By the Way: Travel Letters Written During Several Journeys Abroad

It is a far cry from the Bowery to the Bosporus, but only a few obstacles, such as the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, the Adriatic and the Sea of Marmora, intervene. We had overcome two of these so that it was from Brindisi, Italy, the end of the Appian Way, that we embarked for Greece.

I expected to find tall, willowy maidens in Grecian draperies standing on the banks of Corfu waving golden lyres to welcome me to these fair Ionian Islands, with mighty warriors back of them proclaiming of their ancestors; instead, I found a pretty little island covered with blossoms, in the midst of which is the magnificent Villa Achilleion erected for Empress Elisabeth of Austria.

One would never dream that the lazy sailors found along the shores of this hilly isle were descendants of those old Greeks who fought the first naval battle 2600 years ago, off its coast.

One must be a good pedestrian, for even with the excellent roads it is necessary to climb on foot to the lookout if one would have a survey of the island and its surroundings. I reached it just in time to see the sun sink, all gold and orange, into the green liquid of the Adriatic.

If Corfu gives one a flowery welcome to the Isles of Greece, the mainland keeps up the cordiality. Patras, its first port, a dignified, progressive little city, was not behind its island sister in greeting us. Its historic neighbor, Olympia, is reached by a bridle path, and the two days' journey will give one a better insight into the manners and customs of the ancient Greeks than months spent in a modern city. Many of the inhabitants along this path have never visited their nearest village.

The road between Patras and Athens—my heart throbs now at the mere writing of the name "Athens," just as it did when I first took my seat in the train for that classic city—is different from anything else on earth, for almost all the way to the ship canal which crosses the Isthmus of Corinth the mountainsides are strewn with currants, drying in the sun on beds of white pebbles. All the dried currants, originally called "grape of Corinth," come from this part of the Levant.

ATHENS:

I feel now as though the scratching of my pen were sacrilege, just as I first tread softly on this sacred soil and would start when I heard some one laugh aloud. I cannot tell you of the deep impression Athens has made upon me.

If you were here where I could touch your hand and, without one word being spoken, we could stand and drink in all its grandeur, or sit in silence by moonlight watching the shadows come and go, you would understand—but to put Athens in cold black and white, ah, never ask me to try.

The new Athens, like Florence, is broad and white, but not glistening. The old Athens—my Athens—lies yonder on the hill, a mass of monstrous rocks, gigantic pillars and huge squares of stone which some mighty tempest or some avalanche seems to have scattered hither and yon.

It was by the light of the moon that the vastness of the Acropolis impressed itself upon me, though the immensity of purpose—the Herculean obstacles surmounted—rather than its ponderous proportions, creates its magnitude. But it was just as the day was dawning that its loveliness appeared to me.

I have been to the Acropolis with a registered cicerone who knew every stone of it, and again with a fine young Greek who loved every atom of it, but today at dawn I stood there alone and watched the sun come up seemingly from beneath my feet. No sound broke the stillness. All nature was hushed that I might bid my beloved Athens farewell. There she lay outspread before me, bathed in the first faint glow of the early dawn. Far down is the Porte BeulÉ and the marble staircase from it to the PropylÆa, one of whose courts leads to that diminutive jewel, the Temple of Nike, with its Pentelic marble grown yellow with age.

Before the sun had climbed above the mountain, I watched the purple marble of the Erechtheion turn to gold, giving a rosy glow of youth to the Maidens of the Caryatides portico who have held up their canopy for two thousand years. Always before the eye, tall and commanding, in all its perfection, stands the Parthenon. Off yonder is Mars Hill, and far beyond, the Temple of Theseus, its weather-stained, golden-hued marbles, that have braved the storms of centuries, exhaling a vigorous vitality.

As the sun climbed over the hilltop my heart grew heavy at the thought of parting with Athens. In a few hours I would be leaving her, perhaps forever. But Athens—Athens over whom I wept—slept on.

I came back to earth and went to PirÆus in a very "earthy" electric tram—think of desecrating Athens with a trolley!

CONSTANTINOPLE:

During the early hours of yesterday morning we reached Smyrna, one of the seven cities spoken of in the Book of Revelation, and we spent the day in its odd, underground bazaars. Wildness, madness and fiendishness have lost their terrors for me since landing at Smyrna.

Imagine all the wild animals of the zoo put together in one cage and all roaring at the same time and you will have some idea of the sound that greeted my ears as our ship dropped anchor. Then look over the rail and, as far as the eye can see, picture rowboats by the hundreds, so thickly crammed together that scarcely a bit of the water can be seen. Watch the oarsman pushing another boat or beating his brother boatman over the head with his oar, each of them yelling at the top of his voice, and you will have a dim outline of what really happened. All had the same object in view—that of getting as many passengers as they could carry, and as soon as possible.

Our dragoman turned us over to a Turkish guide who proved to be a scholar and a Christian.

The bazaars are filthy, but the filth simply serves to make prominent by contrast the beautiful embroideries and laces displayed there. If one dares to give more than a passing glance at any of these, the old Turks will follow trying to force a purchase.

To think that Homer should have chosen Smyrna for his birthplace! Yet it was and still is the most important city of Asia Minor, and is picturesquely situated on the Ægean Sea.

When we finally reached the ship, after the oarsmen's battles en route during which I had sat still with my eyes closed thinking hard, our Christian Turk came up to me, and, to my surprise and delight, whispered: "We know why we are safe, do we not?"

The same scene of the boatman was enacted at the Dardanelles. Later, however, all the harsh things were forgotten, as over a foreground of blue sea the dim outline of a city was seen through the mist of the morning.

No one can call Constantinople beautiful, but all must admit that it is the most interesting city in Europe. Unique in being situated in both Europe and Asia, the city is divided, like Gaul, into three parts—Stamboul and Galata-Pera, separated from each other by the Golden Horn, in Europe, and Skutari across the Bosporus, in Asia.

Galata is the modern business section containing the banks, steamship offices, commission houses and the like, while Pera is on the heights above it with the hotels, the embassies and the homes of the foreigners.

Stamboul, or Constantinople proper, is situated on seven hills, on one of which stood the ancient city of Byzantium. Here are the old seraglio and Santa Sophia,—Santa Sophia, with its altars of gold, mosaics of precious stones, pillars of rare marble, its wonderful history and its antiquity.

Between the mountain and the sea, in Skutari, nestles the cluster of buildings occupied by the American College for girls, the only college for women in the western Levant. When you learn through what vicissitudes I achieved my entrÉe to this cosmopolitan École, you will wonder that I write of it with any degree of composure, or that I am here to write of it at all.

Everything seemed so perfectly planned for a comfortable and safe little journey from the hotel in Pera to Skutari, that I followed the attendant without question. He placed me in a caique (ki-eek) putting me in charge of the caiquejee (ki-eek-gee), saying that in a few moments this man would land me at the place where my American friend was in waiting on the other side.

A caique is a long narrow skiff with cushions in the bottom upon which one must sit quietly else the boat will tip. My caiquejee and his assistant seemed very mild sort of Turks, for they would nod and smile when I waved my hand at something odd or interesting.

I was not versed then in the etiquette of the caiquejee, nor yet in the mysteries of their thousand and one superstitions, but I found, to my sorrow, that to touch even the hem of another caiquejee's oar was the signal for ordering guns or any other explosive at hand, including vocal fireworks.

It was bright and sunny when I left the hotel, but a storm cloud soon appeared and it grew darker and darker. In their haste to reach the other shore, my caiquejee happened to run into another caique, which in any other place on earth would have been overlooked with a bow of excuse.

Not so on the Bosporus! My mild-mannered Turks and the three in the other caique were at battle in a second. Had I been able to speak their language, and offer them money, they could not have heard me, so horrible were their cries. There was nothing to do but to sit still and pray and try to balance the shell-like caique.

Suddenly my caiquejee raised his heavy oar to fling it at the other, lost his balance, and we were all dashed into the cold water of the Bosporus.

Instantly the clatter ceased. Some one held me up in the water, and guided the upturned boat toward my hands. After the longest moments of my life, the other heavier caique was caught and balanced while I was dragged into it. It was then I noticed there were but four of us where there had been six.

I did not cry then, but tried to know I was being cared for. I afterwards learned that it was my silence that saved me. Had I cried or screamed they would have thrown me overboard again and gone away without me, for there is a superstition about tears in a storm, and where a woman is concerned all signs are of an adverse nature.

Suddenly one of the Turks gave a blood-curdling yell to attract the attention of the pilot on the little steamer that plies between Skutari and the Galata Bridge.

I was helped on board and cared for. No woman could have been more kind, more respectful, or more solicitous for my comfort than were these young Turks. They formed a ring around me sheltering me from the gaze of the rougher, older ones. They put their capes about me while they dried my coat, hat and shoes, and shielded my face as I stood by the engine door to dry my skirt.

The young Turk who had held me up in the water could speak a little French, and made me understand that I was perfectly safe and that he would see me to my carriage. He told me that he was a passenger in the caique which collided with the one I was in, and that a caiquejee from each boat went down in the battle.

When you read some dramatic account of the varied fancies that are supposed to pass through the thoughts of one who is drowning, take it cum grano salis. Believe me, the one and only thought that takes possession of a poor mortal at such a time is to grasp something with his hands, and if this is accomplished, his next desire is to feel something solid beneath his feet. His past is nothing, his future less. The present is all there is of human existence. Oh, how well I know this to be true!

I tried to show my gallant Turk the gratitude I felt for his efforts in my behalf. He informed me that I could repay him by speaking a word for his countrymen, if the occasion arose. I can see his dark face now light up with pleasure at my promise as he touched his forehead with his hand, for he had lost his fez in the waters.

We parted neither of us knowing the other's name, but no word against the rising generation of Turks can ever be said in my presence since that night.

I did not rest long undisturbed among the cushions of the carriage he found for me, for my driver who had gone on at a good speed suddenly stopped in the steepest, darkest part of the almost perpendicular incline that leads up to Pera from Galata, and, turning, showed me a coin, demanding something at the same time. I divined that he was asking if I would pay him that much, and I, with my cheeriest smile, nodded. But as he turned to gather up the reins again, I caught sight of his face and only the presence of my guardian angel, who had held my hand all that awful day, kept me from shrieking or from fainting.

Finally we turned into the lighted street in which was my hotel, and I was out of the victoria, through the door and into the lift before the carriage had stopped. I called to the clerk to pay the tariff from the Galata Bridge and to give the driver his backsheesh. Their angry voices ascended with the elevator.

When I reached my room and had turned the key in the lock, I sobbed out all my pent-up emotion and thankfulness.

Will you credit it when I tell you that I started again? This time, however, I went on the steamboat accompanied by one of the American teachers from the college.

In spite of the night spent on—and in—the black waters of the Bosporus, when I think of Constantinople, it is not of this—not of its filthy streets nor its thousands of pariah dogs, not of their howls nor the well nigh unbearable din of bells and yells—but of my first view of a phantom-like city, seated on seven hills, the sides covered with many-colored roofs which slope down to a long white kiosk, of minarets, of mosques with slender spires, and of one tall sentinel cypress tree in the foreground, all seen through the haze of dawn over Marmora's blue waters.

BUDAPEST:

The Oriental Express was thundering around the Balkan Mountains in Bulgaria on its long run between Constantinople and Budapest, when suddenly, with a succession of sharp jerks, the train came to a stop.

Before we could reach the windows, above the babel was heard: "An avalanche! An avalanche! The torrent's burst!" And with the throng of people at the foot of the mountain, it was enough to strike terror to the stoutest heart.

Immediately came a guard to explain that the long tunnel had caved in and that it would be necessary for us to walk across the mountain through which the tunnel was cut that we might take the train on the other side. The people from that train had walked over the pass to take our places, and the peasants who had carried their luggage were waiting to take ours back.

One of the mountaineers acting as guide led the way up the narrow trail and down to the waiting train on the other side—perhaps two miles.

Instead of a cross, fussy crowd of tired travelers grumbling at the climb, the guide found us a happy lot of overgrown children, stopping to listen to the wonderful singing of the birds or to pluck the wild flowers, whom he had often to remind with his shrill "Avance!" that time was passing.

Among the first to descend, I looked back up the trail and wondered if the old mountain would ever again witness such a picture. Travelers from every nation, with their different costumes, mingling with the gaily attired peasants, who carried on their heads the much-labeled luggage, all laughing, shouting or singing, made a happy medley both of color and of sound.

Budapest is the most beautiful city of the world, except, perhaps, Barcelona. You need not look in your "Noted Places" book to verify this statement, for you will not find it there. Au contraire, this opinion is my own.

Go to Budapest, select a room with windows giving on the Danube, and see if you do not agree with me. Throw the guide-books aside and wander down the superb Franz Joseph Quai. Note the battlements, the colossal statues of bronze, the Moorish architecture united with that of the Romanesque. You will not find all the sumptuousness of Budapest on this street, however, for it is scattered everywhere.

The beauty of the architecture can be seen by daylight, but the glory of Budapest can only be felt as you sail away,

VIENNA:

We arrived in Vienna with the Emperor. In fact, we acted as his advance guard for some time, his train following ours. The Emperor himself was but a small part of the show, for the officers of his suite outshone all else, and were swagger to a degree. German and Austrian army officers are imposing anywhere, but especially so on horseback.

Vienna is a city within a city, for the fortifications which surrounded the old town have been torn down and replaced by a broad boulevard which separates the ancient from the modern portion. Within this Ring-Strasse the streets are narrow and the houses mediÆval; without, you will find one of the most inviting cities of Europe.

Vienna is gay, sparkling and fascinating. Its opera and its shops are world renowned, and it is a close rival of Paris in setting the modes.

Nowhere in all Europe can so much beauty and grandeur of mountain, forest and stream be crowded into one day as during a sail on the Danube from Linz to Vienna.

MUNICH:

My introduction to Bavaria was through Salzburg. It was a happy presentation, as few towns can compare with it in situation.

Salzburg is surrounded by mountains with castles on every peak. It was the home of Mozart, and is overflowing with interesting memoirs of that great musician.

Munich is a city of wealth. It is the Mecca for students of art and music and the starting-point for the three wondrous castles built by the Mad King of Bavaria, as well as for Oberammergau. Nestling at the foot of the Austrian Alps, a long chain of mountains may be seen on a clear day, in all its splendor, from the statue of Bavaria. Munich possesses a lion's share of public buildings architecturally notable.

NÜRNBERG:

While in Munich we were entertained in the home of Baroness von H., giving us a glimpse into German intimate life, and here I have had the privilege again of being in the home of an American girl who married a German officer. I find their life ideal.

I love Germany and the Germans. They move quicker than any of our foreign cousins, notwithstanding the slowness ascribed to them in story, and there is always something doing.

This fancy of mine about rapidity is, I presume, accentuated by a hurried glimpse of the Empire which these German friends have given me. And right here let me say that foreigners need no longer poke fun at us for the "lightning conductor" manner with which some of us see the world.

The itinerary took us first to Berlin; and dancing through my head are pictures of Brandenburg Gates, Sieges-AllÉes and Thiergartens; of Charlottenburg with its mausoleum of the much-loved Queen Louise of pictured fame; of Potsdam with its Sans Souci; of Frankfort-on-Main with the renowned Palmen Garten; of Dresden and its Academy of Arts; of Wiesbaden, its tourists and springs; of Metz, with its Conservatory and its high-bred women.

NÜrnberg is unlike any other place in the world. I never have seen such odd bridges, fountains and oriel windows. It is the home of the Faber pencil, and leads the world in the manufacture of wonderful toys; and yet this busy little city has preserved to a larger extent than any other in Germany the appearance of the Middle Ages. Its quiet quaintness makes it a gem.

PARIS:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not far from Fontenay is the antique al fresco theatre of Champigny where the leading actors of France can be seen during the summer months.

BOULOGNE-SUR-MER:

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

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

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

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

The study of French is a subject to which every parent should give serious consideration. No nation is so under-languaged as ours; and no language is so necessary to a traveler as French. It helps one with his own language and adds an interest and enjoyment to intercourse with our foreign cousins; while without it, we stand mute and helpless and ofttimes bewildered, and advantage is taken of our seeming stupidity.

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

BLOIS:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MARSEILLES:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CASAMICCIOLA:

What slaves of sentiment we mortals are! Here I am at Ischia again—Ischia that has been enshrined in our hearts for years! And yet it is not the enchanted island of our younger dreams.

Will the memory of that first visit ever be effaced? Can you not recall, as though it were yesterday, how our hearts beat when we found the invitation to dine at the old castello on a promontory of Ischia? How we donned our spotlessest white, and boarded one of the smaller craft that plies between the island towns! How we threaded our way through the myriad of boats which crowded the Bay of Naples! How fascinated we were with everything, from the fairyland of islands to the old captain who would lean far over the rail and scold at people coming to meet the boat, if they were late, and yet who would stop his boat anywhere to take them on board! How even the rain that threatened to undo our spotlessness seemed part of the scheme, and how, when the wind arose and the waves ran high, you declared we would not go ashore like the common herd! How, when we arrived at our destination, the young officer got the biggest, whitest and cleanest of the rowboats around to the sea-side of our ship, avoiding the crowd which was filling the boats on the other side.

Will you ever forget the great wave that drenched the officer as he stood at the bottom of the ladder trying to steady the smaller boat that I might leap in, and, after we were pushed off, the feeling of helplessness at tossing on that mighty sea so far from shore? How the old oarsman stopped in the roughest part, demanding his fare, and after you had paid him, insisted, like Oliver Twist, on more! How you shook your fist at him, balancing yourself in that frail craft, and cried, "Allez!" and how he allezed before that fist!

How the handsome young Ischian had selected me as his signorina's guest! How his frank eye inspired confidence, and I let him hand me into the wee phaeton; and how we started up the mountain, wondering all the while! How he seemed to remember something, stopped the pony bedecked with ribbons and feathers, and gave me a note which proved my confidence was not misplaced and that he was our hostess's coachman! How he showed us the old castle from each vantage point, proud to be serving the beautiful signorina, and bubbling over with joy at our evident admiration!

All this is changed. The old castle still stands out, white and clear cut, with the blue Mediterranean beating on three of its sides, but the sunshine has flown.

No smiling mistress in silken robes, no Roman servants, no coachman of polished bronze were here to welcome me now. The great hall with its wealth of marble remains, but the objets d'art brought from every corner of the globe are gone, and all the warmth of heart that comes from loving hospitality is missing. My hostess of former years has been wooed away.

Let not my musing, however, deter any one from coming to Ischia. Situated at the northern extremity of the Bay of Naples, as Capri is at its southern extremity, it is at once unique and romantic.

ON SHIPBOARD:

We set sail from Marseilles one evening as the autumn sun was sinking behind the distant Alps. Cruising along the Riviera and the rugged coast of Corsica, on the second morning we were close to Italy's shore with the environs of Naples in the misty background.

We remained in port three days, living on the ship the while. A drive to Posilipo, the never-ending panorama of Neapolitan life, and the day at Ischia, about which I told you in my last letter, filled the time, and at midnight of the third day we weighed anchor for home.

ALMERIA:

It is to be regretted that the big packet of letters which awaited me here, full to overflowing with questions, could not have been received earlier. The twelve hours of unexpected waiting caused by the delayed sailing of the ship will give me, however, an opportunity to answer a limited number. You will receive this letter—one of you at least—before that happy day when I shall set foot again upon my native land.

It pays to come for a day. The ocean voyage is compensation in itself. Nothing broadens one's life like touching the lives of others.

Is it worth while, before coming, to read about the places one intends to visit?

It is more than worth while! It is necessary! That which one will comprehensively absorb during any journey depends largely upon what one has read. This is especially true of foreign travel.

And now you ask me to sum up my foreign experiences. Your request reminds me of the schoolmaster who gave out as the subject of a prize composition, "The World and Its Inhabitants."

In all seriousness, this has been the most delightful and at the same time the most miserable year of my life. Comprenez-vous?

I am not unmindful of all the opportunities I have had to see God's beautiful world, and I think little has escaped me that has been in my line of vision.

Of all countries, I like England best—yes, England! dear, green, blossoming England; of all cities, Paris and Florence; of all churches, St. Mark's in Venice; of picturesque places, Killarney's lakes and the Lake of Lucerne; of awesome grandeur in nature, the Giant's Causeway and on the heights of Switzerland; of man's work in art and architecture combined, Fontainebleau, Versailles, the Bargello in Florence and Raphael's Stanza and Loggie in the Vatican; of collected art in sculpture, that found in Rome; of collected art in painting, that found in the galleries of Florence; of the sublime in nature, the sunsets on the Mediterranean, moonlight on the Arno, the Alpine glow on the Rigi, and sunrise over the Acropolis; of all peoples, the upper class of Irish and English. And the happiest moments spent among this array were those when reading my letters from home.

I have been treated with charming cordiality everywhere and have met clever, cultured people, both foreign and American. I have seen—and heard—a few Americans, the sort whose bragging brings the blood to the face, but I am happy to tell you they have been few.

I should advise any one to come here with the intention of enjoying and not of criticising. If things are desired as they are in America, stay there.

One comes to a foreign country to see things as they are, and, most of all, to see things which we have not.

The science of comprehensive observation should be taught in every school, for few know how to observe understandingly.

Culture comes high, at the easiest, and in no way can one absorb so much or so well as by observation while traveling.

GIBRALTAR:

Soon after the last letter was posted, a note and a cable were handed me by the purser.

The cable was from Ruth announcing her marriage and removal to Porto Rico. The letter, from Mrs. F. telling of her husband's complete recovery and that his business interests were taking them to Japan, where they would make for themselves a home. Her hurried notes to me have borne only her initials. This letter she signed, for the first time, with her Christian name—the same as my own. The spelling is identical. Odd, is it not?

HERE ENDS BY THE WAY, BEING A SERIES OF TRAVEL LETTERS WRITTEN DURING SEVERAL JOURNEYS ABROAD BY AGNESS GREENE FOSTER. PUBLISHED BY PAUL ELDER & COMPANY AND PRINTED FOR THEM BY THE TOMOYE PRESS, IN THE CITY OF SAN FRANCISCO, UNDER THE DIRECTION OF J.H. NASH IN THE MONTH OF APRIL AND YEAR NINETEEN HUNDRED & TEN.