As Done in London

London is essentially a he-town, just as Paris is indubitably a she-town.  That untranslatable, unmistakable something which is not to be defined in the plain terms of speech, yet which sets its mark on any long-settled community, has branded them both—­the one as being masculine, the other as being feminine.  For Paris the lily stands, the conventionalized, feminized lily; but London is a lion, a shag-headed, heavy-pawed British lion.

One thinks of Paris as a woman, rather pretty, somewhat regardless of morals and decidedly slovenly of person; craving admiration, but too indolent to earn it by keeping herself presentable; covering up the dirt on a piquant face with rice powder; wearing paste jewels in her earlobes in an effort to distract criticism from the fact that the ears themselves stand in need of soap and water.  London, viewed in retrospect, seems a great, clumsy, slow-moving giant, with hair on his chest and soil under his nails; competent in the larger affairs and careless about the smaller ones; amply satisfied with himself and disdainful of the opinions of outsiders; having all of a man’s vices and a good share of his virtues; loving sport for sport’s sake and power for its own sake and despising art for art’s sake.

You do not have to spend a week or a month or a year in either Paris or London to note these things.  The distinction is wide enough to be seen in a day; yes, or in an hour.  It shows in all the outer aspects.  An overtowering majority of the smart shops in Paris cater to women; a large majority of the smart shops in London cater to men.  It shows in their voices; for cities have voices just as individuals have voices.  New York is not yet old enough to have found its own sex.  It belongs still to the neuter gender.  New York is not even a noun—­it’s a verb transitive; but its voice is a female voice, just as Paris’ voice is.  New York, like Paris, is full of strident, shrieking sounds, shrill outcries, hysterical babblings—­a women’s bridge-whist club at the hour of casting up the score; but London now is different.  London at all hours speaks with a sustained, sullen, steady, grinding tone, never entirely sinking into quietude, never rising to acute discords.  The sound of London rolls on like a river—­a river that ebbs sometimes, but rarely floods above its normal banks; it impresses one as the necessary breathing of a grunting and burdened monster who has a mighty job on his hands and is taking his own good time about doing it.

In London, mind you, the newsboys do not shout their extras.  They bear in their hands placards with black-typed announcements of the big news story of the day; and even these headings seem designed to soothe rather than to excite—­saying, for example, such things as Special From Liner, in referring to a disaster at sea, and Meeting in Ulster, when meaning that the northern part of Ireland has gone on record as favoring civil war before home rule.