Yet are his childishness and self-sufficiency, even his ignorance, so much meaner than the greed and sordidness and treachery of the demigod of today? And is the inexorable activity of the modern “Napoleon of finance” so surely worth more than the attitude of the shabby old man who refused to sell brass for gold?
V
IN REVIEW
(London)
Underwood & Underwood
“THE RESTFUL SWEEP OF PARKS”
I
THE CRITICS
Coming into London from Paris or New York, or even from Madrid, is like alighting from a brilliant panoramic railway onto solid, unpretentious mother earth. The massive bulk of bridges, the serene stateliness of ancient towers and spires, the restful green sweep of park—unbroken by flower-beds or too many trees; the quiet leisure of the Mall, and the sedate brown palace overlooking it: all is tranquil, dignified, soothing. One leans against the cushions of one’s beautifully luxurious taxi, and sighs profound contentment. Here is order, well-being, peace!
And yonder, typical of it all, as the midinette is typical of Paris and the torero of Spain, stands the imperturbable London “bobby.” Already you have met his Southampton or Dover cousin on the pier; where the latter’s calm, competent orders made the usual flurried transfer from boat to train a simple matter. Too, you have made acquaintance with that policeman-in-embryo, the English porter. His brisk, capable answers: “Yes, sir. This way, please sir. Seven-twenty at Victoria, right, sir!”: and his deft piloting of you and your luggage into the haven of an empty carriage—in these days of frenzied democracy, whence can one derive such exotic comfort as from a servant who acknowledges himself a servant, and performs his servant’s duties to perfection?
I used to wonder why travelling in England is so much more agreeable than travelling in America, with all the conveniences the latter boasts. I think it is because, where America gives you things to make you comfortable, England gives you people—a host of them, well trained and intent only on serving you. The personal contact makes all the difference, with one’s flattered vanity. The policeman, the porter, the guard who finds one a seat, the boy who brings one a tea-basket, finally the chauffeur who drives one to an hotel and the doorman who grasps one’s bag: each and all tacitly insinuate that they exist to look out for oneself in particular, for all men in general. What wonder that Englishmen are snobs? Their universe revolves round them, is made for as well as by them; and what they want, when they want it, is always within arm’s reach. They are the inventors and perfectors of the Groove.
But no one can accuse them of being sybarites. Comfort, luxury, the elaborate service with which they insist on being surrounded are only accessory to a root-idea which may even be called a passion: the producing of great men. To this, as to all great creation, routine is necessary; and the careful systematizing of life into classes and sub-classes, each with its special duties. English people actually love their duties, they are taught from childhood to love them; and to attend to them before everything. As reward, when work is finished, they have the manifold pleasures of home. This is odd indeed, to the American or European—to whom duty is a dreary thing, to be avoided whenever possible; and home a place to leave, in search of pleasure, not to come back to. In consequence, the general summary of England is: “dull.”