The French give a touch of art to whatever they do.  Even the drivers of drays and carts and trucks about the streets are not content with a plain, matter-of-fact whip, as an English or American laborer would be, but it must be a finely modeled stalk, with a long, tapering lash tipped with the best silk snapper.  Always the inevitable snapper.  I doubt if there is a whip in Paris without a snapper.  Here is where the fine art, the rhetoric of driving, comes in.  This converts a vulgar, prosy “gad” into a delicate instrument, to be wielded with pride and skill, and never literally to be applied to the backs of the animals, but to be launched to right and left into the air with a professional flourish, and a sharp, ringing report.  Crack! crack! crack! all day long go these ten thousand whips, like the boys’ Fourth of July fusillade.  It was invariably the first sound I heard when I opened my eyes in the morning, and generally the last one at night.  Occasionally some belated drayman would come hurrying along just as I was going to sleep, or some early bird before I was fully awake in the morning, and let off in rapid succession, in front of my hotel, a volley from the tip of his lash that would make the street echo again, and that might well have been the envy of any ring-master that ever trod the tanbark.  Now and then, during my ramblings, I would suddenly hear some master-whip, perhaps that of an old omnibus-driver, that would crack like a rifle, and, as it passed along, all the lesser whips, all the amateur snappers, would strike up with a jealous and envious emulation, making every foot-passenger wink, and one (myself) at least almost to shade his eyes from the imaginary missiles.

I record this fact because it “points a moral and adorns a ‘tail.’” The French always give this extra touch.  Everything has its silk snapper.  Are not the literary whips of Paris famous for their rhetorical tips and the sting there is in them?  What French writer ever goaded his adversary with the belly of his lash, like the Germans and the English, when he could blister him with its silken end, and the percussion of wit be heard at every stroke?

In the shops, and windows, and public halls, this passion takes the form of mirrors,—­mirrors, mirrors everywhere, on the walls, in the panels, in the cases, on the pillars, extending, multiplying, opening up vistas this way and that, and converting the smallest shop, with a solitary girl and a solitary customer, into an immense enchanted bazaar, across whose endless counters customers lean and pretty girls display goods.  The French are always before the looking-glass, even when they eat and drink.  I never went into a restaurant without seeing four or five facsimiles of myself approaching from as many different`directions, giving the order to the waiter and sitting down at the table.  Hence I always had plenty of company at dinner, though we were none of us very social, and I was the only one who entered