of all others we most closely resemble in essential particulars—­namely, the Northern Germans.  The Prussians have been called—­and that, too, with a good deal of truth—­the Yankees of Europe; and if the term “Yankees” means, as it usually does in European parlance, the entire population of the United States, we citizens of the great republic have every right to feel proud of the comparison.  Yet, with all 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!