... At half past one, in an open light carriage with a canopy overhead, keeping off the hot sun, and letting through the fresh air, we were off for our two hours’ drive through the famous forest. The main avenues, long and straight, and formal; but the forest was voted very handsome. A change came when we reached the ruin of the hermitage of Franchard, and the extensive region of rocks and dells. We were taken through by an old guide, who, with much pride, paraded the little and queer English he had picked up, and showed off all the sights, the most important to him being those in which bits of rock could be likened to a lion’s head, a beef’s tongue, a turtle, and the like. First and foremost, in a sort of over-arched grotto, was “La roche qui pleure,” a great disappointment! A sort of crack or joint between two layers of the rock exuded a little moisture in one spot; _voilà tout_. We shed about as many tears in our laughter at the sight; more indeed, for we could see not a drop. I dare say at some seasons there may be a little drip. But the dells among the rocks were fine, and the stories of the boar hunts, and all that, by the kings and queens and courtiers, could be made fairly real on the spot, and the famous points of view, one of Maria Theresa, one of Eugénie, were effective. A drive back by another route took us through some older forest; occasionally a really old tree, and one truly old and large linden. There may be parts in which there are trees as large and venerable as in old English parks, but we saw only this one old tree. The forest is very large, and we had to be content with this one drive. We might have had one hour more of it, for we had all that to wait for our train back to Paris, very pleasant as it cooled at evening.