As war takes its daily toll of thousands and the black mourning on the doors of the houses spreads slowly but surely over the town like a hideous tide the psychology of the cities becomes more and more apparent. Each capital of Europe has its individual, unique method of bolstering up its courage.

London hangs doggedly and grimly to its motto, "Business as usual."

Paris prostrates itself, deep in grief, in a prolonged heroic spasm of self-denial and emotional but contained patriotism.

Berlin is silent, solemn, sober in the transports of religious devotion. Petrograd, calm, practical, is curtailing its wastrel tendencies.

Vienna is chastened and quiet.

Budapest sings on, covering its heartaches with laughter, music and melody.

London, Paris, Petrograd and Vienna are dark, and pure; John Barleycorn has stolen away from them. But in the gay city of the Magyars that stands arched across the beautiful blue Danube those three graces of Bacchus, Wine, Women and Song, revel more wantonly than ever they did in the days of peaceful abandon.

The Magyar-Hun steals his emotional heart with music and the light from woman's eyes.

Budapest, capital of the Hungarians, is not saddened by the death of its thousands -- at least not visibly. Underneath the laughter and careless unrestraint of the throngs that drink, dance, love and revel in the cafes there are heartaches and sighs, for the Magyars and Huns are emotional, sensitive and passionate. Still they show nothing to the visitor but lightness and indulgence, for that is the Magyar's way.

It is the psychology of these peculiar people, these strange folk of gypsyland -- half Oriental, half Occidental. In them is the mysticism and fatalism of the East as well as the energy and the nervous stimulae of the West. They are half and half, having the charm of the one and the force of the other.

The psychology of London is to accept the war without emotion, without excitement and with darkness as a precaution. London refuses to let the war disturb it too much. It will not surrender its calm, practical "Business as usual" slogan.

Paris, quick, keen, ever ready to laugh or to sob, is in a permanent intoxication of heroic self-denial. Everything is sacrificed for the defenders of the nation. Once the gayest and wickedest city in the world, the center of "the life," it has neglected either to sow or to reap its perennial crop of wild oats in its intense patriotism. Before the war it was brilliant, sometimes on the crest of delight, sometimes in the slough of despond, but always exciting, always dramatic, always romantic.

The night life of Paris la dead, buried for the duration of the war and longer, no doubt. Its municipal drink, absinthe, is forbidden.

Berlin has undergone a tremendous purification of civic conscience. It has a new religious atmosphere. It is sober, fearfully in earnest about this thing "victory." Its alcoholic privileges are slowly being restricted. The half-word is closed. Morality has become a battle cry in the mouths of those who stake everything on German efficiency, those who depend absolutely for victory upon the elimination of all unprofitable things.

Petrograd has curtailed the activities of the district where the yellow police cards lie in the purses of the women. Gradually the Russian capital is becoming systematized. Vodka, the national artery of drunkenness, has been cut in two. The army must be sober. The Slav admits that "the rounders" are out of place in these days of strife.

But Budapest gives carte blanche to its demimondaines. Its psychology is that soldiers need relaxation when they return from the front. They have none of the thrift which leads French and German authorities to withhold dangerous temptation from their men. They have too much love of seriousness in their blood to ever think of conserving their national health.

The gypsy strain in their ancestry makes them disregard life itself, since those nomads have always been surrendered to the motto, "A short life and a merry one."

Consequently, Budapest has become the wickedest city in Europe, the gayest city on the continent and the maddest city in the world.

Behold it -- Budapest with the lid off; Budapest, the only wide open town in Europe!

All morning the city has slept. Now at 5 o'clock in the evening, when the lights are coming on, the people come forth-the revelry begins. No more beautiful city is there in the world than Budapest. Its buildings are artistic triumphs. Its men are dark, handsome, well built Adonises.

Its women, with their devilishly slanted eyes and their olive skins, toning down their red hue of virility, have been celebrated in comic opera wherever music is sung.

The cafes are decorated and ablaze with lights. Officers sit at tables, each with his sweetheart, his cigarettes and his wine. The costumes of the demimondaines are bizarre, but all are ultra decollette, daring in cut, gauzelike in their clothing functions.

The profusion of flowers on the tables (since the gardens of Budapest are world-famous) is reflective of the exotic, colorful spirit of the night Turks in the red fezes of their cult sit down amidst the throng, more at home by far than in any other city west of Constantinople, for there is something haremlike in Budapest. The Hungarian has the Turk's passionate love of sensual pleasure, his prostration before luxury, his untempered animal spirits. To his credit he has for all his unrestraint more intellectual control than the Mohammedan.

No, you will see no drunkenness in Budapest tonight. Somehow, Budapest knows when to quit. You will see, however, love everywhere -- see the officers suddenly cut their gay laughter short with a quick, fierce kiss; see so much amorousness that your thoroughly occidental temper will be shocked.

You have seen enough of this hot emotion to convince you that the hurrying reporters who dashed through the city were right when they called it the wickedest city of Europe.

Adopted from The Weekly Sentinel, 29 Nov, 1916.