We visited the Louvre, at a time when we had no silk purchases in view, and looked at its miles of paintings by the old masters.  Some of them were beautiful, but at the same time they carried such evidences about them of the cringing spirit of those great men that we found small pleasure in examining them.  Their nauseous adulation of princely patrons was more prominent to me and chained my attention more surely than the charms of color and expression which are claimed to be in the pictures.  Gratitude for kindnesses is well, but it seems to me that some of those artists carried it so far that it ceased to be gratitude and became worship.  If there is a plausible excuse for the worship of men, then by all means let us forgive Rubens and his brethren.

But I will drop the subject, lest I say something about the old masters that might as well be left unsaid.

Of course we drove in the Bois de Boulogne, that limitless park, with its forests, its lakes, its cascades, and its broad avenues.  There were thousands upon thousands of vehicles abroad, and the scene was full of life and gaiety.  There were very common hacks, with father and mother and all the children in them; conspicuous little open carriages with celebrated ladies of questionable reputation in them; there were Dukes and Duchesses abroad, with gorgeous footmen perched behind, and equally gorgeous outriders perched on each of the six horses; there were blue and silver, and green and gold, and pink and black, and all sorts and descriptions of stunning and startling liveries out, and I almost yearned to be a flunkey myself, for the sake of the fine clothes.

But presently the Emperor came along and he outshone them all.  He was preceded by a bodyguard of gentlemen on horseback in showy uniforms, his carriage-horses (there appeared to be somewhere in the remote neighborhood of a thousand of them,) were bestridden by gallant-looking fellows, also in stylish uniforms, and after the carriage followed another detachment of bodyguards.  Everybody got out of the way; everybody bowed to the Emperor and his friend the Sultan; and they went by on a swinging trot and disappeared.

I will not describe the Bois de Boulogne.  I can not do it.  It is simply a beautiful, cultivated, endless, wonderful wilderness.  It is an enchanting place.  It is in Paris now, one may say, but a crumbling old cross in one portion of it reminds one that it was not always so.  The cross marks the spot where a celebrated troubadour was waylaid and murdered in the fourteenth century.  It was in this park that that fellow with an unpronounceable name made the attempt upon the Russian Czar’s life last spring with a pistol.  The bullet struck a tree.  Ferguson showed us the place.  Now in America that interesting tree would be chopped down or forgotten within the next five years, but it will be treasured here.  The guides will point it out to visitors for the next eight hundred years, and when it decays and falls down they will put up another there and go on with the same old story just the same.