by broad boulevard and acacia avenues; or, later in the day, in the regions of luxury and millions, where the sirens of fashion, arrayed with a taste Solomon never dreamed of at the time sacred tradition supposes him to have envied the lily of the field, corollas emerging from exquisite sheaths, with the plumage of paradise upon their frivolous heads, pass and repass on their mission of smiling destruction, of ruthless rivalry, of scented glory. As well dream of a city of London without its trousered armies, rushing on the wings of time in pursuit of gold, as try to imagine a Paris with woman dethroned. She holds all the strong places; she vivifies the town from the old Place of the Bastille to the heights of Montmartre, where the texture and trimming of her garments is the topic of the hour; and men gather on the boulevards at the hour of absinthe, in devout expectation of seeing her pass by. Whether they discuss politics or art, be certain she is at the bottom of all their talk. The talk is assuredly not of the most respectful kind, nor is the attitude of Parisians to her such as we could with accuracy describe as clean or chivalrous, but they give to her what she, light-minded as she is, demands,—their full attention, a consideration of her charms, her dress, her vagaries, her virtues, her vices,—an attention that never wanders, the most generous measure of contempt, admiration, eternal grati-
