* * * * *

Paris, Paris by purple facade of the opera, the crowd on the Boulevard des Italiens and the great swing of the Champs Elysees.  But not the Paris the world knows.  Paris with its soul cut to the core—­feverish, crowded, nervous, hurried; full of uniforms and mourning bands, with cafes closed at 9:30—­no sugar, scarce bread, and tears so interwined with joy that there is scant difference.  Paris has been dreaming a nightmare, and though she awakes, the grim terror is upon her—­it lies on the sand-closed art treasures of the Louvre.  Only the flowers are there, always the flowers, the Roses of England and the Lilies of France.

* * * * *

New York!  Behind the Liberty that faces free France rise the white cliffs of Manhattan, tier on tier, with a curving pinnacle, towers square and twin, a giant inkwell daintily stoppered, an ancient pyramid enthroned; beneath, low ramparts wide and mighty; while above, faint-limned against the turbulent sky, looms the vast grace of that Cathedral of the Purchased and Purchasing Poor, topping the world and pointing higher.

Yonder the gray cobwebs of the Brooklyn bridges leap the sea, and here creep the argosies from all earth’s ends.  We move to this swift home on dun and swelling waters and hear as we come the heartbeats of the new world.

* * * * *

New York and night from the Brooklyn Bridge:  The bees and fireflies flit and twinkle in their vast hives; curved clouds like the breath of gods hover between the towers and the moon.  One hears the hiss of lightnings, the deep thunder of human things, and a fevered breathing as of some attendant and invincible Powers.  The glow of burning millions melts outward into dim and fairy outlines until afar the liquid music born of rushing crowds drips like a benediction on the sea.

* * * * *

New York and morning:  the sun is kissing the timid dew in Central Park, and from the Fountain of Plenty one looks along that world street, Fifth Avenue, and walks toward town.  The earth life and curves graciously down from the older mansions of princes to the newer shops of luxury.  Egypt and Abyssinia, Paris and Damascus, London and India caress you by the way; churches stand aloof while the shops swell to emporiums.  But all this is nothing.  Everything is mankind.  Humanity stands and flies and walks and rolls about—­the poor, the priceless, the world-known and the forgotten; child and grandfather, king and leman—­the pageant of the world goes by, set in a frame of stone and jewels, clothed in scarlet and rags.  Princes Street and the Elysian Fields, the Strand and the Ringstrasse—­these are the Ways of the World today.

* * * * *

New York and twilight, there where the Sixth Avenue “L” rises and leaps above the tenements into the free air at 110th Street.  It circles like a bird with heaven and St. John’s above and earth and the sweet green and gold of the Park beneath.  Beyond lie all the blue mists and mysteries of distance; beneath, the city rushes and crawls.  Behind echo all the roar and war and care and maze of the wide city set in its sullen darkening walls, flashing weird and crimson farewells.  Out at the sides the stars twinkle.