"
We yielded at discretion, and _garcon_ took possession of us.
"English?" said _garcon_, as we enjoyed the pleasant walk on the
sunny quay.
"No. American," we replied.
"Ah!" (his face brightening up, and speaking confidentially,) "you
have a republic there."
We gave the lad a franc, dined, and were off for Paris. The ride was
delightful. Cars seating eight; clean, soft-cushioned, _nice_.
The face of the country, though not striking, was pleasing. There were
many poplars, with their silvery shafts, and a mingling of trees of
various kinds. The foliage has an airy grace--a certain
_spirituelle_ expression--as if the trees knew they were growing
in _la belle France_, and must be refined. Then the air is so
different from the fog and smoke of London. There is more oxygen in
the atmosphere. A pall is lifted. We are led out into sunshine. Fields
are red with a scarlet white-edged poppy, or blue with a flower like
larkspur. Wheat fields half covered with this unthrifty beauty! But
alas! the elasticity is in Nature's works only. The works of man
breathe over us a dismal, sepulchral, stand-still feeling. The
villages have the nightmare, and men wear wooden shoes.
Pages:
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202