free from many of the perils of the omnibus; but they have perils
of their own. They are always quite full. By that I mean that
every seat is crowded, that there is a double row of men and women
standing down the center, and that the driver's platform in front
is full, and also the conductor's platform behind. That is the
normal condition of a street car in the Third Avenue. You, as a
stranger in the middle of the car, wish to be put down at, let us
say, 89th Street. In the map of New York now before me, the cross
streets running from east to west are numbered up northward as far
as 154th Street. It is quite useless for you to give the number as
you enter. Even an American conductor, with brains all over him,
and an anxious desire to accommodate, as is the case with all these
men, cannot remember. You are left therefore in misery to
calculate the number of the street as you move along, vainly
endeavoring through the misty glass to decipher the small numbers
which after a day or two you perceive to be written on the lamp
posts.

But I soon gave up all attempts at keeping a seat in one of these
cars. It became my practice to sit down on the outside iron rail
behind, and as the conductor generally sat in my lap I was in a
measure protected. As for the inside of these vehicles the women
of New York were, I must confess, too much for me. I would no
sooner place myself on a seat, than I would be called on by a mute,
unexpressive, but still impressive stare into my face, to surrender
my place. From cowardice if not from gallantry I would always
obey; and as this led to discomfort and an irritated spirit, I
preferred nursing the conductor on the hard bar in the rear.

And here if I seem to say a word against women in America, I beg