days at St. Die, hired a carriage to take us to St. Marie-aux-Mines or
Markirch, on the German side of the frontier, and not accessible from
this side by rail. We enter Alsace, indeed, by a needle's eye, so narrow
the pass in which St. Marie lies. Here a word of warning to the tourist.
Be sure to examine your carriage and horses well before starting. We were
provided for our difficult drive with what Spenser calls "two unequal
beasts," namely, a trotting horse and a horse that could only canter,
with a very uncomfortable carriage, the turnout costing over a
pound--pretty well, that, for a three hours' drive. However, in spite of
discomfort, we would not have missed the journey on any account. The
site of this little cotton-spinning town is one of the most extraordinary
in the world. We first traverse a fruitful, well cultivated plain,
watered by the sluggish Meurthe, then begin to ascend a spur of the
western chain of the Vosges, formerly dividing the two French
departments of Vosges and Haut Rhin, now marking the boundaries of
France and German Elsass. Down below, amid the hanging orchards,
flower-gardens and hayfields, we were on French soil, but the flagstaff,
just discernible on yonder green pinnacles, marks the line of
demarcation between France and the conquered territory of the German
empire. For the matter of that, the Prussian helmet makes the fact
patent. As surely as we have set foot in the Reich, we see one of these
gleaming casques, so hateful still in French eyes. They seem to spring
from the ground like Jason's warriors from the dragon's teeth. This new
frontier divided in olden times the dominions of Alsace and Lorraine,
when it was the custom to say of many villages that the bread was
kneaded in one country and baked in the other.

Nothing could be more lovely than the dim violet hills far away, and the
virginal freshness of the pastoral scenery around. But only a
stout-hearted pedestrian can properly enjoy this beautiful region. We