ll our genuine
respect and admiration for the Prussians, there are but few American
tourists who take kindly to that people or their country. The lack of
the external polish, the graceful manners and winning ways of the
Parisians is severely felt by the chance tarrier within the gates of
Berlin. We accord our fullest meed of honor to the great conquering
nation of Europe, to its wonderful system of education, its admirable
military discipline, and its sturdy opposition to superstition and
ignorance in their most aggressive form. And yet we do not like Prussia
or the Prussians. We scoff at Berlin, planted on a sandy plain and new
with the thriving, aggressive newness of some of our own cities. We long
for the soft shadows of antiquity, the dim twilight of past glories, to
overhang our daily path as we journey onward through the storied lands
of the ancient world. We have enough of bright progressive prosperity at
home. Something of the feeling of the artist, who turns from the trim,
elegant damsel arrayed in the latest fashion to paint the figure of a
beggar-girl draped in picturesque rags, hangs about us as we travel. It
is only to Paris--Paris beautiful in its strange blending of smoky ruins
and splendid, freshly-erected mansions--that we can pardon the white
glare of newly-opened streets, the Vandal desecration of antique
landmarks, the universal sacrifice of old memories, historic
associations and antique picturesqueness on that altar of modern
progress whose high priest was Baron Haussmann and whose divinity was
Napoleon III.

We love Paris, we Americans abroad, and we like the Parisians. One side
of our affection grows and strengthens and sends forth new shoots with
every passing day. The longer one lives in Paris the better one loves
it. Its beauty becomes part and parcel of one's daily life. The mighty
sweep of palace and arcade and museum and church, the plash of sunlit
fountains, the rustle and the shimmer of resplendent foliage, the grace
of statue, the grandeur of monument, the far-stretching splendor of
brilliant boulevard and bustling street,--all these make up a picture
whose lines are engraven on our heart of hearts. Often, passing along
the street, some far-off vista, some effect of light and color, some
single point of view, strikes on the sense with new and startling
beauty, and we pause to gaze and to admire, and to exclaim for the
thousandth time, How fair is Paris!

And she is so prodigal of her t