. For nearly a day we threaded the mountains, their tops veiled by the clouds. Scarcely ever were we out of sight of a leaping cascade or a picturesque village perched high above, or far below us, except when rushing in and out of the countless short tunnels. Of only less interest was the crossing of the Apennines from Turin to Genoa.

From Genoa, we have traversed the Riviera by train, tram, carriage and on foot—from the Promenade d'Anglais at Nice to the famous Corniche road between Nice and Monaco.

On a Sunday afternoon at Monte Carlo we had our tea on the terrace of the Casino to the accompaniment of a sacred concert by an exquisite orchestra on the one side, and the sharp click of thecroupier'srake in the gamblingsalleon the other.

Amidst such bewitching surroundings—the balmy air, the profusion of flowers, the towering Maritime Alps, and the blue Mediterranean at the feet—one can easily fancy oneself in an earthly paradise.

You have, of course, read much of the principality of Monaco embracing its eightsquare miles of territory, with itsopéra bouffegovernment, and how, surrounded by French territory, its independence has been recognized for several centuries. It is needless to tell you, too, of the gambling carried on in its Casino, hedged in by every external element of alluring culture and refinement. But, I dare affirm that, apart from its gambling, Monaco is one of the enchanted spots of earth. TheCôte d'Azur, as this coast is affectionately named, haunts me still.

Have I mentioned the masonry of this region? All through the Alps, the Apennines and along the Riviera are massive walls of masonry, supporting a mountain road, forming the graceful arches of some viaduct or holding back the mighty waves of the sea. Much of this work was completed by Napoleon I. Coming, as I do, from a younger civilization, its magnitude appears marvelous to me.

VALLEY OF THE RHONECORNICHE ROAD BETWEEN NICE AND MONACO

VALLEY OF THE RHONE

CORNICHE ROAD BETWEEN NICE AND MONACO

Marseilles is a place about which the casual traveler knows but little, and yet it is one of the oldest and most important seaports in the world. So long ago as 600 years before Christ, the Greeks sailed into this natural harbor and made it "masterof the seas." Marseilles carries on a large oriental trade, which accounts for the fancy-dress-ball appearance of its quay and streets.

Then there is the Cannebière.

Do you know what the Cannebière is? Well, it's a street, or, rather, three streets in one, each with a double row of trees meeting in an arch overhead, and each of these rows of trees flanked by broad walks which are formed into open-air cafés, served from the hotels and restaurants which face them. Here the multitude gathered from all nations may be found—quite the most cosmopolitan of my experience—and here we have our tea each afternoon.

All European cities have open-air cafés, but none of them can duplicate the Cannebière, The Marseillaise are very proud of it, and have a song which runs:

"Si Paris avait une Cannebière,Paris serait une petite Marseilles."

"Si Paris avait une Cannebière,

Paris serait une petite Marseilles."

(If Paris had a Cannebière, it would be a little Marseilles.)

Those who named the streets in Marseilles must have had their share of sentiment and romance. One of them is named "Rue Paradis," and its principal shop iscalled "Paradis de Dames." Anotherrueis named "Pavé d'Amour," which doesn't quite harmonize with the odor of the favorite dish,bouillabaisse, of which Thackeray wrote.

The Château d'If, made famous by Dumas's "Monte Cristo," is on a barren rock which rises out of the sea within sight of the harbor of Marseilles.

The château was, until recently, a political prison, and many notable men have been confined within its dungeon cells. It is now kept for the inspection of tourists, and one is shown the inscriptions carved on its begrimed walls by Edmond Dante and the learned Abbe Faria during their fourteen years' imprisonment in cells where daylight never penetrated.

If time should hang heavily on your hands at Marseilles, go to Aix-en-Provence—not that there is anything especial to see at Aix except the quaintly rural landscape, nor yet anything especial to do except to taste thecalisson, an almond cake of which Aix holds the secret recipe. But, go! It is in thegoingthat your time will beunhung.

CHÂTEAU D'IFALMERIA, SPAIN

CHÂTEAU D'IF

ALMERIA, SPAIN

The tram leaves from the Vieux Port,and if you go down at the hour advertised, just place a book or your top-coat on a seat to reserve it, and then go to get yourgrand déjeuner, to take a nap, or to shop, returning at your leisure, and you'll have ample time.

Local freight is carried on a little trailer car, and the car is moved alongside the freight that has been dumped in the middle of the street near the track. This looks so easy that before the car is loaded, it is moved a half block or so, and the freight is carried to the new location of the car and againdumped on the ground. After this operation has been repeated several times, the ludicrousness of it all dawns on one, and turns the tears of anger caused by the delay, to laughter.

It really seems as though some of these foreign cousins of ours endeavored to do things in the most difficult way.

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