Then we passed into the close green shade of a forest, which opened every here and there into long vistas, yielding glimpses of "-- verdurous glooms, and winding mossy ways." Through this wood the line continued to run till we reached our destination.

Here our first few steps brought us out upon the Place, directly facing the old red and black chateau of St.Germain-en-Laye.
Leaving this and the little dull town behind us, we loitered for some time about the broad walks of the park, and then passed on into the forest.

Although it was neither Sunday nor a fete-day, there were pleasure parties gipseying under trees--Parisian cockneys riding raw-boned steeds--pony-chaises full of laughing grisettes dashing up and down the broad roads that pierce the wood in various directions--old women selling cakes and lemonade--workmen gambling with half-pence on the smooth turf by the wayside--_bonnes_, comely and important, with their little charges playing round them, and their busy fingers plying the knitting-needles as they walked--young ladies sketching trees, and prudent governesses reading novels close by; in short, all the life and variety of a favorite suburban resort on an ordinarily fine day about the beginning of autumn.
Leaving the frequented routes to the right, we turned into one of the many hundred tracks that diverge in every direction from the beaten roads, and wandered deeper and deeper into the green shades and solitudes of the forest.

Pausing, presently, to rest, Dalrymple threw himself at full length on the mossy ground, with his hands clasping the back of his head, and his hat over his eyes; whilst I found a luxurious arm-chair in the gnarled roots of a lichen-tufted elm.

Thus we remained for a considerable time puffing away at our cigars in that sociable silence which may almost claim to be an unique privilege of masculine friendship.