ey'
at Oxford, above Lower Hincksey,) and thence across to the cathedral and
ascending slopes of the city; so, you will understand the real height
and relation of tower and town:--then, returning, find your way to the
Mount Zion of it by any narrow cross streets and chance bridges you
can--the more winding and dirty the streets, the better; and whether you
come first on west front or apse, you will think them worth all the
trouble you have had to reach them.

[Footnote 44: The strongest and finally to be defended part of the
earliest city was on this height.]

7. But if the day be dismal, as it may sometimes be, even in France,
of late years,--or if you cannot or will not walk, which may also
chance, for all our athletics and lawn-tennis,--or if you must really
go to Paris this afternoon, and only mean to see all you can in an
hour or two,--then, supposing that, notwithstanding these weaknesses,
you are still a nice sort of person, for whom it is of some
consequence which way you come at a pretty thing, or begin to look at
it--I _think_ the best way is to walk from the Hotel de France or the
Place de Perigord, up the Street of Three Pebbles, towards the railway
station--stopping a little as you go, so as to get into a cheerful
temper, and buying some bonbons or tarts for the children in one of
the charming patissiers' shops on the left. Just past them, ask for
the theatre; and just past that, you will find, also on the left,
three open arches, through which you can turn, passing the Palais de
Justice, and go straight up to the south transept, which has really
something about it to please everybody. It is simple and severe at the
bottom, and daintily traceried and pinnacled at the top, and yet seems
all of a piece--though it isn't--and everybody _must_ like the taper
and transparent fretwork of the fleche above, which seems to bend to
the west wind,--though it doesn't--at least, the bending is a long
habit, gradually yielded into, with gaining grace and submissiveness,
during the last three hundred years. And, coming quite up to the
porch, everybody must like the pretty French Madonna in the middle of
it, with her head a little aside, and her nimbus switched a little
aside too, like a becoming bonnet. A Madonna in decadence she is,
though, for all, or rather by reason of all, her prettiness, and
her gay soubrette's smile; and she has no business there, neither, for
this is St. Honore's porch, not hers; and grim and gre