We made our way through the Rue Mazarin and Rue de l’Ancienne Comédie into that region which surrounds the École de Medecin and the Luxembourg. In his enthusiastic way Barfleur tried to indicate to me that I was in the most historic section of the left bank of the Seine, where were St.-Étienne-du-Mont, the Panthéon, the Sorbonne, the Luxembourg, the École des Beaux-Arts and the Latin Quarter. We came for a little way into the Boulevard St.-Michel, and there I saw my first artists in velvet suits, long hair, and broad-brimmed hats; but I was told that they were poseurs--the kind of artist who is so by profession, not by accomplishment. They were poetic-looking youths--the two that I saw swinging along together--with pale faces and slim hands. I was informed that the type had almost entirely disappeared and that the art student of to-day prefers to be distinctly inconspicuous. From what I saw of them later I can confirm this; for the schools which I visited revealed a type of boy and girl who, while being romantic enough, in all conscience, were nevertheless inconspicuously dressed and very simple and off-hand in their manner. I visited this region later with artists who had made a name for themselves in the radical world, and with students who were hoping to make a name for themselves--sitting in their cafés, examining their studios, and sensing the atmosphere of their streets and public amusements. There is an art atmosphere, strong and clear, compounded of romance, emotion, desire, love of beauty and determination of purpose, which is thrilling to experience--even vicariously. Paris is as young in its mood as any city in the world. It is as wildly enthusiastic as a child. I noticed here, this morning, the strange fact of old battered-looking fellows singing to themselves, which I never noticed anywhere else in this world. Age sits lightly on the Parisian, I am sure; and youth is a mad fantasy, an exciting realm of romantic dreams. The Parisian--from the keeper of a market-stall to the prince of the money world, or of art--wants to live gaily, briskly, laughingly, and he will not let the necessity of earning his living deny him. I felt it in the churches, the depots, the department stores, the theaters, the restaurants, the streets--a wild, keen desire for life with the blood and the body to back it up. It must be in the soil and the air, for Paris sings. It is like poison in the veins, and I felt myself growing positively giddy with enthusiasm. I believe that for the first six months Paris would be a disease from which one would suffer greatly and recover slowly. After that you would settle down to live the life you found there in contentment and with delight; but you would not be in so much danger of wrecking your very mortal body and your uncertainly immortal soul.