Go to a hotel, and watch the arrival of couples in the dining-rooms.
Now, don't go to the Louvre, the Grand Hotel, or the Bristol, in Paris. Don't go to Claridge's, the Savoy, the Victoria, or the Metropole, in London. Don't go to Delmonico's in New York, or the Thorndyke in Boston, because in all these hotels, you will probably run the risk of seeing all behave alike. Go elsewhere, and, I say, watch.
In France, you will see Monsieur and Madame arrive together, walk abreast towards the table assigned to them, very often arm in arm, talking and smiling at each other—though married. Equal footing.
In England, you will see John Bull leading the way. He does not like to be seen eating in public, and thinks it very hard that he should not have the dining-room all to himself. So he enters, with his hands in his pockets, looking askance at everybody right and left. Then, meek and demure, with her eyes cast down, follows Mrs. John Bull.
But in America! Oh, in America, behold, the dignified, nay, the majestic entry of Mrs. Jonathan, a perfect queen going towards her throne, bestowing a glance on her subjects right and left—and Jonathan behind!
****
They say in France that Paris is the paradise of women. If so, there is a more blissful place than paradise; there is another word to invent to give an idea of the social position enjoyed by American ladies.
If I had to be born again, and I might choose my sex and my birthplace, I would shout at the top of my voice:
"Oh! make me an American woman!"
