he porters seem to
say: "Here is a customer, let us treat him well." And it is who shall
relieve you of your luggage, or answer any questions you may be pleased
to ask. They are glad to see you.

In America, you may have a dozen parcels, not a hand will move to help
you with them. So Jonathan is obliged to forego the luxury of hand
baggage, so convenient for long journeys.

When you arrive at an American station, the officials are all frowning
and seem to say: "Why the deuce don't you go to Chicago by some other
line instead of coming here to bother us?"

[Illustration: ENGLISH RAILWAY STATION.]

This subject reminds me of an interesting fact, told me by Mr. Chauncey
M. Depew on board the _Teutonic_. When tram-cars were first used in the
States, it was a long time before the drivers and conductors would
consent to wear any kind of uniform, so great is the horror of anything
like a badge of paid servitude. Now that they do wear some kind of
uniform, they spend their time in standing sentry at the door of their
dignity, and in thinking that, if they were polite, you would take their
affable manners for servility.

[Illustration: THE RAILWAY PORTER.]

* * * * *

_Everett House, New York. (Midnight.)_

So many charming houses have opened their hospitable doors to me in New
York that, when I am in this city, I have soon forgotten the little
annoyances of a railway journey or the hardships of a lecture tour.

After dining here, I went to spend the evening at the house of Mr.
Richard Watson Gilder, the poet, and editor of the _Century Magazine_,
that most successful of all magazines in the world. A circulation of
nearly 300,000 copies--just think of it! But it need not excite wonder
in any one who knows this beautiful and artistic periodical, to which
all the leading _litterateurs_ of America lend their pens, and the best
artists their pencils.

Mrs. Richard Watson Gilder is one of the best and most genial hostesses
in New York. At her Fridays, one meets the cream of intellectual
society, the best known names of the American aristocracy of talent.

To-night I met Mr. Frank R. Stockton, the novelist, Mr. Charles Webb,
the humorist, Mr. Frank Millet, the painter, and his wife, and a galaxy
of celebrities and beautiful women, all most interesting and delightful
people to meet. Conversation went on briskly all over the rooms till
late.

The more I see of the American women, the mo