194 WINTER SUNSHINE 



the fried potatoes, with which your beefsteak cornea 

 snowed under, are the very flower of the culinary 

 art, and I believe impossible in any other country. 



Even the ruins are in excellent taste, and are by 

 far the best-behaved ruins I ever saw for so recent 

 ones. I came near passing some of the most noted, 

 during my first walk, without observing them. The 

 main walls were all standing, and the fronts were 

 as imposing as ever. No litter or rubbish, no 

 charred timbers or blackened walls; only vacant 

 windows and wrecked interiors, which do not very 

 much mar the general outside effect. 



My first genuine surprise was the morning after 

 my arrival, which, according to my reckoning, was 

 Sunday; and when I heard the usual week-day 

 sounds, and, sallying forth, saw the usual week-day 

 occupations going on, — painters painting, glaziers 

 glazing, masons on their scaffolds, etc., and heavy 

 drays and market-wagons going through the streets, 

 and many shops and bazaars open, — I must have 

 presented to a scrutinizing beholder the air and 

 manner of a man in a dream, so absorbed was I in 

 running over the events of the week to find where 

 the mistake had occurred, where I had failed to turn 

 a leaf, or else had turned over two leaves for one. 

 But each day had a distinct record, and every count 

 resulted the same. It must be Sunday. Then it 

 all dawned upon me that this was Paris, and that 

 the Parisians did not have the reputation of being 

 very strict Sabbatarians. 



The French give a touch of art to whatever they 



