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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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!

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.

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.

Dorchester House, one of the finest residences in London, is now the home of our own ambassador, and is thrown open for a great reception on the afternoon of every Fourth of July.

As my hansom took its place in the long line of waiting carriages I glanced up at the noble old stone mansion, and was thrilled with a new sort of patriotism when I saw our own Stars and Stripes wave grandly out against the blue English sky. Our flag at home is a blessed, matter-of-fact affair; but our flag proudly topping our Embassy in another land is a thrilling proposition, and I suddenly realized the aptness of the homely old phrase “so gallantly streaming.”

Chiding myself for what I called purely emotional patriotism (but still quivering with it), I entered the marble halls of Dorchester House.

A compact, slowly-moving mass of people exactly fitted the broad and truly magnificent marble staircase.

Adjusting myself as part of this ambulatory throng, we moved on, mechanically, a step at a time, toward the top. On each landing, as the great staircase turned twice, were footmen in pink satin and silver lace, who looked like valentines. They are very wonderful, those English footmen, and sometimes I think I’d rather have one than a Teddy bear.

At the top of the staircase our ambassador and his reception party greeted each guest with a cordial perfunctoriness, that exactly suited the occasion, and then an invisible force, assisted here and there by a very visible footman, gently urged us on.

Although the thought seems inappropriate to the splendor of the occasion, yet to me the marvel of the affair was the “neatness and despatch” with which it was managed. No crowding, no herding, no audible directions, yet the shifting thousands moved as one, and the route through the mansion, and down another staircase, was followed leisurely, by all. One might pause in any apartment to view the pictures or the decorations, or to chat with chance-met friends. By the admirable magic of the management, this made no difference in the manipulation of the throng. Eventually one came into a great marquee, built on terraces, and exquisitely draped inside with white and pale green. Here a sumptuous feast was served with the iron hand of neatness and despatch hidden in the velvet glove of suavity and elegant leisure. Here, again, one met hundreds of acquaintances, and made hundreds of new ones, the orchestra played national airs under two flags, and the scene was one of the brightest phases of kaleidoscopic London.

Then on, out into the great garden, full of delightful walks, seats, flowers, music, and rainbow-garbed humanity. More meetings of friends and strangers; more invitations for future going on; more introductions to kindly celebrities; more pleasant exchange of international compliment, and, above it all, the Stars and Stripes waving over Dorchester House!

From here I tore myself away to keep an engagement to Tea on the Terrace of the House of Commons.

This invitation had greatly pleased me, as it is esteemed a very worth-while experience, and, further, I was very fond of the genial M. P. and of his charming wife who had invited me. A bit belated, I reached the Lobby, where I was to meet my host, several minutes after the appointed time.

Unappalled by this disaster, because of my ignorance of its magnitude, I asked an official to conduct me to Mr. Member of Parliament.

“Impossible,” he replied, “Mr. Member has already gone to the Terrace, accompanied by his guests.”

“Yes,” said I, still not understanding; “I am one of his guests. Please show me the way to the Terrace.”

He looked at me pityingly.

“I’m sorry, madame; but it is impossible for you to join them now. No one may go there unless accompanied by a Member, and the Member you mention may not be sent for.”

This seemed ludicrous, but so final was his manner, that I became frightened lest I had really lost my entertainment.

Whether my look of utter despair appealed to his better nature, or whether he feared I was about to burst into tears, I don’t know, – but I could see that he began to waver a little.

I thought of bribery and corruption, and wondered if so austere an individual ought to be approached along those lines. I remembered that an Englishman had spoken to me thus:

“I don’t know of anybody in London who would refuse a fee, except a club servant or the King, and,” he added reflectively, “I’ve never tried the King – personally.”

Assisted by this knowledge, I somehow found myself being led down dark and devious staircases which gave suddenly out upon the broad, light Terrace. My guide then disappeared like an Arab, and I happily sauntered along in search of Mr. and Mrs. M. P.

The scene was unique. The long Terrace, looking out upon the Thames at the very point of which Wordsworth wrote, was filled with tea tables, at each of which sat a group of prominent London tea-drinkers and their friends. The background, the Perpendicular architecture of Parliament House, is crumbling in places, and I looked quickly away, with a feeling of apology for having viewed it so closely as to see its slight defects.

Earth has not anything to show more fair,

My host greeted me with an air of unbounded amazement.

“But how did you get down here?” he exclaimed.

“American enterprise,” I responded, but I learned that it had been an extraordinary and reprehensible act on the part of the official who had guided me.

I was sorry to learn this, but glad that I had persevered to success.

Twelve people were at table, and that Tea is among my fairest London recollections.

The very atmosphere of the Terrace is Parliamentarian, though, of course, not in a literal sense, and vague, unmeaning visions of woolsack and wig seem to mingle with the visible realities. On the one side the Thames, trembling with traffic; on the other the silent altitude of stone, that seems to grow hospitable and confidential as you sit longer at its feet. And between these, the tea-table, with its merry group, laughing at each other’s jests, and carelessly throwing about those precious invitations which keep one going on.

My right-hand neighbor proved to be a large-minded editor of delightful personality.

We talked of books, and he said quite casually: “Yes, I fancy Henry James’s works. And, moreover, he’s a charming man, personally. Would you care to go motoring down to Rye to-morrow, and spend the day at his place?”

While almost simultaneously on my other side a lady was saying, “Yes, indeed, I’ll be glad to send you a card to the Annual Dinner of the Women Authors of Great Britain.”

Truly, hospitality is the keynote of the Leaders of London Society. An apparent lack of warmth may sometimes be noticeable in their manner, but they deal out delightful invitations with a free and willing hand, the acceptance of which keeps one forever going on.

And, after all, one is too prone to generalize.

Hostesses are human beings, and, therefore, there are no two alike.

One may classify, – and the types fall easily into classes, – but one may not make sweeping assertions. And, too, in society, which the world over is a sham and purveyor of shams, are kind hearts always more than coronets?

And when one is gayly, perhaps flippantly, going on, one wants to see all sorts, and I went from my Terrace Tea to a private view of some paintings.

Then, after suitable robing, to a dinner; then to the opera, where the delicious incongruity of Madame Butterfly set to Italian grand opera music, was heightened by the dear baby who sat flat on the stage and waved the American flag into the very faces of the boxes full of English royalty.

And so, as Pepys would say, home, and to bed, feeling that there was certainly a fascinating exhilaration in London’s game of Going On.