The Catholic observances one sees everywhere in Paris are most
interesting. When a funeral procession passes, every man takes off his
hat and stands watching it with the greatest respect.

In May the streets are full of sweet-faced little girls on their way
to their first communion. They were all in white, bareheaded, except
for their white veils, white shoes, white gloves, and the dearest look
of importance on their earnest little faces. It was most touching.

In all months, however, one sees the comical sight of a French bride
and bridegroom, in all the glory of their bridal array--white satin,
veil, and orange blossoms--driving through the streets in open cabs,
and hugging and kissing each other with an unctuous freedom which is
apt to throw a conservative American into a spasm of laughter. Indeed,
the frank and candid way that love-making goes on in public among the
lower classes is so amazing that at first you think you never in this
world will become accustomed to it, but you get accustomed to a great
many strange sights in Paris. If a kiss explodes with unusual violence
in a cab near mine it sometimes scares the horse, but it no longer
disturbs me in the least. My nervousness over that sort of thing has
entirely worn off.

I have had but one adventure, and that was of a simple and primitive
character, which seemed to excite no one but myself. They say that
there is no drunkenness in France. If that is so then this cabman of
mine had a fit of some kind. Perhaps, though, he was only a beast.
Most of the cabmen here are beasts. They beat their poor horses so
unmercifully that I spend quite a good portion of my time standing up
in the cab and arguing with them. But the only efficacious argument I