Days Spent Here Seem Short Days;
But That May Be Due In Some Part To The Difference Between Our
Time And Theirs.
In Paris, you know, the day ends five or six
hours earlier than it does in America.
The two Palaces of Fine Arts are fine enough; and finer still, on
beyond them, is the great Pont Alexandre III; but, to my untutored
instincts, all three of these, with their clumpings of flag standards
and their grouping of marble allegories, which are so aching-white
to the eye in the sunlight, seemed overly suggestive of a World's
Fair as we know such things in America. Seeing them I knew where
the architects who designed the main approaches and the courts of
honor for all our big expositions got their notions for color
schemes and statuary effects. I liked better those two ancient
triumphal arches of St.-Martin and St.-Denis on the Boulevard
St.-Denis, and much better even than these the tremendous sweep
of the Place de la Concorde, which is one of the finest squares
in the world, and the one with the grimmest, bloodiest history, I
reckon.
The Paris to which these things properly appertain is at its very
best and brightest on a sunny Sunday afternoon in the parks where
well-to-do people drive or ride, and their children play among the
trees under the eyes of nursemaids in the quaint costumes of
Normandy, though, for all I know, it may be Picardy. Elsewhere
in these parks the not-so-well-to-do gather in great numbers; some
drinking harmless sirupy drinks at the gay little refreshment
kiosks; some packing themselves about the man who has tamed the
tree sparrows until they come at his call and hive in chattering,
fluttering swarms on his head and his arms and shoulders; some
applauding a favorite game of the middle classes that is being
played in every wide and open space.
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