Tuesday, July 16

St. Germaine July 16, 1912.
D.S.B. and I were up earlier than the others, out for a walk in the beautiful park-wood and gardens originally laid out by royalty, stretching away north, with a wall edging the brow of a sharp descent to the Seine. 11,000 acres.
At nine, the two of us looked up the chance of breakfast, to discover that the great porch dining place was in the process of a vigorous cleaning. No breakfast there. The French of the holiday sort, apparently breakfast at lunch, lunch at tea, and have a dinner past 8 p.m. But we found a head waiter who took our order and placed a table out of doors, overlooking the Seine valley and distant Paris, - only Paris was in a haze. (55) The photographer who had been summoned from Paris to take some larger and surer photos of our party en route, began by snapping a view of our group at table, with the head waiter's attractive little boy as mascot.
At 9:15 we were off for the last stage of our great trip. The road was wooded nearly the whole way, with numerous attractive places walled in from common gaze, but open to our high position on the coach. All the while the photographer went spinning ahead in his taxi to snap a view of our progress, then would jump into his cab and go past us for another.

"Our waistcoated groom"

We rolled easily past the track where the Grand Prix is run yearly, and into the Bois de Boulogne, what a magnificent part of our trip this was! Mr. S. chose the straight course through the great forest with its maze of excellent roads, bridle paths, and walks. Numerous (56) riders were out.  Our red waistcoated groom, who had played merrily in every apropos occasion since leaving Dieppe, went more merrily than ever with varying times. He enlivened our days admirably, adding the touch of completeness, - for one's imagination always supplies the long straight horn whenever a real coach is thought of.

Out of the B. de B. we swung, to round  the Arc de Triomphe. Here we witnessed a smart bump between a bicycle + an auto, with nothing amiss but a spilled basket of glass ware, and resulting invective and gesticulation between the rider and the chauffeur. Our way then took us down the beautiful Champs Elysees, round Cleopatra's Needle in the Place de la Concorde, which once belied its present name with the fearful work of La Guillotine, and down the great Rue de Rivoli, the Seine on our right, (57) to our fine hostelry, Hotel Meurice.

So at high noon was accomplished our great drive. Mr. S. had carried four sets of horses through the varying stages of 176 miles, 56 in England, 120 in France. The boys seemed desiring of a bump somewhere, but though gates were often narrow and turnings sharp, no bump came.
And all our coach hands were competent too. They were always quick to care for the horses along the road, keeping the horses refreshed and sponged as Mr. S kept them in careful hand when on the go.
Surely wonderful hours were given us. Our stops were all pleasant, and our going always merry.  With very few exceptions, the passers by, in vehicles or afoot, were kind to give us consideration. The most (58) of interest in many villages was to have the villagers run out of doorways, open window shutters closed against the terrific glare of their bare streets, fetching child and grown-up at the warning note from our coach horn. There was some kindly chaffing,-as that when passing the old chateau at St. Germain, when a party of girls called us Roast beefs - supposing a coaching party necessarily English.
The country and the people of England had impressed us the more favorably. France was too foreign. Even where were the road-side villages of England well kept and often beautiful. In France, wealth made beauty, - but from the infrequent beautiful road side house there was a sharp drop to the flat,-unadorned home of the lower estate. The roads were uniformly excellent in both countries (59) with some bumpy stretches in France. We had more far-distant panoramas before us in France, with stretching valleys dotted by grass and grain fields, with never a fence. But England seemed snugger, warmer, with happiness more deeply rooted.
Nowhere, however, could greater variety meet the traveler than we had, - except the high glory of the mountains was lost to us. That aspect of nature we were perforce obliged to supply from recollection of coaching through the Trossachs.
Landed in Paris , and inclined to be uppish with the notable feat the Mr. S had made us party to, we (i.e.. C.F.B, C.S., DSB + I) ascended the Eiffel tower, to be able to come down a bit.
And while there a dirigible betokened our triumph by rising (60) to a majestic flight.