levated taste are,
on the whole, greater in Germany than in England; and that in many cities
there is a profusion of exterior ornament, more especially in Munich, in
the shape of the fresco paintings of the Palace Garden, on Isar Thor, and
in the Basilica and churches generally, so that the eye is better
educated in artistic combinations; and the same necessity does not exist
for special art instruction with them as with us. Then, let us never
forget that their public and other gardens are as free to them as the air
they breathe, and that music is almost as universal.

The remembrances I have of Paris Sundays decidedly possess a character of
rest and recreation; of waking in the morning to a grateful sense of
repose; of clean shirts and trimmed beards; and of delicious breakfasts
at our Cafe aux Quatres Mendiants, of coffee and white bread, instead of
the bouillon and confiture of the atelier. Did we not work, then?
Assuredly we did sometimes, when hard pressed; but the recollection of
those few occasions is drowned in that of a flood of happy, tranquil
Sundays. When we did work it was from eight till twelve, which made half
a day, and this was the rate at which all overtime was reckoned. One
hard taskmaster I remember, who, instead of paying us our dues, as is the
custom on Saturday night, at the end of quinze jours, cajoled us to come
and work under the promise of their payment on the Sunday morning. He
failed us like a rogue; and we drudged on for another quinzaine, Sunday
mornings included, in hopeful anticipation of the receipt of our wages.
When we found that he slunk out of the way, without paying us a sou, we
rebelled, sang the Marseillaise, demanded our wages, and never worked
another Sunday.

I am lost in my endeavours to define the mingled recollections of Sunday
tranquillity, enjoyment, and frivolity during a stay of eighteen months
in Paris. My thoughts run from the Madelaine to Minu-montant; from
Versailles to the Funambule; from Diogenes' lantern at St. Cloud to the
blind man's concert in the Palais Royal. Sometimes I wander over the
plains of Auteuil and Passy; then suddenly find myself examining a
paper-making machine in the Museum of Arts and Trades. Or I look over
the vine fields from the heights of Montmorency at one moment, and the
next am pacing the long galleries of the Louvre, or the classic chambers
of the Palais des Beaux Arts. I have passed a Whitsunday morning at
Versailles among th