from the typical Englishman of the South. It struck me at once that if England were to be kept commercially dominant it would be this type of man, not that of the South, who would keep it so. And now I could understand from looking at these men why it was that the north of England was supposed to hate the south of England, and vice versa. I had sat at a dinner-table in Portland Place one evening and heard the question of the sectional feeling discussed. Why does it exist? was the question before the guests. Well, the south of England is intellectual, academic, historic, highly socialized. It is rich in military, governmental, ambassadorial and titled life. The very scenery is far more lovely. The culture of the people, because of the more generally distributed wealth, is so much better. In the north of England the poor are very poor and contentious. The men of wealth are not historically wealthy or titled. In many cases they are “hard greedy upstarts like the irrepressible Americans,” one speaker remarked. They have no real culture or refinement. They manage to buy their way in from time to time, it is true, but that does not really count. They are essentially raw and brutal. Looking at these men breakfasting quietly, I could understand it exactly. Their hard, direct efficiency would but poorly adjust itself to the soft speculative intellectuality of the south. Yet we know that types go hand in hand in any country with a claim to greatness. After my breakfast I struck out to see what I could see of the city. I also took a car to Salford, and another train to Stockport in order to gather as quick a picture of the Manchester neighborhood as I could. What I saw was commonplace enough. All of the larger cities of present-day Europe are virtually of modern construction. Most of them have grown to their present great population in the last fifty years. Hence they have been virtually built--not rebuilt--in that time. Salford, a part of Manchester, was nothing--great cotton and machine works and warehouses. Stockport was not anything either, save long lines of brick cottages one and two stories high and mills, mills, mills, mills. It always astounds me how life repeats itself--any idea in life such as a design for a house--over and over and over. These houses in Salford, Stockport and Manchester proper were such as you might see anywhere in Chicago, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Baltimore--in the cheap streets. I had the sense of being pursued by a deadly commonplace. It all looked as people do when they think very little, know very little, see very little, do very little. I expected to learn that the churches flourished here very greatly and that there was an enormous Sunday school somewhere about. There was--at Stockport--the largest in the world I was told, five thousand students attending. The thing that impressed me most was the presence of the wooden clog or shoe.