I never dreamed of such clothes even in my dreams of heaven.  But the French are an extravagant race.  There was hardly a gown worn last season which was not of the most delicate texture, garnished with chiffon and illusion and tulle—­the most crushable, airy, inflammable, unserviceable material one can think of.  Now, I am a utilitarian.  When I see a white gown I always wonder if it will wash.  If I see lace on the foot ruffle of a dress I think how it will sound when the wearer steps on it going up-stairs.  But anything would be serviceable to wear driving in a victoria in the Bois between five and seven, and as that is where I have seen the most beautiful costumes I have no right to complain, or to thrust at them my American ideas of usefulness.  This rage of theirs for beauty is what makes a perpetual honeymoon for the eyes of every inch of France.  The way they study color and put greens together in their landscape gardening makes one think with horror of our prairies and sagebrush.

The eye is ravished with beauty all over Paris.  The clean streets, the walks between rows of trees for pedestrians, the lanes for bicyclists, the paths through tiny forests, right in Paris, for equestrians, and on each side the loveliest trees—­trees everywhere except where there are fountains—­but what is the use of trying to describe a beauty which has staggered braver pens than mine, and which, after all, you must see to appreciate?

The Catholic observances one sees everywhere in Paris are most interesting.  When a funeral procession passes, every man takes off his hat and stands watching it with the greatest respect.

In May the streets are full of sweet-faced little girls on their way to their first communion.  They were all in white, bareheaded, except for their white veils, white shoes, white gloves, and the dearest look of importance on their earnest little faces.  It was most touching.

In all months, however, one sees the comical sight of a French bride and bridegroom, in all the glory of their bridal array—­white satin, veil, and orange blossoms—­driving through the streets in open cabs, and hugging and kissing each other with an unctuous freedom which is apt to throw a conservative American into a spasm of laughter.  Indeed, the frank and candid way that love-making goes on in public among the lower classes is so amazing that at first you think you never in this world will become accustomed to it, but you get accustomed to a great many strange sights in Paris.  If a kiss explodes with unusual violence in a cab near mine it sometimes scares the horse, but it no longer disturbs me in the least.  My nervousness over that sort of thing has entirely worn off.

I have had but one adventure, and that was of a simple and primitive character, which seemed to excite no one but myself.  They say that there is no drunkenness in France.  If that is so then this cabman of mine had a fit of some kind.  Perhaps, though, he was only a beast.  Most of the cabmen here are beasts.  They beat their poor horses so unmercifully that I spend quite a good portion of my time standing up in the cab and arguing with them.  But the only efficacious argument I have discovered is to tell them that they will get no pourboire if they beat the horse.  That seems to infuse more humanity into them than any number of Scripture texts.