In another place we were shown a sort of summer arbor, with a fence before it.  We said that was nothing.  We looked again, and saw, through the arbor, an endless stretch of garden, and shrubbery, and grassy lawn.  We were perfectly willing to go in there and rest, but it could not be done.  It was only another delusion—­a painting by some ingenious artist with little charity in his heart for tired folk.  The deception was perfect.  No one could have imagined the park was not real.  We even thought we smelled the flowers at first.

We got a carriage at twilight and drove in the shaded avenues with the other nobility, and after dinner we took wine and ices in a fine garden with the great public.  The music was excellent, the flowers and shrubbery were pleasant to the eye, the scene was vivacious, everybody was genteel and well-behaved, and the ladies were slightly moustached, and handsomely dressed, but very homely.

We adjourned to a cafe and played billiards an hour, and I made six or seven points by the doctor pocketing his ball, and he made as many by my pocketing my ball.  We came near making a carom sometimes, but not the one we were trying to make.  The table was of the usual European style —­cushions dead and twice as high as the balls; the cues in bad repair.  The natives play only a sort of pool on them.  We have never seen any body playing the French three-ball game yet, and I doubt if there is any such game known in France, or that there lives any man mad enough to try to play it on one of these European tables.  We had to stop playing finally because Dan got to sleeping fifteen minutes between the counts and paying no attention to his marking.

Afterward we walked up and down one of the most popular streets for some time, enjoying other people’s comfort and wishing we could export some of it to our restless, driving, vitality-consuming marts at home.  Just in this one matter lies the main charm of life in Europe—­comfort.  In America, we hurry—­which is well; but when the day’s work is done, we go on thinking of losses and gains, we plan for the morrow, we even carry our business cares to bed with us, and toss and worry over them when we ought to be restoring our racked bodies and brains with sleep.  We burn up our energies with these excitements, and either die early or drop into a lean and mean old age at a time of life which they call a man’s prime in Europe.  When an acre of ground has produced long and well, we let it lie fallow and rest for a season; we take no man clear across the continent in the same coach he started in—­the coach is stabled somewhere on the plains and its heated machinery allowed to cool for a few days; when a razor has seen long service and refuses to hold an edge, the barber lays it away for a few weeks, and the edge comes back of its own accord.  We bestow thoughtful care upon inanimate objects, but none upon ourselves.  What a robust people, what a nation of thinkers we might be, if we would only lay ourselves on the shelf occasionally and renew our edges!