ecause he knows better: he is rude with malice
prepense. The lower classes have especially lost much of their courtesy
since the Commune. I have seen a French workingman thrust a lady
violently aside on a crowded sidewalk, with a scowl and a muttered curse
that lent significance to the act. And the graceful, suave courtesy of
the shopkeepers--how swiftly it flies out of the window when their hope
of profit in the shape of the departing shopper walks out of the door!

Shortly before quitting the United States I went into one of our large
public libraries to consult a voluminous work of reference. In the
remote recess where the books were kept sat a gentleman intent on the
perusal of a volume, his chair tipped back as far as it could be with
safety inclined, and his feet resting on the table. "Horrid fellow!" I
said to myself, glancing at the obtrusive members, and going forward to
the bookcase in search of the work I wanted. It proved to be of somewhat
ponderous dimensions, and higher than I could conveniently reach, so I
stood on tiptoe and tugged vainly at it for a moment. My friend of the
feet saw my dilemma, and down went his book, and he sprang to my
assistance in an instant, "Allow me," he said; and in a moment the heavy
tome was brought down, dusted by a few turns of his pocket-handkerchief
and laid on the table for my accommodation. If he had but known it,
there was mingled with my thanks a world of unuttered but heartfelt
apologies for my former hard thoughts respecting his attitude. And
therein lay the difference between the two nationalities. A Frenchman
would have died rather than have made a library-table a resting-place
for his feet, but he would have let a woman he did not know break a
blood-vessel by her exertions before he would have rendered her the
slightest assistance.

American women are too apt to accept all the courtesies offered them by
strangers at home as their right, even neglecting to render the poor
meed of thanks in return. But let them when in Paris try to get into an
omnibus on a wet day, and being thrust aside by a strong-armed Frenchman
they will remorsefully remember the seats accorded to them in crowded
cars, and accepted thanklessly and as a matter of course. And when the
lounger on the boulevards dogs their steps or whispers his insulting
compliments in their shuddering ear, they will remember how they were
guarded at home not by one protector, but by all right-minded mankind,
and w