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.