CHAPTER IVA VISIT TO LYONS

Lake Como, most beautiful of the Italian lakesPage 45Copyright by Underwood & Underwood

Lake Como, most beautiful of the Italian lakesPage 45

The sun was a glowing disk upon the horizon when we reached Colico upon Lake Como, most beautiful of the Italian lakes. There was a crimson light on the water. Red sails drifted lazily toward the shore. Across the lake the high mountains rose cone-like to a peak, like extinct volcanoes. From a distant bell tower floated the clear, sweet tones of the angelus. Before some of the houses, young Italians were playing melodies on guitars. Twilight was falling, that wonderful twilight so full of color and feeling, of the romance and sentiment of northern Italy. After several miles along the shore, through these fascinating scenes, we reached Menaggio.

The evening in the cool lake garden of the Grand Hotel was a refreshing sequel to the afternoon's hot ride. We could see the government searchlight sweeping its bright rays insearch of smugglers. The Italian lakes are partly in Italy and partly in Switzerland. Salt and tobacco are state monopolies in Italy. The poor people are forbidden even to pick up from the docks the few grains of salt which may have fallen during the loading and unloading of ships. Guards patrol the beaches to compel those who use the sea for a washtub, thoroughly to wring the salt water from the clothes. In spite of all the government's precautions, large quantities of salt and tobacco are smuggled in from Switzerland over the Italian lakes. The Italian officials are poorly paid. The operator of the searchlight which we saw received only eight dollars a month. The small salaries breed bribery and corruption, and it often happens, therefore, that on a dark night the government searchlight fails to discover a rowboat that goes out from the Swiss shore. The smugglers escape the vigilance of the swift revenue cutters, and make a successful landing on the Italian side.

The next day was so hot that it seemed best to pass the time quietly at Menaggio, in our restful retreat. The rooms were large andairy, and open to the fresh lake breezes. The hotel had once been a villa, and with its private garden of thick plane trees was just such a spot as the dusty motorist delights to stumble upon after a long ride over the hot Italian roads.

Our gasoline was running low, so noticing a sign with the wordsBenzino-Lubrificanti, we entered. Thecommerciantispoke as much English as we spoke Italian. We compromised on gestures. In Italy it is a safe rule to pay about half the price asked. After half an hour of bargaining we obtained five liters of gasoline for forty-fivecentesimia liter. The price demanded at first was ninety-fivecentesimi. Our change included a couple of five-lira notes so dirty, greasy, and mangled that they looked in the last stages of the plague. We would have felt safer to have handled them with tongs. Within a few days we had receivedkronen,heller,marks,pfennigs,lira,centesimi. It was quite an education in the currency systems of Europe.

On the way back to the hotel we entered the cathedral. To find so imposing an edificeamid so much poverty was a surprise. Equally astonishing was the way the steep hills behind the town were terraced and cultivated, as though the very rocks themselves had been made to blossom and bear fruit. An Italian woman across the street was filling her jug at a fountain. The nozzle, crumpled into a trefoil, was of the same style as that used by the Roman matrons twenty-five centuries ago. Little things like this show how slowly time has marched in these lake towns of northern Italy.

The cool fragrance of early morning filled the air when we wavedaddioto ourpadroneand followed the curves of the shore toward Como at the end of the lake. There is much in favor of an early start before the heat begins to quiver above the road and the air to resemble a continuous cloud of dust. Every foot of the way was interesting. There were bright-colored villas half smothered in vines; crumbling bell towers flung their shadows across our path; dizzy cliffs hung above us; the lake was constantly within view.

At one of the turns a bicycle rider shot by.We missed him by an inch. He was followed by many others, scattered over the distance of a mile. They were all riding recklessly, rounding the corners at top speed and with heads bent low over the handle bars. Different numbers were pinned on their backs. This was evidently a long-distance bicycle race. It was nerve racking to meet so many curves and not to know whether the riders would pass us on the right or on the left. There is no fixed rule of the road in Italy. In towns having a tram, one turns to the left. Southern Italy is still more confusing, since each town has its own rule. In Como we motored down two or three streets before finally discovering, after many inquiries, the road running northward to Aosta in the Italian Alps.

Italian villas on Lake ComoCopyright by Underwood & Underwood

Italian villas on Lake Como

We regretted our last glimpse of the lake. Instead of hazy mountains, blue sparkling waters, red sails, and pretty villas, the scenery changed to flat, uninteresting country. Novara was reached by noon, its streets baking in the fierce August sun. At the Hotel Italia the flies covered table and dishes. The ménu card presented difficulties; it was written ina very illegible Italian. We guessed at most of the courses, but macaroni was the only dish of which we were sure. But our plight was not quite so discouraging as that of another motorist who found that for three of his courses he had ordered eggs cooked in three different ways. The early afternoon was so hot that we had thought of taking a siesta, but soon gave up the idea. There were too many flies. The inmates of the garage were all fast asleep, and the two blinking men whom we aroused could not conceal their surprise at our unseasonable departure.

Once out in the country, the dust invaded and pervaded everything. It was real Italian dust, that sifted into us and all but blinded us. The heat was terrific. For fear of bursting a tire, we halted in a drowsy village to let the car cool off under a shady chestnut tree. As if by magic, a score of dirty, ragged Italian children surrounded us, and begged forcentesimi. We threw them a few coppers, but this vision of riches only served to redouble the clamor. Flight seemed the only price of tranquillity.

A little way outside the village, a cloud rolled swiftly toward us. The motor car did not appear to be much more than a cloud when it passed us, so thick was the dust. If there is anything hotter or dustier than an Italian highway on the third of August, we do not wish to see it. The drivers of most of the small carts were curled up, content to let the patient mule take its own pace, provided their siesta was undisturbed. The shrill call of our horn often caused them to move a little; there would be a slight twitching of the reins, and then they would relax again into slumber. The mule never changed its course.

Beyond Ivrea the country became more rolling and broken, and the Alps, which an hour before had appeared as blue, shadowy cloud masses, now lifted bold, distinct outlines. This contrast in scenery was as abrupt as it was impressive. Perhaps it was a ruined castle perched like an eagle's nest amid high crags. Within the same view, the eye beheld the vineyards, not planted in the usual manner of row above row, but arbor above arbor, supported by white stone pillars, and thesearbors rising to the very summit of lofty hills.

The road which had been winding and rising above the magnificent valley of Aosta now ran into a level stretch. We had opened wide the throttle, when all at once a motor car flashed around a curve two hundred yards ahead of us. An officer in the back seat waved to attract our attention, and kept pointing back to the curve. The warning was just in time, for as we waited within the shadow of the bend, another motor car shot at racing speed around the curve. She was a French racer. There had been no warning shriek of her horns; the road was so narrow at this point that a collision could hardly have been avoided without that precious second of warning.

Every year in Europe reckless driving causes more accidents than all the steep roads of the Alps. This is the chief danger of motoring on the Continent. The roads are so good that there is the constant temptation to disregard the still small voice of prudence.

The old Roman town of Aosta was in sight. This "Rome of the Alps" is a perfect treasurehouse of antiquities. Passing under ancient Roman arches, we rode down the quaint main streets to the Hotel Royal Victoria, situated, according to ourMichelin Guide, "près de la gare." The hotel, although small, was clean. This fact of cleanliness speaks much for any hotel located in a small Italian town.

Our morning promenade revealed much that was interesting. The middle of some of the streets was traversed by a mountain stream, the above-ground sewage system of Aosta. It was curious to notice how a part of the ancient Roman theater had become the supporting wall of a crowded tenement house. Aosta remains to-day almost undiscovered to the American tourist world. Yet there are few places where antiquity speaks more vividly. The market place was a scene of activity. This is the starting point for the crossing of the Petit St. Bernard pass. Here tourists were climbing into large excursion automobiles, and German mountain climbers were setting out, well equipped with long, iron-pointed poles, ice picks, ropes, and heavy spiked shoes for their battle with snow and ice.

It was ideal weather for our second conquest of the Alps over the Petit St. Bernard, which is closed eight months out of the year. While very dangerous in places, the pass is free from the restrictions which the motorist finds on the Simplon. There, one has to give notice in writing of intention to cross. It is also necessary to pay five francs for a permit. The speed limit of six miles an hour is rigidly enforced. Nevertheless, as one experienced motorist told us, if the Simplon pass compels a speed of six miles an hour on the straight course, and one and three-fourths miles at the curves, the Petit St. Bernard ought to have a special speed-limit of three miles an hour on the straight and two guards at every corner. Except the Stelvio, there is probably not a more difficult mountain pass in Europe.

We left Aosta to its memories of Roman days, threaded for some distance the tortuous windings of the Val d'Aosta, and crossed the Pont de la Salle above a high gorge. Near the ancient village of Pré St. Didier a rocky tunnel buried us temporarily from the outer world. Here the ascent began, and continuedfor some miles to La Thuile, the Italiandogana. As we climbed out of the valley the panorama included a sublime view of Mont Blanc, highest of the Alps.

Above the Val d'AostaCopyright by Underwood & Underwood

Above the Val d'Aosta

At La Thuile, two Frenchmen, about to make the ascent on motor cycles, cautioned us about the dangers of the climb. The customhouse officials were unusually affable, and were delighted to be included in a group picture. Then the long climb of six miles to the summit began to reveal dangers and difficulties. One sharp curve followed another. We soon overtook the French motor cyclists. They were walking, having found the ascent too steep. It was thrilling to be able to look down into the sunshine and fertility of Italy and then to observe the barren world of rock and snow into which we had risen. The engine proved equal to the severe test. We used the same tactics which were so successful on the Stelvio, keeping the same pace until the summit was gained, where we let the car rest near the world-famous Hospice du Petit St. Bernard. Other cars had halted in succession, having made the ascent from the French sideen tourto Italy.

There was missing one interesting personality who had greeted visitors to thehospicein other years, the Abbé Chanoux, for fifty years rector of thehospiceand the last patriarch of that legendary region of the Alps. Thehospicesof the Grand St. Bernard, and of the Simplon in Swiss territory, are managed by priests, but the Abbé Chanoux reigned alone in his mountain hospital, assisted by a few helpers and by his dogs. For half a century it was always a joy, when he saw some traveler less hurried than the others, to offer him a glass ofmuscatin his workshop and then, after having shown his garden of Alpine plants, to point out the shortest road to La Thuile. To-day the tourist can see the Alpine garden and the grave where, at the age of eighty-one years, Abbé Chanoux was buried. The resting place is where he wished it to be, in view of Italy, France, Mont Blanc, and his belovedhospice.

Just beyond thehospiceis a Roman column of rough marble bearing the statue of St. Bernard. One also sees, close by, a circle of large stones marking the spot where Hannibalis supposed to have held a council of war. A simple slab by the roadside designates the boundary line between Italy and France. As if to emphasize the fact that we were in France, a group of French soldiers were on duty close to the frontier. The cuisine of the restaurant Belvedere, with its attractivecarte du jour, took us into the real atmosphere of the country.

The descent of nearly eighteen miles from the summit to the Frenchdouaneat Séez, was like passing from mid-winter to mid-summer. What a superb stretch of motoring it was! The panorama, one of those marvelous masterpieces which nature rarely spreads before the eyes even of fortunate motorists! From our point of observation, on a level with the ice peaks, we could look for miles down into the plains of Savoy. Mont Blanc glistened like burnished silver. We could trace the mountain streams from their cradle in the glacier to their wild leaping from cascade to cascade and to the more peaceful flow through the valley. Pine forests mantled the lower part of the mountain.

Ignition was cut off, and the car left to her own momentum. The grades were much steeper than on the Italian slope, and the curves without railing or protection of any kind. The slightest carelessness in steering would have been fatal. Flowers and grass began to cover the meadows. Pine forests surrounded us. Then we entered on the long, sharp descent to Séez, stopping at thedouanewhere the French officials came out to receive us.

The following incident will sound almost too incredible even to be included in a story of motor experiences. There was a small duty to be paid on the gasoline which we were carrying. Our wealth consisted of American express checks, a few Italian coins, and some French change, insufficient by twentycentimesto pay the duty. One of the officials advanced the twentycentimesfrom his own pocket, thus saving us the inconvenience of trying to cash the express checks somewhere in the town. We wished to "snap" his picture, but his modesty was too great. He also refused the Italian coins which we tried to press uponhim as a souvenir of the occasion. One associates customhouse officials with so many things that are unpleasant, that the incident naturally made a great impression on us.

Our difficulties were by no means over. The winding road with its sharp grades required the greatest caution. Near the Pont St. Martin it appeared to run straight over a precipice, and then turned sharply to the right. This was the place where only a few weeks later an American party suffered a terrible accident. Their machine swerved while making the slippery turn, and fell nearly seventy feet among the rocks.

For a distance of seventeen miles from Bourg St. Maurice to Mouthiers the road was in an appalling condition, any speed over ten miles an hour being at the risk of breaking the springs. A railroad was being constructed, and the heavy teams had raised havoc. We were creeping through this traffic, when the sudden halt of the wagon in front compelled us to stop. Two big teams, drawing stone, closed in on either side. The drivers, intent only on looking ahead, did not notice thattheir heavy wheels were in danger of smashing the car. We finally attracted their attention, but barely in time to avoid trouble. From Albertville our course was over the splendid Nationale, which runs from Paris to Italy.

It is always a pleasant experience to motor on these famous highways, to observe the governmental system of tree planting, and to study what trees have been found most suitable in certain regions to protect the road and the traveler. The ornamental horse chestnut and maple greeted us most often in the small towns of eastern and northern France. Long rows of plane trees formed one of the familiar and beautiful sights of Provençe. We often saw these trees fringing the fields to give shelter and protection from the blasts of the mistral. It was also interesting to notice how fruit trees have in many places replaced forest trees along the road. These national highways, so much improved by Napoleon, were for us like open books for the study of the French trees.

It has been well noted that "while the state has the right to plant along the national roads,at any distance it pleases from the adjoining property, it exercises this right with judicious moderation and leaves, as a rule, two meters—six and one-half feet—between the trees and the outside edge of the roadway.

"Tree planting is let in small contracts, sometimes as low as five thousand francs apiece. The object of this is to promote competition and to attract specialists, such as gardeners and nurserymen, who are hardly likely to have the means for undertaking large contracts.

"Government inspectors see that the contractor plants well-formed trees, free from disease and in every way first class.

"As the best planting season is short, a fine is imposed for every day's delay. When the contractor gets his pay, a certain sum is retained as a guarantee; and for two years he is responsible for the care of the trees and for the replacing of any that died or that proved defective. The sum held back until the final acceptance of his work, protects the government from danger of loss."[3]

There was no hurry about reaching Chambéry, our headquarters for the night. The distance of a few miles could easily be covered before dark, so we halted for a little while by the roadside. The car was in remarkably good condition after the tremendous strain of the day's ride. Dimly, in the distance, towered the snow-clad heights where we had been motoring only a short time before. By thus tarrying a while we enjoyed dazzling retrospect, present beauty, and alluring prospect.

A big Peugot tore by. These wide, smooth highways of crushed stone invite speed. There is a speed limit of eighteen miles in the open country, but it has long been a dead letter. The French system is to allow the motorist to choose his own pace, but to make him fully responsible for accidents. By thus heavily penalizing careless driving, the law works to develop the driver's discretion and does not impose farcical speed limits. This absence of burdensome regulations eliminates an endless amount of friction, and is one of many conditions in France which have contributed to the pleasure and comfort of foreign motorists.

Now we were in Savoy, celebrated for its mountain scenery, its lakes, and curious peasant villages. There was a home feeling in our return to this beautiful French province, for we had motored here a previous summer. Many a delightful motor ramble was associated with the names of Chamonix, at the foot of Mont Blanc; Evian-les-Bains, on Lake Geneva; Annecy, on the lake of the same name, that quaint city which so charmed the Prince of Wales, a few years ago, with its arcaded, winding streets and old-world charm; Aix-les-Bains, the noted and popular watering place; and there, only a few miles away, Chambéry, historic city of the dukes of Savoy and of the kings of Italy. It was fine to see that same blue atmosphere about us again, and, above all, to think that for weeks our motor wanderings were to be in France, the one country on the continent of Europe where an American can feel most at home, and where the motorist can find, amid diversity of scenery, a provincial life charming alike for its hospitality and old-fashioned customs. Riding through the twilight to Chambéry, we hunted up the Hôtel deFrance. This hotel could hardly have been described as luxurious, but it was comfortable, as are most of the hotels in the provinces.

The chief interest of Chambéry centers about the Rue des Arcades. At one end of the arcaded street is the curious Fontaine des Elephants. This monument, on four bronze elephants, is dedicated "to the Comte de Boigne, who settled here after his romantic life of soldiering in India and bestowed much of the fruit of the pagoda-tree upon the town." At the other end of the street are the high, massive walls which protect the château where the dukes of Savoy lived and where some of the kings of Italy were born. There is little enough to recall the glamour and glitter of those proud days. The city, with its more prosaic emblems of civil and military authority, now occupies the château.

At Chambéry we interrupted our trip through southern France to visit Lyons, the center of the silk industry not only for France but for the entire world. For once, we traveled by train. There is an element of strain about mountain motoring which is as severe upon driver as upon car. A diversion is not only welcome but almost necessary to the motorist who has twice guided his car over the Alps within the short space of a few days. The exhilaration of looking down into France or Italy from the summit of the Alps does not lessen the dangers of the long descent, where for considerable stretches every foot of the way is crowded with possibilities of accident.

Lyons, while usually overlooked by the vast army of summer tourists, holds, in many respects, a unique place among the world's great cities. We would speak of its magnificent location upon two rivers, the rapid Rhone and the sluggish Saône; of the twenty-seven bridgesthat cross them; of the many miles of tree-lined quays, which hold back the spring floods and offer a lovely promenade to the people. No one who has seen Lyons will forget how the houses rise in picturesque confusion, tier piled above tier, to the heights of Fauvière, where some of the Roman emperors lived centuries ago, and where, on the site of the old Roman forum, stands a beautiful church, overlooking the city and embracing one of the views of Europe of which one never tires. On a clear day the Alps are visible, and the snows of Mont Blanc, and just outside the city one can see the two rivers uniting in their sweep to the Mediterranean.

Lyons is a military stronghold. Its prominence as a manufacturing and railroad center indicates, of course, its great strategic importance. Seventeen forts guard the hills around the city. The army is much in evidence. This constant coming and going of the French soldiers gives much color and animation to the street scenes. Everyone is impressed by the cuirassiers. They are powerfully built and look so effective, like real soldiers who could uphold the traditions of Napoleon's time, andwho would feel much more at home on the battle field than at an afternoon tea. We saw the Zouaves, in their huge, baggy redpantalonsand with their faces tanned by exposure to the tropical sun of Algeria. Their red caps reminded us of the Turkish fez.

The Rhone at LyonsPage 65Copyright by Underwood & Underwood

The Rhone at LyonsPage 65

The Place des Terraux, peaceful enough to-day with its busy shops and clouds of white doves, witnessed many a tragic spectacle of the French Revolution. The guillotine stood in the center of the square. Lyons, always royalist in its sympathies, was one of the first cities to raise the standard of revolt against the excesses of the revolutionists in Paris. The consequences of this act were fatal and terrible. The Reign of Terror in Paris was surpassed by the more gruesome reign of terror in Lyons. An army was sent against the city, which was finally captured, after a desperate resistance. "Then the convention resolved to inflict an unheard-of punishment; it ordered the destruction of a part of the city and the erection on the ruins of a pillar, with the inscription, 'Lyons waged war with liberty; Lyons is no more.'"[4]

The city was "the scene of perhaps the greatest cruelty of the Revolution, when women who had begged for mercy to their dear ones, were tied to the foot of the guillotine and compelled to witness hours of butchery."[5]It was soon found that the guillotine did not work fast enough. The defect was quickly remedied. Hundreds of captives were taken outside the city, where the guns of the revolutionists continued the slaughter on a larger and more satisfactory scale.

Possibly the most interesting fact about modern Lyons is its industrial prominence. Baedeker tells us that the city exports annually over one hundred million dollars' worth of silk. Its life seems to be founded upon this one industry. The rich Lyonnais are silk manufacturers. The museum of silks is the finest thing of its kind in Europe. In the old part of the city is the statue of Jacquard, the inventor of the silk loom. As we walked through the narrow streets, there could be heard the sharp clicking of the shuttles, a sign that the weavers werebusy at their looms. We were shown the "conditioning house," where the imported raw silk is tested and subjected to a high temperature. This is the first important step in the manufacture of silk, which in the raw state absorbs moisture readily. But by exposing the silk to heat at a temperature of seventy-two to seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit, the water evaporates and the weight of the silk may then be ascertained. To prevent fraud it is then marked by a sworn valuer. France raises very little raw silk, most of it being imported from Japan and China. Out of a population of nearly half a million, nearly a third is directly engaged in the production of silk, and the workers in the surrounding districts would probably number as many more. For a distance of thirty miles, outside of Lyons, the country is dotted with little houses, each containing one or more looms. The prosperity of few large cities is more clearly the result of a single industry.

Americans are especially interested in Lyons for its connection with the starting of silk manufacturing in the United States. A short timeago we were shown a letter written in 1863 by an American living in Lyons. He refers to the excitement created in this district by the rumor that weavers were being engaged with a view to establishing silk manufacturing in the United States on a very extensive scale, and that several companies had been formed and had sent out agents to purchase in Lyons all the machinery and looms used in the manufacture of silk. The writer doubted if the conditions in the United States would make possible the success of the venture. In spite of this prediction, the industry developed rapidly, so that to-day nine hundred American manufacturers have a combined annual output valued at over two hundred million dollars. At the time of the assassination of Lincoln the United States government received a silk flag from the weavers of Lyons dedicated to the people of the United States in memory of Abraham Lincoln. The flag was of the finest fabric and was inscribed: "Popular subscription to the Republic of the United States, in memory of Abraham Lincoln. Lyons, 1865."

But while the United States is making moresilk than France, Lyons remains the real center and heart of the industry. American high-power looms are mostly engaged in turning out, by the mile, a cheaper kind of silk, and largely confined to standard grades in most common use. The thread is much coarser. After having lived in Lyons it is possible to understand why this city continues to be the center of the silk industry, even when we consider that this is a mechanical age, and that the inventions of one nation spread quickly to competing nations. American manufacturers are using the Jacquard loom, a Lyonnais invention. The first American looms were imported from Lyons, but one thing which was not bought and imported with the loom, was that aptitude for handling it which is inborn in the Lyonnais. Machinery has its limitations, and back of the machine is the question of efficient labor. The trained hand of the workman is needed at every turn. The looms of Lyons are famous for their light, soft, brilliant tissues. The silk thread woven into many of these beautiful products is so fine that two and one-half million feet of it would weigh only two and one-fifth pounds.

It is an experience to see the weavers at their work, and to watch the sure, skillful way in which they weave the thousands of delicate threads into harmonies of color. Their skill is the heritage that has come down from father to son. These workmen have a start of many centuries over their American competitors. Their ancestors were weaving silk before America was discovered, the industry being started in Lyons in 1450 by Italian refugees. Traditions count for a great deal in the silk industry, and from the moment when Lyonnais weavers gained the Grand Prix from their Venetian rivals, under Louis XIV, in the latter half of the seventeenth century, their looms were busy making costly robes and rare tapestries for the royalty of Europe. In the museum at Lyons is a robe worn by the famous Catherine II of Russia. One is shown tapestries that adorned the apartments of Marie Antoinette in the Tuileries at Paris, and the throne room of Napoleon I in the palace at Versailles. Money could not buy these precious souvenirs of the Lyonnais looms. Many of the gorgeous robes worn at the coronation ceremony ofGeorge V were made in Lyons. To-day, as in the past, to make these rich silks and brocades that France is exporting, there is needed not only the skill of the worker, but the soul of the artist. This artistic French temperament is the important and deciding factor that makes Lyons the center of the silk industry. There has been the attempt to create in the United States a style which would be distinctly American. It failed. The German emperor also encouraged efforts to create a style which would be typically German. The result was the same. The atmosphere in these countries is too commercial and mechanical for artistic vitality. In such an environment it is said that the French weavers who are employed in American silk factories become less effective, and lose much of their artistic originality. The industrial pace is too fast. The cost of labor in the United States is so great that the emphasis has to be placed on speed and quantity in order to cover the cost of production. But in Lyons, with a cheaper labor cost, the organization of hand and power looms is so perfect that a manufacturer is able to fill large orders readily.

A superior loom organization, combined with a temperament naturally artistic and creative, explains the advantage of the Lyonnais manufacturer over his American rival, and why it is that American buyers for our large department stores come to Lyons twice a year to select designs and place orders with the Lyonnais manufacturers. Department stores which cater to the wealthiest class of trade have their representatives permanently stationed here to keep in closest possible touch with the latest French fashions.

This question of style is of such absorbing interest to the average American home that it will be worth while to notice the forces at work in Lyons to produce it. Paris is so largely the parade ground for new fashions that nearly everyone overlooks the tremendous influence of Lyons in the creation of styles. The hundred and more silk manufacturers of Lyons have their own designers, who are constantly devising new patterns and color combinations. Most of the new designs and color schemes that appear every season in muslins, taffetas, satins, in all the varied kinds and qualities of silk, havetheir origin here. This is the creative source. It is Paris that discriminates and decides to which of these new patterns it will give expression in the models which will be copied in all the fashion centers of the world. Paris has the artistic sense of knowing how to combine the materials that Lyons furnishes. The two cities work together. The famous fashion stores of Paris and the silk manufacturers of Lyons are the primary factors in the creation of styles, and yet, after all, the origin of style is to be found in the spirit of the times. Our restless age craves constant change. A century ago in France, when life moved more slowly, the silk dress was an important part of the bride's trousseau, and after being worn on special occasions through her life, was handed down to the next generation. But to-day the styles change with the seasons.

And as they change in Paris so they change in the United States. If we look at this question of style simply from the standpoint of organization, it seems remarkable how perfectly every little detail of the complicated machinery has been worked out. A Frenchsilk manufacturer, who arrived in Lyons after a visit to several American cities, was impressed not only with the rapidity with which styles spread from the upper to the middle classes, and the quickness with which the American people grasp new ideas of dress, but also with the fact that Paris fashions appear in New York and Chicago at almost the same time that they appear in Paris. He saw accurate reproductions of the spring Paris fashions, made in America of French materials, and with the color, the line, the idea, the detail, so perfectly reproduced that it would have been difficult to decide between them and the Paris garment. More and more we are coming to realize our great debt to France, and to the Old World, for our education in matters of taste, for our appreciation of beauty in line and color.

And in Lyons one comes closest to this artistic spirit in the workshops of the weavers, and especially those who work on the hand looms. There are thousands of these weavers of the old school that has done so much to make famous the silk industry of the city. Their wages are small and they work amid surroundings ofextreme poverty. We visited some of them in their shops. Often we found the loom situated in a damp, gloomy basement, or on the top floor of some old house that looked as though it might have passed through the storm and stress of the period of the French Revolution. These sanitary conditions are so bad that in 1911 there was organized a charitable company with the sole purpose of providing decent lodgings where the weavers could work under improved conditions of light and shade. We always found them hospitable, eager to exhibit their work and explain the workings of the loom. In one workshop the weaver was busy with a piece of satin, the design being wrought in silver and gold. For this beautiful bit of tapestry, which had been ordered for one of the apartments of the Queen of England in Windsor Castle, the workman was receiving only one dollar a day. On another loom there was being reproduced a piece of sixteenth-century brocade. A French millionaire had noticed the original in a museum and wanted an exact reproduction of it for a new château he is building. After a morning passed amid such scenes, you feel thatLyons is worth visiting, if for no other reason than to see at their work these artists of the loom who are so closely associated with one of the world's oldest and most interesting industries.

From Chambéry our course ran southwest through the Midi, that great sweep of territory stretching across the Mediterranean basin from the Alps to the Pyrenees and embracing many of the most interesting regions in France.

Our departure, early in the afternoon, was under somber skies. We were just reaching the outskirts of the city when the engine gave evidence of trouble. The car ran for a little way and then stopped. An investigation revealed the necessity of cleaning the spark plugs. While engaged in this work, we did not notice the approach of an ox team which came swinging along the road, drawing a two-wheeled cart, the wheels high and heavy, of a type which one often sees in the Midi. We were bending over the engine, with no thought of impending danger, when, without warning, the great wheels were upon us. The driver was evidently asleep; it was toolate to attract his attention. The wheel grazed one of us, and then, as the oxen swung in, crushed the other against the fender. It was fortunate that the fender yielded just enough to cause him to be forced under it and thus saved him from serious injury. Our car carried the scars of that encounter until the end of the trip. We were just as well satisfied that it was the car which bore the scars.

Not more than a mile or so from the scene of this adventure, a sign called attention to a long tunnel just ahead. The signs of the French roads speak an expressive language, they are so elaborately worked out for the traveler's convenience. This time it was a voice of warning. Lamps were lighted. The tunnel closed over us. We could just make out the faint star of daylight ahead. Weird shadows danced in front of the car. In the silence and gloom, the noise of our progress over the slippery road was greatly magnified. We emerged from the tunnel to find ourselves above a broad valley and nearing the small town of Les Echelles.

Out of the silence and gloomCopyright by Underwood & Underwood

Out of the silence and gloom

Until this point our course was the route to the Grande Chartreuse, the monastery where, in mediæval days, the monks concocted a soothing cordial to refresh the hours of rude toil. The road now branched off in another direction. Our hopes of catching a glimpse of the celebrated old monastery, built high amid enshrining mountains, were doomed to disappointment. A storm was about to break. Heavy clouds, weighted down by their burdens of water, blotted out everything. From a patch of blue sky above Les Echelles, the sun streamed, and then disappeared. We raced down the easy slope to gain shelter in the village a mile away. Swiftly the thick curtain of rain closed in. It was a question whether we would be able to reach shelter before the fury of the elements burst upon us. Once more our car proved equal to the emergency, and we poked our way into the shed adjoining a village inn and waited until the worst of the storm had subsided. The rain continuing, we put up the top, and started in time to see a brilliant rainbow arching the whole valley. It was only for a moment. Forthe rest of the afternoon we splashed steadily through puddles and mud.

The scenery changed. Mountain landscapes gave place to the lowlands of the Midi, barren rocks to fertile peasant farms. It was all a glimpse of France as she really is; not like Germany, a land of large cities, but rather of small towns and rural hamlets where peasant ownership is a fact, and where the peasantry form a mighty political force. France, so torn by rival factions, would be like a machine without a balance wheel if it were not for a large peasant class attached to the soil by the bond of ownership. The life of the French peasant is not easy. He toils long hours for small rewards. Even in the rain, we could see him continuing at his work. But he is free. Those two or three acres are his own. That is the great point. This fact of possession, by creating local ties and by fostering patriotism, is the safeguard of the country. His implements appeared to be of the simplest; probably most of those whom we saw working on that rainy afternoon had never seen a steam plow or a harvesting machine. Thehomes were equally rude. Everywhere in France we noticed the absence of those cozy, comfortable houses which are so characteristic of the average American farm. Few fences were to be seen, possibly because of the spirit of justice as regards property rights, or perhaps because the land laws had been so perfectly worked out.

We entered Romans through a street so unusually wide as to be a pleasant surprise. Darkness was coming on. Road signs were indistinct, so we were forced to inquire the way to Valence. The people were obliging. Whether we were in the country or in some small town, there was always in evidence that same spirit of hospitable helpfulness which we found at the Frenchdouanein Séez.

The street lamps of Valence were burning when we arrived at the Hôtel de la Croix d'Or, so well known to all who journey from Paris to the Riviera. The marble entrance was quite imposing, but apparently after reaching the top of the staircase the builders were suddenly seized by a passion for economy, since the interior was very plain, like mostof the hotels in the French provincial towns. The dinner, however, made up for other deficiencies. Here, and all through the Midi, we could be sure of deliciousharicots verts,omelette, andpoulet; and what may seem strange, we never became tired of these dishes. The art of cooking them must be a monopoly of the French cuisine, for they never tasted so good in other countries.

Valence is more of a place to stopen tourthan to visit for sight-seeing. It is fortunate in being situated on the main route from Paris to the Riviera, the road that we were to follow, and probably the most popular and most frequented motor road in France. Over its smooth, broad surface passes the winter rush of motorists seeking the warmer, more congenial climate of the Mediterranean shores.

We often found more or less trouble in getting out of the larger French towns. The streets are apt to have a snarl and tangle. Carts and wagons block the way. Roads are the worse for wear. This seemed to us one of the big differences between France and Germany. The German town is neat, clean, well-kept asif the watchful eye of municipal authority were always on the alert to notice and remedy small defects. The average French town looks neglected. The people are just as thrifty, but they appear to care less for appearances.

From Valence we swung more quickly than usual into the splendid Route Nationale above mentioned. It was Sunday. Peasants were entering and coming from the small age-worn churches. At that hour the fields looked strangely deserted. Blue skies were radiant, the air agreeably cooled by the rain of the night before, the dust well laid. More and more we were yielding to the fascination of Europe from a motor car. Train schedules did not trouble us. We were independent. There were no worries about having to arrive or depart at a certain hour. Life on the road was a constant flow of new impressions, new experiences. Every village had its own unique attraction. Many motor cars passed us, each one an object of interest. Possibly in our cruise along these high seas of the French roads our feelings were a little like those of the mariner when he sights a passing ship.Where does she hail from? Where her probable destination? Of what make? What flag is she flying? It was always a welcome sight to view the Stars and Stripes flying toward us. One can usually tell the American car even when some distance away, it is built so high. We noticed many Fords and Cadillacs. There is not much of a market in Europe for the expensive American car, because the foreign high-priced car is considered by the Europeans to be good enough. The cheaper American product has a market because few of the foreign firms make a cheap car.

High noon was upon us, the heat oppressive, our appetites ravenous, when we stopped in the poor little village of Pierrelatte. The prospect for lunch was not encouraging. A single stray resident appeared at the other end of the silent street. The houses might have been occupied by peasants who wrested mere existence from a barren soil. The inn, which was pointed out to us, would never have been recognized as such. It looked more like a venerable ruin. In an American town of this size we would have hesitated beforeentering, and then probably would have turned away in despair to look for a bakery shop to stay the pangs of hunger. But we were growing familiar with the small French towns. It does not take long to discover that a hotel with an exterior symbolizing woe and want can have a very attractive interior at lunch time.

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