that day; but the appreciation was entirely objective. Methodically we
climbed the stairs and viewed all the rooms of the old, old house, and
on the top floor were duly shown by the guide the old arm-chair in which
Dr. Johnson used to sit. A stout twine was tied across from arm to arm,
that pilgrims might not further wear out the old cushion. When I, as an
enormous jest, asked the guide to cut the string, that I might sit in
the historic chair, he cheerfully did so, and I considered the fee well
spent that allowed me to linger for a moment on the very dusty cushions
of Dr. Johnson’s own chair.
[Illustration: When I . . . asked the guide to cut the string . . . he
cheerfully did so.]
I afterward learned that the string business was a fraud, and was
renewed and cut again for each curious visitor. I accept with equanimity
this clever ruse, but I’m still wondering how they renew the dust.
While we were doing Early Restaurants Miss Anna said, “We must take in
Crosby Place.”
This pleased me hugely, for I remembered how Gloucester, in _Richard the
Third_ was everlastingly repairing to Crosby Place, and I desired to
know what was the attraction.
I found it interesting, but, lacking Gloucester, I shall not repair
there often. To be sure, it is a magnificent house, Gothic,
Perpendicular, and all that; the hangings and appointments are,
probably, much as they used to be, but after all, I do not care greatly
for eating among Emotions.
Whereupon Miss Anna cheerfully proposed that we visit the Tower.
“No,” said I, with decision; and then, my mind still on _Richard the
Third_, I quoted: “I do not like the Tower, of any place.”
I’m not sure I should have been able so bravely to disclaim an interest
in the Tower, had it not been that the night before I had heard a wise
and prominent Londoner state the fact that he had never visited it.
“No Londoner has ever been to the Tower,” he declared. “We used to say
that we intended to go some time or other, but now we don’t even say
that.”
I was greatly relieved to learn this, for I’m positive that the Tower is
hideous and uninteresting. As an alternative, I asked that we might
visit the railway stations.
Aside from the romance that is indigenous to all railway stations, there
are peculiar characteristics of the great London termini that are of
absorbing interest. And so strong are the claims each puts forth for
pre-eminence, it is indeed difficult to award a palm.
Euston has its columns, Charing Cross its Tribute to Queen Eleanor, St.
Pancras a spacious roominess, and Victoria a wofully-crowded and limited
space. Each station has its own sort of people, and, though indubitably
they must mingle upon occasion, yet the type of crowd at each station is
invariably the same.
[Illustration: A mysterious influence which emanates from those
wonderful columns.]
And yet, after all, my heart goes back with fondest memories to Euston.
Not the crowd, not even the atmosphere, but a mysterious influence which
emanates from those wonderful columns. Not only the sight of them as you
approach from London, but the queer, almost uncanny way in which they
permeate the whole place. They follow you through the station and into
the train, and not for many miles can you get out from under the
presence of those perfect shapes.
Coming into London, Cannon Street is a good station to choose, if your
route permit, but going out, Euston or Charing Cross should, if
possible, be selected.
Before, after, or during, our station visits, we touched on a few more
churches.
The Temple Church proved a delight because of the bronze Knights
peacefully resting there. Miss Anna told me they were called Crusaders
because they chose to lie with their legs crossed. This was probably
true, for the position was maintained by all of them. Oliver Goldsmith
is buried here, but I had no particular desire to throw a stone into his
graveyard, and so we went on. Owing to a change of mood, we no longer
rode on the ’buses, but took a hansom from one place to another. This
was not as extravagant as it might seem, for, notwithstanding assertions
to the contrary, one cannot ride enough in London cabs to make the bill
of any considerable amount, at least as compared to a New York cab bill.
And Shakespeare averred that “nothing is small or great but by
comparison.”
As our cab bumpily threaded its way along the crammed Strand, the
bright-colored mass of humanity and traffic seemed to me the pre-eminent
London. I wanted no more sight-seeing, I wanted no more historical
association, I merely wanted to continue this opportunity for feasting
on real City London. I voraciously bit off large chunks of the
atmosphere as we passed through it, which I am even yet digesting and
assimilating.
As a complement to this view of London, we suddenly decided to call on a
friend for a cup of tea. A personal, at-home tea would be a pleasant
contrast to the publicity of our day.
Deciding upon the coziest and homeliest tea-dispenser, we drove to Mrs.
Todd’s in Kensington.
It is a great satisfaction to know that the unpromising portal of a
London house will positively lead eventually to a delightful back
garden, and tea.
We were welcomed by our charming hostess in her pretty trailing
summeriness, and were immediately transformed from whimsical sight-seers
into sociable tea-drinkers.
Though it was by no means a special occasion, the garden was bright with
flowers and people, and the tea and cakes were served under the
inevitable marquee. It was Mrs. Todd’s weekly day at home, and the
guests were all amiable and charming. A young woman with a phenomenal
voice sang to us from the back parlor windows, and thereby gave a
stimulus to the conversation. All was usual and orthodox. Everybody
listened politely to everybody’s else chatter, and, apparently
unhearing, answered at random, and quite often wrongly.
It seemed to me that even in this land of bright flowers the blossoming
plants were of unusually brilliant hues. As I took my departure I
commented on this, and my hostess responded with a superb indifference:
“Really? yes, they are rather good ones. The nursery man fetched them
early this afternoon, and after you are all gone, he will come and carry
them away”; and, if you please, those ridiculous plants were in pots,
sunk into the earth, and giving all the effect of a beautiful growing
garden!
[Illustration: Really? yes, they are rather good ones.]
This fable teaches that our English sisters are not above the small
bluffs more often ascribed to American femininity.
[Illustration] _XI._ _Piccadilly Circus and its Environs_
A favorite game of mine in London was to walk until I became tired or
lost or both, and then take a cab back home.
Oftenest, the bright beckoning of Piccadilly allured me, and I strolled
along that Primrose Path from Park Lane to Piccadilly Circus, my mind
laid open like a fresh blotting-book, to receive whatever impress London
might carelessly leave upon it.
Such delightful people as I would see!
Ladies, tricked out in pink filminess of raiment, ever striving to
clutch one more handful of their _frou-frou_, as it waggishly eluded
their grasp, and dawdled along the pavement behind them.
Yet, strange to say, the flapping frilliness rarely becomes muddily
bedraggled, as it would on a New York street; it merely achieves that
palpable grayness which marks everything in London, from its palaces to
its laundry work.
The headgear of these same ladies can be called nothing less than
alarming.
[Illustration: The headgear of these same ladies can be called nothing
less than alarming.]
During the summer of which I write, it was the whim to wear huge shapes
of the mushroom or butter-bowl variety. These shapes, instead of being
decorated with flowers or feathers, bore skilfully contrived fruits,
that looked so like real ones I was often tempted to pluck them.
Cherries and grapes were not so entirely novel, but peaches, pears, and
in one instance a banana, seemed, at least, mildly ludicrous. I was
rejoiced to learn that these fruits, being stuffed with cotton-wool,
were not so weighty as they appeared; but they were indeed bulky, and
crowded on to the hat in such quantities that it seemed more sensible to
turn the butter-bowl the other side up to hold them.
Owen Seaman calls the English “the misunderstood people,” but how can
one understand those who put fly-nets on the tops of their cabs instead
of on their horses, and wear peaches on their heads?
As difficult to understand as their own handwriting (and more than that
cannot be said!), after the solution is puzzled out the Londoners are
the most delightful people in the world.
But you must accept the solution, and take them at their own valuation;
for they are unadaptable, and very sure of themselves.
Now, Piccadilly is not like this. It is smiling, affable, charming, and
very yielding and adaptable. It will respond to any of your moods and
will give you an atmosphere of any sort you desire. On one side, as you
walk along, are houses, more or less lately ducal, but all of a greatly
worth-while air. Citified, indeed, with a wealthy width of stone
pavement, and a noble height of stone frontage.
On the other side is Green Park, with its shining, softly-waving trees,
its birds, and its grass.
But, passing the Hotel Ritz, both sides suddenly give way to shops and
restaurants which rank among the most pretentious in all the world.
Many of the tradesmen are “purveyors to the King,” which magic phrase
adds a charm to the humblest sorts of wares.
The book shops and the fruiterers’ shops are, to me, most enticing of
all. It is a delight to make inquiries concerning a book that is,
perhaps, not very well known, and, instead of the blank ignorance or the
substitutive impulse often found in American book-shop clerks, to
receive an intelligent opinion, quickly backed, if necessary, by
intelligent reference to tabulated facts.
The unostentatious, yet almost invariably trustworthy, knowledge of
London booksellers is a thing to be sighed for in our own country. Not
even in Boston (outside of the Athenæum) is one sure of receiving
bookish information when desired. But in London the bookseller takes a
personal interest in your wants, and feels a personal pride in being
able to gratify them.
And the heaps of second-hand books are mines of joy.
Among them you may find, as I did, real treasures at the price of trash.
I chanced upon an early edition of Byron’s poems—four little volumes,
bound in soft, shiny green, with exquisite hand-tooling, and containing
steel engraved book plates of old, scrolled design, which bore the name
of somebody Gordon, whom I chose to imagine a near and dear relative of
the late George Noel.
[Illustration: Among them you may find . . . . real treasures at the
price of trash.]
Also, I found a paper-covered copy of an Indian edition of Kipling’s
early tales, and many such pleasant wares.
The fruit shops, too, have treasures both new and second-hand. This
seemed strange to me, at first, and I learned of it by hearing a
fellow-customer ask to hire a few pines.
After her departure I inquired of the shopman the meaning of it all.
He obligingly told me that many of his finest specimens of pineapples,
canteloupes, Hamburg grapes, and other spectacular fruits, could be
rented out for banquets night after night, with but slight wear and tear
on their beauty and bloom. One enormous bunch of black grapes, as
perfect as the colour studies of fruit that used to appear as
supplements to the _Art Amateur_, he caressed fondly, as he told me it
had been rented out for the last nine nights, and was yet good for
another week’s work.
I then remembered the architectural triumphs of fruits that had graced
many of the dinner tables I had smiled at, and I marvelled afresh at the
English thrift.
[Illustration: “He told me it had been rented out for the last nine
nights.”]
All shops, streets, theatres, and traffic merge and congest in a perfect
orgy of noise, motion, and color at Piccadilly Circus.
The first humorous story I heard in London was of the man who, returning
from a festal function, inquired of the policeman, “_Is_ this Piccadilly
Circus, or is it Tuesday?” That story seems to me the epitome of London
humor, and also a complete description of Piccadilly Circus.
The first few times I visited it I found it bewildering, but after I had
learned to look upon it as a local habitation and a name, I learned to
love it.
By day or by night, it is a great, crazy, beautiful whirl. Everybody in
it is trying to get out of it, and everybody out is trying to get in.
This causes a merry game of odds, and the elegant policemen send glances
of mild reproof after the newsboys who hurtle through the crowd, yelling
“Dily Mile!”
The rush of traffic here is considered a sure road to battle, murder, or
sudden death, and the Londoner who crosses Piccadilly Circus rarely
expects to get through alive.
But to me London traffic seems child’s play compared to ours in New
York. I sauntered safely through Piccadilly Circus, without one tenth
part of the trepidation that always seizes me when I try to scurry
across Broadway. The lumbering ’buses have no such desire to run over
people, as that which burns in the hearts of our trolley-cars. The
pedestrians are too deliberate of speed, and the traffic too gentle of
motion, to inspire fear of jostlement.
Dawdling along, I paused to look in at Swan and Edgar’s windows. Rather,
I attempted to look in; for, with a peculiar sort of short-sightedness,
these drapers choose to be-plaster their window panes with large posters
which comment favorably upon the wares that are presumably behind them,
but which cannot be seen by peeping through the small spaces left
between the posters.
Then across to the Criterion for tea. All of the great restaurants
present a gay scene at tea hour, and the Criterion, with its “decorative
painting by eminent artists,” and its crowds of guests both eminent and
decorative is among the gayest.
But it is a gayety of correct and subdued tone. The ladies, in their
flashing finery of raiment, are of a cool, reserved deportment, and the
men drink their tea and munch sweet cakes with a gravity born of the
seriousness of the occasion.
If one notices any conspicuous action or effect in a London restaurant,
one may be sure it is perpetrated by a stranger,—probably a visiting
American.
I recently saw in one of our finest Fifth Avenue restaurants a most
attractive young woman, who came in accompanied by a well-set-up, and
moreover an exceedingly sensible looking, young man.
With absolute _savoir faire_, and no trace of self-consciousness, the
girl carried in her arm a large brown “Teddy bear.”
[Illustration: The couple sat at a table and ordered some luncheon.]
The couple sat at a table and ordered some luncheon, and the bear was
also given a seat, a napkin was tucked about his neck, and a plate
placed before him. The girl’s face was sweet and refined; the man’s face
was intelligent and dignified, and the bear’s face was coy and alluring.
There was no attempt to attract attention, and, luncheon over, the young
woman, who was at least twenty years old, tucked her pet under her arm,
and they walked calmly out.
But such things are not done in London restaurants. And yet, these also
have their peculiarities. At one small, but very desirable, restaurant
in Old Compton Street it is the custom to steal the saltspoons as
souvenirs. Not to possess one or more of these tiny pewter affairs,
which are shaped like coal-shovels, is to be benighted indeed. So I
stole one.
After my tea, I would, perhaps, trail along toward Trafalgar Square, by
way of Regent Street and Pall Mall. After a long look at the black and
white grayness of the National Gallery, I would slowly mount its steps,
and from there take a long look at the wonderful façade of St.
Martin’s-in-the-Field. Trafalgar Square is full of out-of-door delights,
but if the mood served I would go into the National Gallery, and walk
delicately, like Agag, among the pictures. I went always alone, for I
did not care to look at certain pictures which I owned (by right of
adoption of them into my London), in danger of hearing a companion say,
“Note the delicate precision of the flesh tones,” or, “Observe the
gradations of aerial perspective.” Nor did I want a “Hand-book,” that
would assert, “Without a prolonged examination of this picture it is
impossible to form an idea of the art with which it has been executed.”
Unhampered by mortal suggestion, I paused before the pictures that
belonged to me, prolonging my examination or not, as I chose, and for my
own reasons.
Some pictures I should have loved, but for an ineradicable memory of
their narrowly black-framed reproductions that crowd the wall spaces of
friends at home, who “just love Art.”
Other pictures I might have appropriated, but that a prolonged
examination of them was impossible by reason of the massing in front of
them of people who go out by the day sight-seeing.
And so I took my own where I found it, and happily wandered by _A man
with Fair Hair_ or _Clouds at Twilight_ in a very bliss of art
ignorance.
Then out-of-door London would call me again, and back I would go to
Trafalgar Square, one of the lightest, brightest-colored bits of all
England. From the asphalt to the welkin, from the Column to the Church,
from the National Gallery to Morley’s Hotel, are the most beautiful
blues, and greens, and whites, and reds, and grays that can be supplied
by the combined efforts of Nature, Time, and modern pigments. A sudden
impulse, perhaps, would make me think that I had immediate need of the
Elgin Marbles, and, with a farewell nod to the northeast lion (which is
my favorite of the four), I would jump into a hansom and jog over to the
British Museum. But often the approach was so clogged by pompous and
overbearing pigeons that I would make no attempt to enter. Instead, I
would find another hansom, and take a long ride over to the Tate
Gallery.
[Illustration: The approach was so clogged by pompous and overbearing
pigeons.]
As I bounced happily along, I would note many landmarks of historic
interest. Some of these were real, and others made up by myself on the
spur of the moment, to fit a passing thought.
For, if I saw an old building of picturesque interest, I could make
myself more decently emotional toward the antiquity of it by assuring
myself that that was where Sterne died, or where Pepys “made mighty
merry.”
And, after all, facts are of little importance compared with “those
things which really are—the eternal inner world of the imagination.”
It was from the outlook of a hansom cab that I could get some of the
best views of my London. Every turn would bring new sorts of motion,
sound, and color. And, birdseyed thus, it was all so beautiful that I
wondered what Shelley meant by saying “Hell is a city very much like
London,”—if, indeed, he did say it.
Once in the Tate Gallery, I would fall afresh under the spell of the
lonely wistfulness of G. F. Watts’ _Minotaur_.
Then I would go to gaze long on Whistler’s wonderful notion of Battersea
Bridge on a blue night, and then betake myself to the Turner collection.
Here I could spend hours, floundering in unintelligent delight among the
pictures, sensitive to each apotheosis of color and beauty, and not
caring whether its title might be _Waves Breaking on a Flat Beach_, or
_River Scene with Cattle_.
But too much Turner was apt to go to my head, and just in time I would
tear myself away, hop into a hansom, and make for the Wallace Collection
to be brought back to a sense of human reality by a short interview with
the _Laughing Cavalier_.
What a city it is, where cabs and picture-galleries are within the reach
of all who desire them!
[Illustration] _XII_ _The Game of Going On._
The appetite for the social life of London grows with what it feeds on.
Although at first indisposed to be lured into the Social Vortex, I found
it possessed a centripetal force which drew me steadily toward its
whizzing centre.
Nor was it long before I became as avid as any Londoner to pursue the
bewildering course known as “going on.”
There is a cumulative delight in whisking from Tea to Tea, and no two
teas are ever alike.
It pleased me greatly to classify and note the difference in London
Teas.
In New York all Teas are alike in quality—the only difference being in
quantity. But in London one Tea differeth from another, not only in
glory, but in size, shape, and color.
Yet all are enjoyable to one who understands going on. If the Tea be of
the Glacial Period, there is no occasion to exert your entertaining
powers. Simply assume an expression of bored superiority, and move about
with a few murmured, incoherent, and not necessarily rational words.
There is a very amusing story, which I used to think an impossible
exaggeration, but which I now believe to be true.
Thus runs the tale: A guest at an afternoon tea, when spoken to by any
one, invariably replied, “I was found dead in my bed this morning.” As
the responses to this were always, “Really?” or “Charmed, I’m sure,” or
“Only fancy!” it is safe to assume that the remark was unheard or
unheeded.
[Illustration: “I was found dead in my bed this morning.”]
But this state of things is not certainly unpleasant, or to be
condemned.
One does not go to a Tea to improve one’s mind, or to acquire valuable
information. The remarks that are made are quite as satisfactory unheard
as heard. We are not pining to be told the state of the weather; we
deduce our friend’s good health from the fact of his presence; and it is
therefore delightful to be left, unhampered, to pursue our own thoughts,
and, if so minded, to make to ourselves our own analytic observations on
the scene before us.
Again, if the Tea be of the Responsive Variety, and you are supposed to
chat and be chatted to, then is joy indeed in store for you—for when
Londoners do talk, they talk wonderfully well.
I went one afternoon to a Tea given for me by a well-known London
novelist. The host, beside being an Englishman of the most charming
type, and a clever writer, was of a genial, happy nature, which seemed
to imbue the whole affair with a cosy gayety.
Though not a large Tea, many literary celebrities were present, and each
gave willingly of his best mentality to grace the occasion.
Now, nothing is more truly delightful than the informal chatter of
good-natured, quick-witted literary people. Their true sense of values,
their quick sense of humor, their receptiveness, their responsiveness,
and their instantaneous perception, combine to bring forth conversation
like the words of which Beaumont wrote:
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame,
As if that every one from whom they came
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,
And had resolved to live a fool the rest
Of his dull life . . . Wit that might warrant be
For the whole city to talk foolishly
Till that were cancelled.
Nor are Teas of this sort rare or exceptional.
Given the entrée to London’s literary circles, occasions abound for
meeting with these companions who do converse and waste the time
together.
To my great regret, this is not to be said of America. A Literary Tea in
New York means a lot of people, some, perhaps, bookishly inclined,
invited to meet a Celebrity of Letters.
The Celebrity comes late, sometimes not at all, and he or she is often
enveloped in a sort of belligerent shyness which does not make for
coherent conversation of any sort. Moreover, Americans do not know how
to give a Tea. We are learning, but we conduct our Teas in an
amateurish, self-conscious way, and with a brave endurance born of our
national do-or-die principles.
But to return to my going ons (which must by no means be confounded with
goings-on).
From my Literary Tea, I went to a Musical Tea. This is distinctly a
London function, and the music, while of the best, acts as a soaking wet
Ostermoor laid on the feebly-burning vivacity of the occasion. The young
girl sings, the long-haired gentleman plays a violin, the lady in the
Greek gown plays the harp, and the guests arrive continuously, and
escape as soon as possible.
But, like Kipling’s lovable tramp, I “liked it all,” and stood
tranquilly holding my teacup, while I studied the Tussaud effects all
about me.
Then, as it was Fourth of July, I betook myself to the reception at
Dorchester House.
This is a most admirable institution. I mean the reception, not the
house, though the statement really applies to both.
But it is a fine thing to celebrate our Independence Day in London.
There is an incongruity about it that lends an added charm to what is in
itself a stupendously beautiful affair.