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unearths some literary gems.
***I glanced across the table at a young Englishwoman....To sum her up in a general way, she looked as if she did not write poetry.***I had deliberately concluded I would do no sightseeing. Not that I objected to seeing a sight, now and then, but the sight would have to put itself in my way, and the conditions would have to be such that I should prefer to go through the sight rather than around it.Indeed, it was largely the word sightseeing that I took exception to. Such a very defective verb! Who would voluntarily put herself in a position to say, “I sightsaw the National Gallery yesterday,” or “I have sightseen the whole City,” and then have no proper parts of speech to say it with?[...]And yet, I wanted to go to the Tower, the Bank, and the Charter-house. I wanted to go to Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul’s and the National Gallery. But I did not want to go for the first time. I wanted to revisit these places, and how could I do that when I had never yet visited them?***Apparently, whoever was in charge had simply provided all there was in the world of everything; and a guest had merely to mention a preference for anything edible, and it was immediately served to him.The Londoners of course, being quite unaware what they wanted to eat, vaguely suggested one thing or another at random; and the vague waiters, apparently knowing the game, brought them something quite different. These viands the Londoners consumed with satisfaction; but in what was unmistakably a crass ignorance of what they were eating.All this fascinated me so that I greatly desired to try experiments, such as sprinkling their food thickly with red pepper or putting sugar in their wine. I have not the slightest doubt that they would have calmly continued their repast, without the slightest suspicion of anything wrong.***The dining-room was another revelation. One corner was occupied by a huge, high-backed angle-shaped seat of carved wood, which carried with it the atmosphere of a ruined cathedral or a Hofbrauhaus.***Huge gold earrings and strings of clinking beads were worn with a confection of bright-colored satin and cotton lace, which would have been conspicuous in the front row of a comic opera chorus.***I had hoped that our route might cause us to pass through Upper Tooting, as, next to Stratford, this was to me the most interesting name in my little red book. I know not why, but Upper Tooting has always possessed for me a strange fascination and, though it sounds merely like the high notes of a French horn, yet my intuition tells me that it is full of deep and absorbing interest.***As we had neither of us ever been in Stratford before, we left the train at the station and paced the little town with an anticipation that was like a blank page, to be written on by whatever might happen next.***We agreed that as the path across the field had been here ever since Shakespeare trod it, and as it would in all probability remain for some time in the future, the mere coincidence that we were traversing it at this particular moment was nothing to be thrilled about.***Meeting friends at a London station is always exciting. To begin with, they are never there.***“It is absurd for one to be such a slave to one’s luggage. Somebody ought to invent a trunk with legs and intelligence, that would run after us,—instead of our running after it!”[Cf. JC-E: “Why can’t furniture just move itself?” Sippy would say. “I mean, these pieces all have legs, right? I think that anything that calls itself a ‘dresser’ ought to be able to get dressed and out of the house without my help.”]***A friend of mine who lives in Chelsea proudly assured me that he could throw a stone from his garden into Carlyle’s! The point of his remark seemed to be not his superior marksmanship, but the proximity to the garden of a great man. Now, were I of the stone-throwing sex, there is many a dead hero at whose garden I should aim before I turned toward Carlyle’s. But of course this was because my friend lived in Chelsea. Therefore the non-resident, not being confined to a locality, can throw imaginary stones into any one’s garden.***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.***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.***All was usual and orthodox. Everybody listened politely to everybody’s else chatter, and, apparently unhearing, answered at random, and quite often wrongly.****The headgear of these same ladies can be called nothing less than alarming. [That line is the basis for one of the illustrations, too.]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.***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.***[Also illustrated, and notable mostly because teddy bears had only been around for about 5 years when this book was published.]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.***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.[These are the Trafalgar Square lions. Of course one has to have a favorite!]***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.***“I was found dead in my bed this morning.” [Check out the illustration!]***But to return to my going ons (which must by no means be confounded with goings-on). ["Going ons" refers to when a party guest is "going on" to another party.]***The disposition of the emptied hamper [which had contained a "put-up luncheon" for a train ride] was simply to restore it to its place under the seat, and leave it there. Apparently it had the instincts of a homing pigeon.***Leaving Dover was like backing away from a picture post-card.***The French capital is paved with cabs, and of such a cheapness of fare that I soon discovered it was more economical to stay in them than to get out.***With what I fancied a French shrug of my shoulders, I mispronounced a French phrase of acquiescence, and declared myself ready to go.***The “Cabaret du Neant” is supposed to be a fearsome place, where guests sit around coffins and see ghosts. But so like substantial tables were the coffins, and so sociable and human the ghosts, that awe gave place to amusement.***[Re. the Mona Lisa]By a queer correlation of ideas, my mind reverted to the Laughing Cavalier, and I wondered if these two were smiling at the same thought.***[Bonus 1: "flapping frilliness"][Bonus 2: Wells quotes from this poem, which is new to me and made me smile: https://www.bartleby.com/270/1/276.html ]
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