FROM AMERICA TO THE GERMAN FRONTIER.
At one P.M., on that day, the ponderous but shapely hull of the City of
Chicago, with its living and lively freight, moves from the dock as
though it, too, were endowed with mind as well with matter; the crowds that
a minute ago disappeared down the gangplank are now congregated on the
outer end of the pier, a compact mass of waving handkerchiefs, and
anxious-faced people shouting out signs of recognition to friends aboard
the departing steamer.
>From beginning to end of the voyage across the Atlantic the weather is
delightful; and the passengers - well, half the cabin-passengers are members
of Henry Irving's Lyceum Company en route home after their second
successful tour in America; and old voyagers abroad who have crossed the
Atlantic scores of times pronounce it altogether the most enjoyable trip
they ever experienced. The third day out we encountered a lonesome-looking
iceberg - an object that the captain seemed to think would be better
appreciated, and possibly more affectionately remembered, if viewed at
the respectful distance of about four miles. It proves a cold, unsympathetic
berg, yet extremely entertaining in its own way, since it accommodates
us by neutralizing pretty much all the surplus caloric in the atmosphere
around for hours after it has disappeared below the horizon of our vision.
I am particularly fortunate in finding among my fellow-passengers Mr.
Harry B. French, the traveller and author, from whom I obtain much
valuable information, particularly of China. Mr. French has travelled
some distance through the Flowery Kingdom himself, and thoughtfully
forewarns me to anticipate a particularly lively and interesting time
in invading that country with a vehicle so strange and incomprehensible
to the Celestial mind as a bicycle. This experienced gentleman informs
me, among other interesting things, that if five hundred chattering
Celestials batter down the door and swarm unannounced at midnight into
the apartment where I am endeavoring to get the first wink of sleep
obtained for a whole week, instead of following the natural inclinations
of an AngloSaxon to energetically defend his rights with a stuffed club,
I shall display Solomon-like wisdom by quietly submitting to the invasion,
and deferentially bowing to Chinese inquisitiveness. If, on an occasion
of this nature, one stationed himself behind the door, and, as a sort
of preliminary warning to the others, greeted the first interloper with
the business end of a boot-jack, he would be morally certain of a lively
one-sided misunderstanding that might end disastrously to himself;
whereas, by meekly submitting to a critical and exhaustive examination
by the assembled company, he might even become the recipient of an apology
for having had to batter down the door in order to satisfy their curiosity.
One needs more discretion than valor in dealing with the Chinese. At
noon on the 19th we reach Liverpool, where I find a letter awaiting me
from A. J. Wilson (Faed), inviting me to call on him at Powerscroft
House, London, and offering to tandem me through the intricate mazes of
the West End; likewise asking whether it would be agreeable to have him,
with others, accompany me from London down to the South coast - a programme
to which, it is needless to say, I entertain no objections. As the custom-
house officer wrenches a board off the broad, flat box containing my
American bicycle, several fellow-passengers, prompted by their curiosity
to obtain a peep at the machine which they have learned is to carry me
around the world, gather about; and one sympathetic lady, as she catches
a glimpse of the bright nickeled forks, exclaims, "Oh, what a shame
that they should be allowed to wrench the planks off. They might injure
it;" but a small tip thoroughly convinces the individual prying off the
board that, by removing one section and taking a conscientious squint
in the direction of the closed end, his duty to the British government
would be performed as faithfully as though everything were laid bare;
and the kind-hearted lady's apprehensions of possible injury are thus
happily allayed. In two hours after landing, the bicycle is safely stowed
away in the underground store-rooms of the Liverpool & Northwestern
Railway Company, and in two hours more I am wheeling rapidly toward
London, through neatly cultivated fields, and meadows and parks of that
intense greenness met with nowhere save in the British Isles, and which
causes a couple of native Americans, riding in the same compartment, and
who are visiting England for the first time, to express their admiration
of it all in the unmeasured language of the genuine Yankee when truly
astonished and delighted. Arriving in London I lose no time in seeking
out Mr. Bolton, a well-known wheelman, who has toured on the continent
probably as extensively as any other English cycler, and to whom I bear
a letter of introduction. Together, on Monday afternoon, we ruthlessly
invade the sanctums of the leading cycling papers in London. Mr. Bolton
is also able to give me several useful hints concerning wheeling through
France and Germany. Then comes the application for a passport, and the
inevitable unpleasantness of being suspected by every policeman and
detective about the government buildings of being a wild-eyed dynamiter
recently arrived from America with the fell purpose of blowing up the
place. On Tuesday I make a formal descent on the Chinese Embassy, to
seek information regarding the possibility of making a serpentine trail
through the Flowery Kingdom via Upper Burmah to Hong-Kong or Shanghai.
Here I learn from Dr. McCarty, the interpreter at the Embassy, as from
Mr. French, that, putting it as mildly as possible, I must expect a wild
time generally in getting through the interior of China with a bicycle.
The Doctor feels certain that I may reasonably anticipate the pleasure
of making my way through a howling wilderness of hooting Celestials from
one end of the country to the other. The great danger, he thinks, will
be not so much the well-known aversion of the Chinese to having an
"outer barbarian" penetrate the sacred interior of their country, as the
enormous crowds that would almost constantly surround me out of curiosity
at both rider and wheel, and the moral certainty of a foreigner unwittingly
doing something to offend the Chinamen's peculiar and deep-rooted notions
of propriety. This, it is easily seen, would be a peculiarly ticklish
thing to do when surrounded by surging masses of dangling pig-tails and
cerulean blouses, the wearers of which are from the start predisposed
to make things as unpleasant as possible. My own experience alone,
however, will prove the kind of reception I am likely to meet with among
them; and if they will only considerately refrain from impaling me on a
bamboo, after a barbarous and highly ingenious custom of theirs, I little
reck what other unpleasantries they have in store. After one remains in
the world long enough to find it out, he usually becomes less fastidious
about the future of things in general, than when in the hopeful days of
boyhood every prospect ahead was fringed with the golden expectations
of a budding and inexperienced imagery; nevertheless, a thoughtful,
meditative person, who realizes the necessity of drawing the line
somewhere, would naturally draw it at impalation. Not being conscious
of any presentiment savoring of impalation, however, the only request I
make of the Chinese, at present, is to place no insurmountable obstacle
against my pursuing the even-or uneven, as the case may be-tenor of my
way through their country. China, though, is several revolutions of my
fifty-inch wheel away to the eastward, at this present time of writing,
and speculations in regard to it are rather premature.
Soon after reaching London I have the pleasure of meeting "Faed," a
gentleman who carries his cycling enthusiasm almost where some people
are said to carry their hearts-on his sleeve; so that a very short
acquaintance only is necessary to convince one of being in the company
of a person whose interest in whirling wheels is of no ordinary nature.
When I present myself at Powerscroft House, Faed is busily wandering
around among the curves and angles of no less than three tricycles,
apparently endeavoring to encompass the complicated mechanism of all
three in one grand comprehensive effort of the mind, and the addition
of as many tricycle crates standing around makes the premises so suggestive
of a flourishing tricycle agency that an old gentleman, happening to
pass by at the moment, is really quite excusable in stopping and inquiring
the prices, with a view to purchasing one for himself. Our tandem ride
through the West End has to be indefinitely postponed, on account of my
time being limited, and our inability to procure readily a suitable
machine; and Mr. Wilson's bump of discretion would not permit him to
think of allowing me to attempt the feat of manoeuvring a tricycle myself
among the bewildering traffic of the metropolis, and risk bringing my
"wheel around the world" to an inglorious conclusion before being fairly
begun. While walking down Parliament Street my attention is called to a
venerable-looking gentleman wheeling briskly along among the throngs
of vehicles of every description, and I am informed that the bold tricycler
is none other than Major Knox Holmes, a vigorous youth of some seventy-eight
summers, who has recently accomplished the feat of riding one hundred
and fourteen miles in ten hours; for a person nearly eighty years of age
this is really quite a promising performance, and there is small doubt
but that when the gallant Major gets a little older - say when he becomes
a centenarian - he will develop into a veritable prodigy on the cinder-path!
Having obtained my passport, and got it vised for the Sultan's dominions
at the Turkish consulate, and placed in Faed's possession a bundle of
maps, which he generously volunteers to forward , to me, as I require
them in the various countries it is proposed to traverse, I return on
April 30th to Liverpool, from which point the formal start on the wheel
across England is to be made. Four o'clock in the afternoon of May 2d
is the time announced, and Edge Hill Church is the appointed place, where
Mr. Lawrence , Fletcher, of the Anfield Bicycle Club, and a number of
other Liverpool wheelmen, have volunteered to meet and accompany me some
distance out of the city. Several of the Liverpool daily papers have
made mention of the affair. Accordingly, upon arriving at the appointed
place and time, I find a crowd of several hundred people gathered to
satisfy their curiosity as to what sort of a looking individual it is
who has crossed America awheel, and furthermore proposes to accomplish
the greater feat of the circumlocution of the globe. A small sea of hats
is enthusiastically waved aloft; a ripple of applause escapes from five
hundred English throats as I mount my glistening bicycle; and, with the
assistance of a few policemen, the twenty-five Liverpool cyclers who
have assembled to accompany me out, extricate themselves from the crowd,
mount and fall into line two abreast; and merrily we wheel away down
Edge Lane and out of Liverpool.
English weather at this season is notoriously capricious, and the present
year it is unusually so, and ere the start is fairly made we are pedaling
along through quite a pelting shower, which, however, fails to make much
impression on the roads beyond causing the flinging of more or less mud.
The majority of my escort are members of the Anfield Club, who have the
enviable reputation of being among the hardest road-riders in England,
several members having accomplished over two hundred miles within the
twenty-four hours; and I am informed that Mr. Fletcher is soon to undertake
the task of beating the tricycle record over that already well-contested
route, from John O'Groat's to Land's End. Sixteen miles out I become
the happy recipient of hearty well-wishes innumerable, with the accompanying
hand-shaking, and my escort turn back toward home and Liverpool - all save
four, who wheel on to Warrington and remain overnight, with the avowed
intention of accompanying me twenty-five miles farther to-morrow morning.
Our Sunday morning experience begins with a shower of rain, which,
however, augurs well for the remainder of the day; and, save for a gentle
head wind, no reproachful remarks are heard about that much-criticised
individual, the clerk of the weather; especially as our road leads through
a country prolific of everything charming to one's sense of the beautiful.
Moreover, we are this morning bowling along the self-same highway that
in days of yore was among the favorite promenades of a distinguished and
enterprising individual known to every British juvenile as Dick Turpin - a
person who won imperishable renown, and the undying affection of the
small Briton of to-day, by making it unsafe along here for stage-coaches
and travellers indiscreet enough to carry valuables about with them.
"Think I'll get such roads as this all through England." I ask of my
escort as we wheel joyously southward along smooth, macadamized highways
that would make the "sand-papered roads" around Boston seem almost
unfit for cycling in comparison, and that lead through picturesque
villages and noble parks; occasionally catching a glimpse of a splendid
old manor among venerable trees, that makes one unconsciously begin
humming:- "The ancient homes of England, How beautiful they stand Amidst
the tall ancestral trees O'er all the pleasant land." "Oh, you'll get
much better roads than this in the southern counties," is the reply;
though, fresh from American roads, one can scarce see what shape the
improvements can possibly take. Out of Lancashire into Cheshire we wheel,
and my escort, after wishing me all manner of good fortune in hearty
Lancashire style, wheel about and hie themselves back toward the rumble
and roar of the world's greatest sea-port, leaving me to pedal pleasantly
southward along the green lanes and amid the quiet rural scenery of
Staffordshire to Stone, where I remain Sunday night. The country is
favored with another drenching down-pour of rain during the night, and
moisture relentlessly descends at short, unreliable intervals on Monday
morning, as I proceed toward Birmingham. Notwithstanding the superabundant
moisture the morning ride is a most enjoyable occasion, requiring but a
dash of sunshine to make everything perfect. The mystic voice of the
cuckoo is heard from many an emerald copse around; songsters that inhabit
only the green hedges and woods of "Merrie England" are carolling their
morning vespers in all directions; skylarks are soaring, soaring skyward,
warbling their unceasing paeans of praise as they gradually ascend into
cloudland's shadowy realms; and occasionally I bowl along beneath an
archway of spreading beeches that are colonized by crowds of noisy rooks
incessantly "cawing" their approval or disapproval of things in general.
Surely England, with its wellnigh perfect roads, the wonderful greenness
of its vegetation, and its roadsters that meet and regard their steel-ribbed
rivals with supreme indifference, is the natural paradise of 'cyclers.
There is no annoying dismounting for frightened horses on these happy
highways, for the English horse, though spirited and brim-ful of fire,
has long since accepted the inevitable, and either has made friends with
the wheelman and his swift-winged steed, or, what is equally agreeable,
maintain a a haughty reserve. Pushing along leisurely, between showers,
into Warwickshire, I reach Birmingham about three o'clock, and, after
spending an hour or so looking over some tricycle works, and calling for
a leather writing-case they are making especially for my tour, I wheel
on to Coventry, having the company, of Mr. Priest, Jr., of the tricycle
works, as far as Stonehouse. Between Birmingham and Coventry the recent
rainfall has evidently been less, and I mentally note this fifteen-mile
stretch of road as the finest traversed since leaving Liverpool, both
for width and smoothness of surface, it being a veritable boulevard.
Arriving at Coventry I call on "Brother Sturmey, " a gentleman well and
favorably known to readers of 'cycling literature everywhere; and, as I
feel considerably like deserving reasonably gentle treatment after
perseveringly pressing forward sixty miles in spite of the rain, I request
him to steer me into the Cyclists' Touring Club Hotel - an office which
he smilingly performs, and thoughtfully admonishes the proprietor to
handle me as tenderly as possible. I am piloted around to take a hurried
glance at Coventry, visiting, among other objects of interest, the Starley
Memorial. This memorial is interesting to 'cyclers from having been
erected by public subscription in recognition of the great interest Mr.
Starley took in the 'cycle industry, he having been, in fact, the father
of the interest in Coventry, and, consequently, the direct author of the
city's present prosperity. The mind of the British small boy along my
route has been taxed to its utmost to account for my white military
helmet, and various and interesting are the passing remarks heard in
consequence. The most general impression seems to be that I am direct
from the Soudan, some youthful Conservatives blandly intimating The
Starley Memorial, Coventry, that I am the advance-guard of a general
scuttle of the army out of Egypt, and that presently whole regiments of
white-helmeted wheelmen will come whirling along the roads on
nickel-plated steeds, some even going so far as to do me the honor of
calling me General Wolseley; while others - rising young Liberals,
probably - recklessly call me General Gordon, intimating by this that the
hero of Khartoum was not killed, after all, and is proving it by sweeping
through England on a bicycle, wearing a white helmet to prove his identity!
A pleasant ride along a splendid road, shaded for miles with rows of
spreading elms, brings me to the charming old village of Dunchurch, where
everything seems moss-grown and venerable with age. A squatty,
castle-like church-tower, that has stood the brunt of many
centuries, frowns down upon a cluster of picturesque, thatched
cottages of primitive architecture, and ivy-clad from top to bottom;
while, to make the picture complete, there remain even the old wooden
stocks, through the holes of which the feet of boozy unfortunates were
wont to be unceremoniously thrust in the good old times of rude simplicity;
in fact, the only really unprimitive building about the place appears
to be a newly erected Methodist chapel. It couldn't be - no, of course it
couldn't be possible, that there is any connecting link between the
American peculiarity of elevating the feet on the window-sill or the
drum of the heating-stove and this old-time custom of elevating the feet
of those of our ancestors possessed of boozy, hilarious proclivities!
At Weedon Barracks I make a short halt to watch the soldiers go through
the bayonet exercises, and suffer myself to be persuaded into quaffing
a mug of delicious, creamy stout at the canteen with a genial old sergeant,
a bronzed veteran who has seen active service in several of the tough
expeditions that England seems ever prone to undertake in various
uncivilized quarters of the world; after which I wheel away over old
Roman military roads, through Northamptonshire and Buckinghamshire,
reaching Fenny Stratford just in time to find shelter against the
machinations of the "weather-clerk", who, having withheld rain nearly all
the afternoon, begins dispensing it again in the gloaming. It rains
uninterruptedly all night; but, although my route for some miles is now
down cross-country lanes, the rain has only made them rather disagreeable,
without rendering them in any respect unridable; and although I am among
the slopes of the Chiltern Hills, scarcely a dismount is necessary during
the forenoon. Spending the night at Berkhamstead, Hertfordshire, I pull
out toward London on Thursday morning, and near Watford am highly gratified
at meeting Faed and the captain of the North London Tricycle Club, who
have come out on their tricycles from London to meet and escort me into
the metropolis. At Faed's suggestion I decide to remain over in London
until Saturday to be present at the annual tricycle meet on Barnes Common,
and together we wheel down the Edgeware Road, Park Road, among the
fashionable turnouts of Piccadilly, past Knightsbridge and Brompton to
the "Inventories" Exhibition, where we spend a most enjoyable afternoon
inspecting the thousand and one material evidences of inventive genius
from the several countries represented.
Five hundred and twelve 'cyclers, including forty-one tandem tricycles
and fifty ladies, ride in procession at the Barnes Common meet, making
quite an imposing array as they wheel two abreast between rows of
enthusiastic spectators. Here, among a host of other wheeling celebrities,
I am introduced to Major Knox Holmes, before mentioned as being a gentleman
of extraordinary powers of endurance, considering his advanced age. After
tea a number of tricyclers accompany me down as far as Croydon, which
place we enter to the pattering music of a drenching rain-storm,
experiencing the accompanying pleasure of a wet skin, etc. The threatening
aspect of the weather on the following morning causes part of our company
to hesitate about venturing any farther from London; but Faed and three
companions wheel with me toward Brighton through a gentle morning shower,
which soon clears away, however, and, before long, the combination of
the splendid Sussex roads, fine breezy weather, and lovely scenery, amply
repays us for the discomforts of yester-eve. Fourteen miles from Brighton
we are met by eight members of the Kempton Rangers Bicycle Club, who
have sallied forth thus far northward to escort us into town; having
done which, they deliver us over to Mr. C---, of the Brighton Tricycle
Club, and brother-in-law to the mayor of the city. It is two in the
afternoon. This gentleman straightway ingratiates himself into our united
affections, and wins our eternal gratitude, by giving us a regular
wheelman's dinner, after which he places us under still further obligations
by showing us as many of the lions of Brighton as are accessible on
Sunday, chief among which is the famous Brighton Aquarium, where, by his
influence, he kindly has the diving-birds and seals fed before their
usual hour, for our especial delectation-a proceeding which naturally
causes the barometer of our respective self-esteems to rise several
notches higher than usual, and doubtless gives equal satisfaction to the
seals and diving-birds. We linger at the aquarium until near sun-down,
and it is fifteen miles by what is considered the smoothest road to
Newhaven. Mr. C---- declares his intention of donning his riding-suit
and, by taking a shorter, though supposably rougher, road, reach Newhaven
as soon as we. As we halt at Lewes for tea, and ride leisurely, likewise
submitting to being photographed en route, he actually arrives there
ahead of us. It is Sunday evening, May 10th, and my ride through "Merrie
England " is at an end. Among other agreeable things to be ever remembered
in connection with it is the fact that it is the first three hundred
miles of road I ever remember riding over without scoring a header - a
circumstance that impresses itself none the less favorably perhaps when
viewed in connection with the solidity of the average English road. It
is not a very serious misadventure to take a flying header into a bed
of loose sand on an American country road; but the prospect of rooting
up a flint-stone with one's nose, or knocking a curb-stone loose with
one's bump of cautiousness, is an entirely different affair; consequently,
the universal smoothness of the surface of the English highways is
appreciated at its full value by at least one wheelman whose experience
of roads is nothing if not varied. Comfortable quarters are assigned me
on board the Channel steamer, and a few minutes after bidding friends
and England farewell, at Newhaven, at 11.30 P.M., I am gently rocked
into unconsciousness by the motion of the vessel, and remain happily and
restfully oblivious to my surroundings until awakened next morning at
Dieppe, where I find myself, in a few minutes, on a foreign shore. All
the way from San Francisco to Newhaven. there is a consciousness of being
practically in one country and among one people-people who, though
acknowledging separate governments, are bound so firmly together by the
ties of common instincts and interests, and the mystic brotherhood of a
common language and a common civilization, that nothing of a serious
nature can ever come between them. But now I am verily among strangers,
and the first thing talked of is to make me pay duty on the bicycle.
The captain of the vessel, into whose hands Mr. C---- assigned me at
Newhaven, protests on my behalf, and I likewise enter a gentle demurrer;
but the custom-house officer declares that a duty will have to be
forthcoming, saying that the amount will be returned again when I pass
over the German frontier. The captain finally advises the payment of the
duty and the acceptance of a receipt for the amount, and takes his leave.
Not feeling quite satisfied as yet about paying the duty, I take a short
stroll about Dieppe, leaving my wheel at tho custom-house and when I
shortly return, prepared to pay the assessment, whatever it may be, the
officer who, but thirty minutes since, declared emphatically in favor
of a duty, now answers, with all the politeness imaginable: "Monsieur
is at liberty to take the velocipede and go whithersoever he will." It
is a fairly prompt initiation into the impulsiveness of the French
character. They don't accept bicycles as baggage, though, on the Channel
steamers, and six shillings freight, over and above passage-money, has
to be yielded up.
Although upon a foreign shore, I am not yet, it seems, to be left entirely
alone to the tender mercies of my own lamentable inability to speak
French. Fortunately there lives at Dieppe a gentleman named Mr. Parkinson,
who, besides being an Englishman to the backbone, is quite an enthusiastic
wheelman, and, among other things, considers it his solemn duty to take
charge of visiting 'cyclers from England and America and see them safely
launched along the magnificent roadways of Normandy, headed fairly toward
their destination. Faed has thoughtfully notified Mr. Parkinson of my
approach, and he is watching for my coming - as tenderly as though I were
a returning prodigal and he charged with my welcoming home. Close under
the frowning battlements of Dieppe Castle - a once wellnigh impregnable
fortress that was some time in possession of the English - romantically
nestles Mr. Parldnson's studio, and that genial gentleman promptly
proposes accompanying me some distance into the country. On our way
through Dieppe I notice blue-bloused peasants guiding small flocks of
goats through the streets, calling them along with a peculiar, tuneful
instrument that sounds somewhat similar to a bagpipe. I learn that they
are Normandy peasants, who keep their flocks around town all summer,
goat's milk being considered beneficial for infants and invalids. They
lead the goats from house to house, and milk whatever quantity their
customers want at their own door - a custom that we can readily understand
will never become widely popular among AngloSaxon milkmen, since it
leaves no possible chance for pump-handle combinations and corresponding
profits. The morning is glorious with sunshine and the carols of feathered
songsters as together we speed away down the beautiful Arques Valley,
over roads that are simply perfect for wheeling; and, upon arriving at
the picturesque ruins of the Chateau d'Arques, we halt and take a casual
peep at the crumbling walls of this of the famous fortress, which the
trailing ivy of Normandy now partially covers with a dark-green mantle
of charity, as though its purpose and its mission were to hide its fallen
grandeur from the rude gaze of the passing stranger. All along the roads
we meet happy-looking peasants driving into Dieppe market with produce.
They are driving Normandy horses - and that means fine, large, spirited
animals - which, being unfamiliar with bicycles, almost invariably take
exception to ours, prancing about after the usual manner of high-strung
steeds. Unlike his English relative, the Norman horse looks not supinely
upon the whirling wheel, but arrays himself almost unanimously against
us, and umially in the most uncompromising manner, similar to the phantom-
eyed roadster of the United States agriculturist. The similarity between
the turnouts of these two countries I am forced to admit, however,
terminates abruptly with the horse itself, and does not by any means
extend to the driver; for, while the Normandy horse capers about and
threatens to upset the vehicle into the ditch, the Frenchman's face is
wreathed in apologetic smiles; and, while he frantically endeavors to
keep the refractory horse under control, he delivers himself of a whole
dictionary of apologies to the wheelman for the animal's foolish conduct,
touches his cap with an air of profound deference upon noticing that we
have considerately slowed up, and invariably utters his Bon jour, monsieur,
as we wheel past, in a voice that plainly indicates his acknowledgment
of the wheelman's - or anybody else's - right to half the roadway. A few
days ago I called the English roads perfect, and England the paradise
of 'cyclers; and so it is; but the Normandy roads are even superior, and
the scenery of the Arques Valley is truly lovely. There is not a loose
stone, a rut, or depression anywhere on these roads, and it is little
exaggeration to call them veritable billiard-tables for smoothness of
surface. As one bowls smoothly along over them he is constantly wondering
how they can possibly keep them in such condition. Were these fine roads
in America one would never be out of sight of whirling wheels. A luncheon
of Normandy cheese and cider at Cleres, and then onward to Bouen is the
word. At every cross-roads is erected an iron guide-post, containing
directions to several of the nearest towns, telling the distances in
kilometres and yards; and small stone pillars are set up alongside the
road, marking every hundred yards. Arriving at Rouen at four o'clock,
Mr. Parkiuson shows me the famous old Rouen Cathedral, the Palace of
Justice, and such examples of old mediaeval Rouen as I care to visit,
and, after inviting me to remain and take dinner with him by the murmuring
waters of the historic Seine, he bids me bon voyage, turns my head
southward, and leaves me at last a stranger among strangers, to "cornprendre
Franyais" unassisted. Some wiseacre has placed it on record that too
much of a good thing is worse than none at all; however that may be,
from having concluded that the friendly iron guide-posts would be found
on every corner where necessary, pointing out the way with infallible
truthfulness, and being doubtless influenced by the superior levelness
of the road leading down the valley of the Seine in comparison with the
one leading over the bluffs, I wander toward eventide into Elbeuf, instead
of Pont de l' Arques, as I had intended; but it matters little, and I
am content to make the best of my surroundings. Wheeling along the
crooked, paved streets of Elbeuf, I enter a small hotel, and, after the
customary exchange of civilities, I arch my eyebrows at an intelligent
-looking madaine, and inquire, " Comprendre Anglais." "Non," replies
the lady, looking puzzled, while I proceed to ventilate my pantomimic
powers to try and make my wants understood. After fifteen minutes of
despairing effort, mademoiselle, the daughter, is despatched to the other
side of the town, and presently returns with a be whiskered Frenchman,
who, in very much broken English, accompanying his words with wondrous
gesticulations, gives me to understand that he is the only person in all
Elbeuf capable of speaking the English language, and begs me to unburden
myself to him without reserve. He proves himself useful and obliging,
kindly interesting himself in obtaining me comfortable accommodation at
reasonable rates. This Elbeuf hotel, though, is anything but an elegant
establishment, and le proprietaire, though seemingly intelligent enough,
brings me out a bottle of the inevitable vin ordinaire (common red wine)
at breakfast-time, instead of the coffee for which my opportune interpreter
said he had given the order yester-eve. If a Frenchman only sits down
to a bite of bread and cheese he usually consumes a pint bottle of vin
ordinaire with it. The loaves of bread here are rolls three and four
feet long, and frequently one of these is laid across - or rather along,
for it is oftentimes longer than the table is wide - the table for you to
hack away at during your meal, according to your bread-eating capacity
or inclination.
Monsieur, the accomplished, come down to see his Anglais friend and
protege next morning, a few minutes after his Anglais friend and protege,
has started off toward a distant street called Rue Poussen, which le
garcon had unwittingly directed him to when he inquired the way to the
bureau de poste; the natural result, I suppose, of the difference between
Elbeuf pronunciation and mine. Discovering my mistake upon arriving at
the Rue Poussen, I am more fortunate in my attack upon the interpreting
abilities of a passing citizen, who sends an Elbeuf gamin to guide me
to the post-office.
Post office clerks are proverbially intelligent people in any country,
consequently it doesn't take me long to transact my business at the
bureau de poste; but now - shades of Caesar! - I have thoughtlessly
neglected to take down either the name of the hotel or the street in
which it is located, and for the next half-hour go wandering about as
helplessly as the "babes in the wood" Once, twice I fancy recognizing
the location; but the ordinary Elbeuf house is not easily recognized
from its neighbors, and I am standing looking around me in the
bewildered attitude of one uncertain of his bearings, when, lo! the
landlady, who has doubtless been wondering whatever has become
of me, appears at the door of a building which I should certainly never
have recognized as my hotel, besom in hand, and her pleasant, "Oui,
monsieur," sounds cheery and welcome enough, under the circumstances,
as one may readily suppose.
Fine roads continue, and between Gaillon and Vernon one can see the
splendid highway, smooth, straight, and broad, stretching ahead for miles
between rows of stately poplars, forming magnificent avenues that add
not a little to the natural loveliness of the country. Noble chateaus
appear here and there, oftentimes situated upon the bluffs of the Seine,
and forming the background to a long avenue of chestnuts, maples, or
poplars, running at right angles to the main road and principal avenue.
The well-known thriftincss of the French peasantry is noticeable on every
hand, and particularly away off to the left yonder, where their small,
well-cultivated farms make the sloping bluffs resemble huge log-cabin
quilts in the distance. Another glaring and unmistakable evidence of the
Normandy peasants' thriftiness is the remarkable number of patches they
manage to distribute over the surface of their pantaloons, every peasant
hereabouts averaging twenty patches, more or less, of all shapes and
sizes. When the British or United States Governments impose any additional
taxation on the people, the people gruinblingly declare they won't put
up with it, and then go ahead and pay it; but when the Chamber of Deputies
at Paris turns on the financial thumb-screw a little tighter, the French
peasant simply puts yet another patch on the seat of his pantaloons, and
smilingly hands over the difference between the patch and the new pair
he intended to purchase!
Huge cavalry barracks mark the entrance to Vernon, and, as I watch with
interest the manoauvring of the troops going through their morning drill,
I cannot help thinking that with such splendid loads as France possesses
she might take many a less practical measure for home defence than to
mount a few regiments of light infantry on bicycles; infantry travelling
toward the front at the late of seventy-five or a hundred miles a day
would be something of an improvement, one would naturally think. Every
few miles my road leads through the long, straggling street of a village,
every building in which is of solid stone, and looks at least a thousand
years old; while at many cross-roads among the fields, and in all manner
of unexpected nooks and corners of the villages, crucifixes are erected
to accommodate the devotionally inclined. Most of the streets of these
interior villages are paved with square stones which the wear and tear
of centuries have generally rendered too rough for the bicycle; but
occasionally one is ridable, and the astonishment of the inhabitants as
I wheel leisurely through, whistling the solemn strains of "Roll, Jordan,
roll," is really quite amusing. Every village of any size boasts a church
that, for fineness of architecture and apparent costliness of construction,
looks out of all proportion to the straggling street of shapeless
structures that it overtops. Everything here seems built as though
intended to last forever, it being no unusual sight to see a ridiculously
small piece of ground surrounded by a stone wall built as though to
resist a bombardment; an enclosure that must have cost more to erect
than fifty crops off the enclosed space could repay. The important town
of Mantes is reached early in the evening, and a good inn found for the
night.
The market-women are arraying their varied wares all along the main
street of Mantes as I wheel down toward the banks of the Seine this
morning. I stop to procure a draught of new milk, and, while drinking
it, point to sundry long rows of light, flaky-looking cakes strung on
strings, and motion that I am desirous of sampling a few at current
rates; but the good dame smiles and shakes her head vigorously, as well
enough she might, for I learn afterward that the cakes are nothing less
than dried yeast-cakes, a breakfast off which would probably have produced
spontaneous combustion. Getting on to the wrong road out of Mantes, I
find myself at the river's edge down among the Seine watermen. I am shown
the right way, but from Mantes to Paris they are not Normandy roads;
from Mantes southward they gradually deteriorate until they are little
or no better than the "sand-papered roads of Boston." Having determined
to taboo vin ordinaire altogether I astonish the restaurateur of a village
where I take lunch by motioning away the bottle of red wine and calling
for " de I'eau," and the glances cast in my direction by the other
customers indicate plainly enough that they consider the proceeding as
something quite extraordinary. Rolling through Saint Germain, Chalon
Pavey, and Nanterre, the magnificent Arc de Triomphe looms up in the
distance ahead, and at about two o'clock, Wednesday, May 13th, I wheel
into the gay capital through the Porte Maillott. Asphalt pavement now
takes the place of macadam, and but a short distance inside the city
limits I notice the 'cycle depot of Renard Ferres. Knowing instinctively
that the fraternal feelings engendered by the magic wheel reaches to
wherever a wheelman lives, I hesitate not to dismount and present my
card. Yes, Jean Glinka, apparently an employe there, comprehends Anglais;
they have all heard of my tour, and wish me bon voyage, and Jean and his
bicycle is forthwith produced and delegated to accompany me into the
interior of the city and find me a suitable hotel. The streets of Paris,
like the streets of other large cities, are paved with various compositions,
and they have just been sprinkled. French-like, the luckless Jean is
desirous of displaying his accomplishments on the wheel to a visitor so
distingue; he circles around on the slippery pavement in a manner most
unnecessary, and in so doing upsets himself while crossing a car-track,
rips his pantaloons, and injures his wheel. At the Hotel du Louvre they
won't accept bicycles, having no place to put them; but a short distance
from there we find a less pretentious establishment, where, after requiring
me to fill up a formidable-looking blank, stating my name, residence,
age, occupation, birthplace, the last place I lodged at, etc., they
finally assign me quarters. From Paul Devilliers, to whom I bring an
introduction, I learn that by waiting here till Friday evening, and
repairing to the rooms of the Societe Velocipedique Metropolitaine, the
president of that club can give me the best bicycle route between Paris
and Vienna; accordingly I domicile myself at the hotel for a couple of
days. Many of the lions of Paris are within easy distance of my hotel.
The reader, however, probably knows more about the sights of Paris than
one can possibly find out in two days; therefore I refrain from any
attempt at describing them; but my hotel is worthy of remark.
Among other agreeable and sensible arrangements at the Hotel uu Loiret,
there is no such thing as opening one's room-door from the outside save
with the key; and unless one thoroughly understands this handy peculiarity,
and has his wits about him continually, he is morally certain, sometime
when he is leaving his room, absent-mindedly to shut the door and leave
the key inside. This is, of course, among the first things that happen
to me, and it costs me half a franc and three hours of wretchedness
before I see the interior of my room again. The hotel keeps a rude
skeleton-key on hand, presumably for possible emergencies of this nature;
but in manipulating this uncouth instrument le portier actually locks
the door, and as the skeleton-key is expected to manage the catch only,
and not the lock, this, of course, makes matters infinitely worse. The
keys of every room in the house are next brought into requisition and
tried in succession, but not a key among them all is a duplicate of mine.
What is to be done. Le portier looks as dejected as though Paris was
about to be bombarded, as he goes down and breaks the dreadful news to
le proprietaire. Up comes le proprietaire - avoirdupois three hundred
pounds - sighing like an exhaust-pipe at every step. For fifteen unhappy
minutes the skeleton-key is wriggled and twisted about again in the key-
hole, and the fat proprietaire rubs his bald head impatiently, but all
to no purpose. Each returns to his respective avocation. Impatient to
get at my writing materials, I look up at the iron bars across the fifth-
story windows above, and motion that if they will procure a rope I will
descend from thence and enter the window. They one and all point out
into the street; and, thinking they have sent for something or somebody,
I sit down and wait with Job-like patience for something to turn up.
Nothing, however, turns up, and at the expiration of an hour I naturally
begin to feel neglected and impatient, and again suggest the rope; when,
at a motion from le proprietaire, le portier pilots me around a neighboring
corner to a locksmith's establishment, where, voluntarily acting the part
of interpreter, he engages on my behalf, for half a franc, a man to come
with a bunch of at least a hundred skeleton-keys of all possible shapes
to attack the refractory key-hole. After trying nearly all the keys, and
disburdening himself of whole volumes of impulsive French ejaculations,
this man likewise gives it up in despair; but, now everything else has
been tried and failed, the countenance of la portier suddenly lights up,
and he slips quietly around to an adjoining room, and enters mine inside
of two minutes by simply lifting a small hook out of a staple with his
knife-blade. There appears to be a slight coolness, as it were, between
le proprietaire and me after this incident, probably owing to the
intellectual standard of each becoming somewhat lowered in the other's
estimation in consequence of it. Le proprietaire, doubtless, thinks a
man capable of leaving the key inside of the door must be the worst type
of an ignoramus; and certainly my opinion of him for leaving such a
diabolical arrangement unchanged in the latter half of the nineteenth
century is not far removed from the same.
Visiting the headquarters of the Societe Velocipedique Mctropolitaine
on Friday evening, I obtain from the president the desired directions
regarding the route, and am all prepared to continue eastward in the
morning. Wheeling down the famous Champs Elysees at eleven at night,
when the concert gardens are in full blast and everything in a blaze,
of glory, with myriads of electric lights festooned and in long brilliant
rows among the trees, is something to be remembered for a lifetime.
Before breakfast I leave the city by the Porte Daumesiul, and wheel
through the environments toward Vincennes and Jonville, pedalling, to
the sound of martial music, for miles beyond the Porte. The roads for
thirty miles east of Paris are not Normandy roads, but the country for
most of the distance is fairly level, and for mile after mile, and league
beyond league, the road is beneath avenues of plane and poplar, which,
crossing the plain in every direction like emerald walls of nature's own
building, here embellish and beautify an otherwise rather monotonous
stretch of country. The villages are little different from the villages
of Normandy, but the churches have not the architectural beauty of the
Normandy churches, being for the most part massive structures without
any pretence to artistic embellishment in their construction. Monkish-looking
priests are a characteristic feature of these villages, and when, on
passing down the narrow, crooked streets of Fontenay, I wheel beneath a
massive stone archway, and looking around, observe cowled priests and
everything about the place seemingly in keeping with it, one can readily
imagine himself transported back to medieval times. One of these little
interior French villages is the most unpromising looking place imaginable
for a hungry person to ride into; often one may ride the whole length
of the village expectantly looking around for some visible evidence of
wherewith to cheer the inner man, and all that greets the hungry vision
is a couple of four-foot sticks of bread in one dust-begrimed window,
and a few mournful-looking crucifixes and Roman Catholic paraphernalia
in another. Neither are the peasants hereabouts to be compared with the
Normandy peasantry in personal appearance. True, they have as many patches
on their pantaloons, but they don't seem to have acquired the art of
attaching them in a manner to produce the same picturesque effect as
does the peasant of Normandy; the original garment is almost invariably
a shapeless corduroy, of a bagginess and an o'er-ampleness most unbeautiful
to behold.
The well-known axiom about fair paths leading astray holds good with the
high-ways and by-ways of France, as elsewhere, and soon after leaving
the ancient town of Provins, I am tempted by a splendid road, following
the windings of a murmuring brook, that appears to be going in my
direction, in consequence of which I soon find myself among cross-country
by-ways, and among peasant proprietors who apparently know little of the
world beyond their native Tillages. Four o'clock finds me wheeling through
a hilly vineyard district toward Villenauxe, a town several kilometres
off my proper route, from whence a dozen kilometres over a very good
road brings me to Sezanne, where the Hotel de France affords excellent
accommodation. After the table d'hote the clanging bells of the old
church hard by announce services of some kind, and having a natural
penchant when in strange places from wandering whithersoever inclination
leads, in anticipation of the ever possible item of interest, I meander
into the church and take a seat. There appears to be nothing extraordinary
about the service, the only unfamiliar feature to me being a man wearing
a uniform similar to the gendarmerie of Paris: cockade, sash, sword, and
everything complete; in addition to which he carries a large cane and a
long brazen-headed staff resembling the boarding-pike of the last century.
It has rained heavily during the night, but the roads around here are
composed mainly of gravel, and are rather improved than otherwise by the
rain; and from Sezanne, through Champenoise and on to Vitry le Francois,
a distance of about sixty-five kilometres, is one of the most enjoyable
stretches of road imaginable. The contour of the country somewhat resembles
the swelling prairies of Western Iowa, and the roads are as perfect for
most of the distance as an asphalt boulevard. The hills are gradual
acclivities, and, owing to the good roads, are mostly ridable, while -
the declivities make the finest coasting imaginable; the exhilaration
of gliding down them in the morning air, fresh after the rain, can be
compared only to Canadian tobogganing. Ahead of you stretches a gradual
downward slope, perhaps two kilometres long. Knowing full well that from
top to bottom there exists not a loose stone or a dangerous spot, you
give the ever-ready steel-horse the rein; faster and faster whirl the
glistening wheels until objects "by the road-side become indistinct
phantoms as they glide instantaneously by, and to strike a hole or
obstruction is to be transformed into a human sky-rocket, and, later on,
into a new arrival in another world. A wild yell of warning at a blue-
bloused peasant in the road ahead, shrill screams of dismay from several
females at a cluster of cottages, greet the ear as you sweep past like
a whirlwind, and the next moment reach the bottom at a rate of speed
that would make the engineer of the Flying Dutchman green with envy.
Sometimes, for the sake of variety, when gliding noiselessly along on
the ordinary level, I wheel unobserved close up behind an unsuspecting
peasant walking on ahead, without calling out, and when he becomes
conscious of my presence and looks around and sees the strange vehicle
in such close proximity it is well worth the price of a new hat to see
the lively manner in which he hops out of the way, and the next moment
becomes fairly rooted to the ground with astonishment; for bicycles and
bicycle riders are less familiar objects to the French peasant, outside
of the neighborhood of a few large cities, than one would naturally
suppose.
Vitry le Frangois is a charming old town in the beautiful valley of the
Marne; in the middle ages it was a strongly fortified city; the moats
and earth-works are still perfect. The only entrance to the town, even
now, is over the old draw-bridges, the massive gates, iron wheels, chains,
etc., still being intact, so that the gates can yet be drawn up and
entrance denied to foes, as of yore; but the moats are now utilized for
the boats of the Marne and Rhine Canal, and it is presumable that the
old draw-bridges are nowadays always left open. To-day is Sunday - and
Sunday in France is equivalent to a holiday - consequently Vitry le Frangois,
being quite an important town, and one of the business centres of the
prosperous and populous Marne Valley, presents all the appearance of
circus-day in an American agricultural community. Several booths are
erected in the market square, the proprietors and attaches of two
peregrinating theatres, several peep-shows, and a dozen various games
of chance, are vying with each other in the noisiness of their demonstrations
to attract the attention and small change of the crowd to their respective
enterprises. Like every other highway in this part of France the Marne
and Bhine Canal is fringed with an avenue of poplars, that from neighboring
elevations can be seen winding along the beautiful valley for miles,
presenting a most pleasing effect.
East of Vitry le Francois the roads deteriorate, and from thence to Bar-
le they are inferior to any hitherto encountered in France; nevertheless,
from the American standpoint they are very good roads, and when, at five
o'clock, I wheel into Bar-le-Duc and come to sum up the aggregate of the
day's journey I find that, without any undue exertion, I have covered
very nearly one hundred and sixty kilometres, or about one hundred English
miles, since 8.30 A.M., notwithstanding a good hour's halt at Vitry le
Francois for dinner. Bar-le-Duc appears to be quite an important business
centre, pleasantly situated in the valley of the Ornain River, a tributary
of the Marne; and the stream, in its narrow, fertile valley, winds around
among hills from whose sloping sides, every autumn, fairly ooze the
celebrated red wines of the Meuse and Moselle regions. The valley has
been favored with a tremendous downpour of rain and hail during the
night, and the partial formation of the road leading along the level
valley eastward being a light-colored, slippery clay, I find it anything
but agreeable wheeling this morning; moreover, the Ornain Valley road
is not so perfectly kept as it might be. As in every considerable town
in France, so also in Bar-le-Duc, the military element comes conspicuously
to the fore. Eleven kilometres of slipping and sliding through the greasy
clay brings me to the little village of Tronville, where I halt to
investigate the prospect of obtaining something to eat. As usual, the
prospect, from the street, is most unpromising, the only outward evidence
being a few glass jars of odds and ends of candy in one small window.
Entering this establishment, the only thing the woman can produce besides
candy and raisins is a box of brown, wafer-like biscuits, the unsubstantial
appearance of which is, to say the least, most unsatisfactory to a person
who has pedalled his breakfastless way through eleven kilometres of
slippery clay. Uncertain of their composition, and remembering my unhappy
mistake at Mantes in desiring to breakfast off yeast-cakes, I take the
precaution of sampling one, and in the absence of anything more substantial
conclude to purchase a few, and so motion to the woman to hand me the
box in order that I can show her how many I want. But the o'er-careful
Frenchwoman, mistaking my meaning, and fearful that I only want to sample
yet another one, probably feeling uncertain of whether I might not wish
to taste a whole handful this time, instead of handing it over moves it
out of my reach altogether, meanwhile looking quite angry, and not a
little mystified at her mysterious, pantomimic customer. A half-franc
is produced, and, after taking the precaution of putting it away in
advance, the cautious female weighs me out the current quantity of her
ware; and I notice that, after giving lumping weight, she throws in a
few extra, presumably to counterbalance what, upon sober second thought,
she perceives to have been an unjust suspicion. While I am extracting
what satisfaction my feathery purchase contains, it begins to rain and
hail furiously, and so continues with little interruption all the forenoon,
compelling me, much against my inclination, to search out in Tronville,
if possible, some accommodation till to-morrow morning. The village is
a shapeless cluster of stone houses and stables, the most prominent
feature of the streets being huge heaps of manure and grape-vine prunings;
but I manage to obtain the necessary shelter, and such other accommodations
as might be expected in an out-of-the-way village, unfrequented by
visitors from one year's end to another. The following morning is still
rainy, and the clayey roads of the Ornain Valley are anything but inviting
wheeling; but a longer stay in Tronville is not to be thought of, for,
among other pleasantries of the place here, the chief table delicacy
appears to be boiled escargots, a large, ungainly snail procured from
the neighboring hills. Whilst fond of table delicacies, I emphatically
draw the line at escargots. Pulling out toward Toul I find the roads,
as expected, barely ridable; but the vineyard-environed little valley,
lovely in its tears, wrings from one praise in spite of muddy roads and
lowering weather. En route down the valley I meet a battery of artillery
travelling from Toul to Bar-le Duc or some other point to the westward;
and if there is any honor in throwing a battery of French artillery into
confusion, and wellnigh routing them, then the bicycle and I are fairly
entitled to it.
As I ride carelessly toward them, the leading horses suddenly wheel
around and begin plunging about the road. The officers' horses, and, in
fact, the horses of the whole company, catch the infection, and there
is a plunging and a general confusion all along the line, seeing which
I, of course, dismount and retire - but not discomfited - from the field
until they have passed. These French horses are certainly not more than
half-trained. I passed a battery of English artillery on the road leading
out of Coventry, and had I wheeled along under the horses' noses there
would have been no confusion whatever.
On the divide between the Ornain and Moselle Valleys the roads are
hillier, but somewhat less muddy. The weather continues showery and
unsettled, and a short distance beyond Void I find myself once again
wandering off along the wrong road. The peasantry hereabout seem to have
retained a lively recollection of the Prussians, my helmet appearing to
have the effect of jogging their memory, and frequently, when stopping
to inquire about the roads, the first word in response will be the pointed
query, "Prussian." By following the directions given by three different
peasants, I wander along the muddy by-roads among the vineyards for two
wet, unhappy hours ere I finally strike the main road to Toul again.
After floundering along the wellnigh unimproved by-ways for two hours
one thoroughly appreciates how much he is indebted to the military
necessities of the French Government for the splendid highways of France,
especially among these hills and valleys, where natural roadways would
be anything but good. Following down the Moselle Valley, I arrive at the
important city of Nancy in the eventide, and am fortunate, I suppose,
in discovering a hotel where a certain, or, more properly speaking, an
uncertain, quantity and quality of English are spoken. Nancy is reputed
to be one of the loveliest towns in France. But I merely remained in it
over night, and long enough next morning to exchange for some German
money, as I cross over the frontier to-day.
Luneville is a town I pass through, some distance nearer the border, and
the military display here made is perfectly overshadowing. Even the
scarecrows in the fields are military figures, with wooden swords
threateningly waving about in their hands with every motion of the wind,
and the most frequent sound heard along the route is the sharp bang!
bang! of muskets, where companies of soldiers are target-practising in
the woods. There seems to be a bellicose element in the very atmosphere;
for every dog in every village I ride through verily takes after me, and
I run clean over one bumptious cur, which, miscalculating the speed at
which I am coming, fails to get himself out of the way in time. It is
the narrowest escape from a header I have had since starting from
Liverpool; although both man and dog were more scared than hurt. Sixty-five
kilometres from Nancy, and I take lunch at the frontier town of Blamont.
The road becomes more hilly, and a short distance out of Blamont, behold,
it is as though a chalk-line were made across the roadway, on the west
side of which it had been swept with scrupulous care, and on the east
side not swept at all; and when, upon passing the next roadman, I notice
that he bears not upon his cap the brass stencil-plate bearing the
inscription, " Cantonnier," I know that I have passed over the frontier
into the territory of Kaiser Wilhelm.
My journey through fair Prance has been most interesting, and perhaps
instructive, though I am afraid that the lessons I have taken in French
politeness are altogether too superficial to be lasting. The "Bonjour,
monsieur," and "Bon voyage," of France, may not mean any more than the
"If I don't see you again, why, hello." of America, but it certainly
sounds more musical and pleasant. It is at the table d'hote, however,
that I have felt myself to have invariably shone superior to the natives;
for, lo! the Frenchman eats soup from the end of his spoon. True, it is
more convenient to eat soup from the prow of a spoon than from the
larboard; nevertheless, it is when eating soup that I instinctively feel
my superiority. The French peasants, almost without exception, conclude
that the bright-nickelled surface of the bicycle is silver, and presumably
consider its rider nothing less than a millionnaire in consequence; but
it is when I show them the length of time the rear wheel or a pedal will
spin round that they manifest their greatest surprise. The crowning glory
of French landscape is the magnificent avenues of poplars that traverse
the country in every direction, winding with the roads, the railways,
and canals along the valleys, and marshalled like sentinels along the
brows of the distant hills; without them French scenery would lose half
its charm.