influence of the same evils in London.  I have walked along the terrace cafes of Paris and seen hundreds of men and women sipping their wine and beer, without observing a sign of drunkenness.  As they drank, they chatted and laughed and watched the passing crowds; the drinking seemed to be a secondary thing.  This I have witnessed, not only in the cafes along the Grands Boulevards, but in the out-of-the-way places patronized by the working classes.  In London I have seen in the “pubs” men and women crowded in stuffy little compartments, drinking seemingly only for the pleasure of swallowing as much as they could hold.  I have seen there women from eighteen to eighty, some in tatters, and some clutching babes in their arms, drinking the heavy English ales and whiskies served to them by women.  In the whole scene, not one ray of brightness, not one flash of gaiety, only maudlin joviality or grim despair.  And I have thought, if some men and women will drink—­and it is certain that some will—­is it not better that they do so under the open sky, in the fresh air, than huddled together in some close, smoky room?  There is a sort of frankness about the evils of Paris which robs them of much of the seductiveness of things forbidden, and with that frankness goes a certain cleanliness of thought belonging to things not hidden.  London will do whatever Paris does, provided exterior morals are not shocked.  As a result, Paris has the appearance only of being the more immoral city.  The difference may be summed up in this:  Paris practices its sins as lightly as it does its religion, while London practices both very seriously.

I should not neglect to mention what impressed me most forcibly during my stay in London.  It was not St. Paul’s nor the British Museum nor Westminster Abbey.  It was nothing more or less than the simple phrase “Thank you,” or sometimes more elaborated, “Thank you very kindly, sir.”  I was continually surprised by the varied uses to which it was put; and, strange to say, its use as an expression of politeness seemed more limited than any other.  One night I was in a cheap music hall and accidentally bumped into a waiter who was carrying a tray-load of beer, almost bringing him to several shillings’ worth of grief.  To my amazement he righted himself and said:  “Thank ye, sir,” and left me wondering whether he meant that he thanked me for not completely spilling his beer, or that he would thank me for keeping out of his way.

I also found cause to wonder upon what ground the English accuse Americans of corrupting the language by introducing slang words.  I think I heard more and more different kinds of slang during my few weeks’ stay in London than in my whole “tenderloin” life in New York.  But I suppose the English feel that the language is theirs, and that they may do with it as they please without at the same time allowing that privilege to others.