But in spite of all this, in spite of its pretty girls--and Jefferson insisted that in this one important particular New York had no peer--in spite of its comfortable theatres and its wicked Tenderloin, and its Rialto made so brilliant at night by thousands of elaborate electric signs, New York still had the subdued air of a provincial town, compared with the exuberant gaiety, the multiple attractions, the beauties, natural and artificial, of cosmopolitan Paris.
The boulevards were crowded, as usual at that hour, and the crush of both vehicles and pedestrians was so great as to permit of only a snail-like progress.

The clumsy three-horse omnibuses--Madeleine-Bastille--crowded inside and out with passengers and with their neatly uniformed drivers and conductors, so different in appearance and manner from our own slovenly street-car rowdies, were endeavouring to breast a perfect sea of _fiacres_ which, like a swarm of mosquitoes, appeared to be trying to go in every direction at once, their drivers vociferating torrents of vituperous abuse on every man, woman or beast unfortunate enough to get in their way.

As a dispenser of unspeakable profanity, the Paris _cocher_ has no equal.

He is unique, no one can approach him.

He also enjoys the reputation of being the worst driver in the world.