I have now lived in Paris two consecutive years, and during this time the question has often been put to me, “How do you like Paris and the Parisians?” That question I will now try to answer.

Like Paris?  Of course I do—­heartily and truly.  Cold indeed must the heart be that does not find space in its depths for a true affection for the fair queen-city which welcomes all strangers so kindly and hospitably, which has a smile for all, and which at the wide banquet of her bounty sets forth food for every phase of mental hunger.  Do you wish to study?  Her libraries lie open to your research—­her monuments, her galleries, her public institutions are given to your inspection, freely and without price.  Do you seek amusement?  Paris, in that respect, is like the rollicking heroine of Barbe-Bleu: there is none like Boulotte, “quand il s’agit de batifoler.”  Do you wish to hide yourself in depths of unbroken quiet?  There are in her very heart lonely streets where scarce a cart ever penetrates, and in her suburbs green shaded nooks where the spirit of Solitude reigns supreme.

Life runs on such smooth and well-oiled wheels for all humanity in Paris that half the cares that torture us are cast aside as soon as we enter her precincts.  Take, for instance, the grand question of housekeeping.  Fancy living in a land where all the servants are skilled and civil, if not all trustworthy and honest; where washing-days and ironing-days and baking-days are unknown; where there are no staircases to sweep down and no front-door steps to scour; where rents and eating and all other household expenses may be gauged in accordance with one’s purse.  If you wish to entertain, you may give a soiree that will cost ten dollars if you cannot afford to give a ball that costs five thousand.  Nothing is de rigueur in Paris.  It is neither incumbent upon you to be housed splendidly nor to feast sumptuously—­to drive your own carriage nor to entertain an army of servants.  “Do the best you can” is the motto of Parisian life.  And so it often happens that in a small room, up half a dozen flights of stairs, with a cup of tea for sole refreshment and music or conversation for sole amusement, one will find some of the pleasantest society in Paris.  You do not get champagne and boned turkey and the German, but you hear sometimes a little music, such as one pays untold gold to hear at the opera, or a fragment of declamation by some noted elocutionist, or a new poem fresh from the pen of some celebrated writer.  And you have always conversation; that is to say, the wit and sparkle of the wittiest and brightest nation on the face of the earth.  In a world that is becoming more and more a Paradise of Fools the charm of sheer brain and brightness is irresistible.  To live in such an intellectual centre is in itself delightful.  Paris is a veritable Foire aux Idees.  Its criticism, keen as the sword of Saladin, overwhelming as the battle-axe of Coeur de Lion, is in itself a study.  It is not so much the intellectual productions of Paris as the comments they call forth that are at once instructive and fascinating.