Stand, as the ordinary tourist does on his first day,
in the flowering square before the Louvre; in the foreground are the
fountains and bright tulip-bordered paths of the Tuileries--here a glint
of gold, there a soft flash of marble statuary, shining through the trees;
in the center the round lake where the children sail their boats. Beyond
spreads the wide sweep of the Place de la Concorde, with its obelisk of
terrible significance, its larger fountains throwing brilliant jets of
spray; and then the trailing, upward vista of the Champs Elysees to the
great triumphal arch; yes, even to the most indifferent, Paris is
beautiful.
To the subtler of appreciation, she is more than beautiful; she is
impressive. For behind the studied elegance of architecture, the elaborate
simplicity of garden, the carefully lavish use of sculpture and delicate
spray, is visible the imagination of a race of passionate creators--the
imagination, throughout, of the great artist. One meets it at every turn
and corner, down dim passageways, up steep hills, across bridges, along
sinuous quays; the masterhand and its "infinite capacity for taking
pains.
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