The surface-cars in all the large cities that I saw were less smart and less effective than those in sundry European capitals.  In Boston particularly I cannot forget the excessive discomfort of a journey to Cambridge, made in the company of a host who had a most beautiful house, and who gave dinners of the last refinement, but who seemed unaccountably to look on the car journey as a sort of pleasant robustious outing.  Nor can I forget—­also in Boston—­the spectacle of the citizens of Brookline—­reputed to be the wealthiest suburb in the world—­strap-hanging and buffeted and flung about on the way home from church, in surface-cars which really did carry inadequacy and brutality to excess.

The horse-cabs of Chicago had apparently been imported second-hand immediately after the great fire from minor towns in Italy.

[Illustration:  THE STRAP-HANGERS]

There remains the supreme mystery of the vices of the American taxicab.  I sought an explanation of this from various persons, and never got one that was convincing.  The most frequent explanation, at any rate in New York, was that the great hotels were responsible for the vices of the American taxicab, by reason of their alleged outrageous charges to the companies for the privilege of waiting for hire at their august porticos.  I listened with respect, but with incredulity.  If the taxicabs were merely very dear, I could understand; if they were merely very bad, I could understand; if they were merely numerically insufficient for the number of people willing to pay for taxicabs, I could understand.  But that they should be at once very dear, very bad, and most inconveniently scarce, baffled and still baffles me.  The sum of real annoyance daily inflicted on a rich and busy but craven-hearted city like New York by the eccentricity of its taxicab organization must be colossal.

As to the condition of the roadways, the vocabulary of blame had been exhausted long before I arrived.  Two things, however, struck me in New York which I had not heard of by report:  the greasiness of the streets, transforming every automobile into a skidding death-trap at the least sign of moisture, and the leisureliness of the road-works.  The busiest part of Thirty-fourth Street, for example—­no mean artery, either—­was torn up when I came into New York, and it was still torn up when I left.  And, lastly, why are there no island refuges on Fifth Avenue?  Even at the intersection of Fifth and Broadway there is no oasis for the pursued wayfarer.  Every European city has long ago decided that the provision of island refuges in main thoroughfares is an act of elementary justice to the wayfarer in his unequal and exhausting struggle with wheeled traffic.

All these criticisms, which are severe but honest, would lose much of their point if the general efficiency of the United States and its delightful genius for organization were not so obvious and so impressive to the European.  In fact, it is precisely the brilliant practical qualities of the country which place its idiosyncrasies in the matter of transit in so startling a light....  I would not care to close this section without a grateful reference to the very natty electric coupes, usually driven by ladies, which are so refreshing a feature of the streets of Chicago, and to the virtues of American private automobiles in general.