About eight o’clock automobiles come for us. I get into the first, with Hanotaux and two others of our companions. We have not a long road to go. On one side, clear woodland; a short approach, a turning to the left, a fine descending curve planted with green trees, and we are before the steps of a great villa on the shores of the lake. Our hosts for the morning, Mr. and Mrs. S. H. P. Pell, came to us on the veranda. The automobiles stop and at once a little boom of cannon is heard ahead of us. We look in the direction whence the shot comes and we see the grass of the field all starred with tricolor flags. A second automobile arrives. It is saluted as were ourselves. In the fine house,—very well lighted, very white, ornamented with family portraits and with old engravings representing scenes of other days in this place so enriched in history, we are greeted with a graciousness and a knowledge of the world which is manifested through a considerate and sincere heart. There are some moments in which plain people and simple actions become arguments in favor of a country. I shall never again hear the American spirit ill-spoken of without recalling the hospitality of the Americans of Ticonderoga. The name is an Indian name of the fortress which was entrusted by Louis XV. to the Marquis de Montcalm. The French have said, say, and will say, “Carillon.” At Carillon, July 8, 1758, the Marquis de Montcalm had only 3,570 regulars, 87 marines, 85 Canadians, and 16 Indians, under his command,—that is to say, 3,758 soldiers. But he was entrenched in the woods and he had a refuge in case of need. Abercromby commanded an army of 16,500 men and he came on to conquer this feeble enemy and to establish finally English dominion over Canada. The hour was not yet come. Once more, although the enemy was brave and determined, France with unequal arms was victorious. Entering Mr. Pell’s house, we were reminded of this date, these figures, and of their fine significance. We remembered that in this forest where we are, Montcalm in early morning, throwing off his jacket and crouching under the branches of a tree, said to his men who labored to gather the stones for the intrenchments, “Children, the day will be hot!” We recall that at evening in the same place, as the fading light of day was prolonged by the reflection of the lake, he wrote: “What a day for France! The little army of the King conquers his enemies. Ah, what troops like ours! I have never seen their equal!” In how many parts of the world, among others, cannot memory speak to us thus softly of the glory of our arms! But what is delicious here is that a foreign family which entertains us, also remembers, and that it understands, and that it recognizes something beyond the mere history.