osophers! Translating you in terms of your palaces of prostitution,
your Palais de Danse, your Admirals-Casinos; translating you in terms of
your purposely spurious Victorias, your Riche Cafes, your Fledermauses.
As well render the spirit of Vienna in the key of the Kaerntnerstrasse at
eleven of the Austrian night; as well play the spirit of Paris in the
discords of its Montmartre, in the leaden pitch of its Pre Catelan at
sunrise. Sing of London from the Astor Club; sing of New York from its
Bryant Park at moontide, its Rector's, its ridiculous Cafe San Souci and
its Madam Hunter's. 'Twere the same.

Pleasure in the mass, incidentally, is perforce ever mechanical; a levee
at Buckingham Palace, a fete on the velvet terraces sloping into the
Newport sea, a Coney Island gangfest, a city's electric den of gilt and
tinsel.

But the essence of a city is never here. Berlin, in the wanderlust of
its darkened heavens, is not the ample-bosomed, begarneted,
crimson-lipped Minna angling in its gaudy dance decoy in the
Behrenstrasse; nor the satin-clad, pencilled-eyed Amelie ogling from her
"reserved" table in the silly sham called Moulin Rouge; nor yet the more
baby-glanced, shirtwaisted Ertrude laughing in the duntoned Cafe Lang.
Berlin is not she who beckons by night in the Friedrichstrasse; nor the
frowsy she who sings in the _bier-cabarets_ that hover about the
Lichtprunksaal. Berlin, under the stars, is the sound of soldiers
singing near the arch of the Brandenburger Tor, the peaceful _bauer_ and
his frau Hannah and his young daughters Lilla and Mia lodged before
their _abend bier_ at a bare table on the darker side of the far
Jaegerstrasse. Berlin, when skies are navy blue, is Heinrich, gallant
rear private of Regiment 31, publicly and with audible ado encircling
the waist of his most recent _engel_ on a bench in the Linden
promenade--Berlin, in the Inverness of night, is Hulda, little Alsatian
rebel--a rebel to France--a rebel to the Vosges and the
vineyards--Hulda, the provinces behind her, and in her heart, there to
rule forever, the spirit of the capital of Wilhelm der Groesste. For the
spirit of Berlin is the laughter of a pretty, clean and healthy
girl--not the neurotic simper of a devastated ware of the Madeleine
highway, not the raucous giggle of a bark that sails Piccadilly, not the
meaningfull and toothy beam of a fair American badger--none of these. It
is a laugh that has in it not the motive power of Krug and Co