The ’Bus drivers of London are a proud and ’aughty class; yet they recognize a gentleman at sight, and often unbend—showing a friendliness bordering on confidence. Among them I have several dear friends. The true type wears a ’igh ’at, a ’igh collar and a red scarf, dimun pin, kid gloves and in the lapel of his coat is a half-blown moss rose, supplied stealthily by some sweet maid. Then he has his own private lap robe, used only in fine weather, with his initials worked in yellow worsted across the center. I never saw John the slightest frustrated or impatient. He may be “laid out,” or bumped into, or bump into others, which he prefers, yet the reins are still held lightly in one hand and with the whip in the other, he tosses a kiss to some fair lidy, and all so deftly done that none but she (and I) understand. ’Bus conductors get only half the pay of drivers and are a cringing, knavish lot, totally unfit to associate with gentlemen, and are never recognized by women who possess any degree of self respect. * * * * * I went to the Tabernacle where Spurgeon, the son of his father, preaches to six thousand people. The great man waved his arms, stamped wildly and spoke with vehemence of the iniquities of the wicked city of London. “Why does not God sink the place in a night, as he did Sodom and Gomorrah!” shrieked Mr. Spurgeon. A man from Oshkosh, Wisconsin, seated next me, wrote on the fly leaf of his hymn book: “Because Henry Irving, play actor; William Morris, infidel, and Zangwill, Jew, live here.” * * * * * I see that Mr. W. W. Denslow is being spoken of by the Chicago papers as the Leonardo da Vinci of the North Side. Den draws things, paints divinely, is a good collar-and-elbow philosopher, an all ’round wit, a story teller of no mean repute, and like Mr. Boffin, occasionally drops into poetry. But they do say that all of Den’s really choice ideas are supplied by his wife, daughter of Amber and child of her gifted mother. Happy Den! he doesn’t have to think; like a hippocampus, he just absorbs. * * * * * I have received from the publishers a book written by an Englishman, entitled, _The Art of Graceful Horseback Riding Taught in Ten Chapters_. The work reads like a lecture on rhetoric by the Shock-headed Youth in English A at Harvard. * * * * * Haven’t you ever felt that the prince is as good as the pauper even if he is no better? * * * * * Who says that we are not an artistic people? All that was necessary was the faith of two American patriots like Koster and Bial, to pack the galleries with spectators of such masterpieces as _The Bath_ and _The Flea Hunt_ whose living models had been chosen with great care so as not to offend the delicate popular sense of beauty. * * * * *