Our Hundred Days in Europe | Page 9

How thoroughly England is
groomed! Our New England out-of-doors landscape often looks as if it
had just got out of bed, and had not finished its toilet. The glowing
green of everything strikes me: green hedges in place of our rail-fences,
always ugly, and our rude stone-walls, which are not wanting in a
certain look of fitness approaching to comeliness, and are really
picturesque when lichen-coated, but poor features of landscape as
compared to these universal hedges. I am disappointed in the trees, so
far; I have not seen one large tree as yet. Most of those I see are of very
moderate dimensions, feathered all the way up their long slender trunks,
with a lop-sided mop of leaves at the top, like a wig which has slipped
awry. I trust that I am not finding everything couleur de rose; but I
certainly do find the cheeks of children and young persons of such
brilliant rosy hue as I do not remember that I have ever seen before. I
am almost ready to think this and that child's face has been colored

from a pink saucer. If the Saxon youth exposed for sale at Rome, in the
days of Pope Gregory the Great, had complexions like these children,
no wonder that the pontiff exclaimed, Not Angli, but angeli! All this
may sound a little extravagant, but I am giving my impressions without
any intentional exaggeration. How far these first impressions may be
modified by after-experiences there will be time enough to find out and
to tell. It is better to set them down at once just as they are. A first
impression is one never to be repeated; the second look will see much
that was not noticed before, but it will not reproduce the sharp lines of
the first proof, which is always interesting, no matter what the eye or
the mind fixes upon. "I see men as trees walking." That first experience
could not be mended. When Dickens landed in Boston, he was struck
with the brightness of all the objects he saw,--buildings, signs, and so
forth. When I landed in Liverpool, everything looked very dark, very
dingy, very massive, in the streets I drove through. So in London, but
in a week it all seemed natural enough.
We got to the hotel where we had engaged quarters, at eleven o'clock in
the evening of Wednesday, the 12th of May. Everything was ready for
us,--a bright fire blazing and supper waiting. When we came to look at
the accommodations, we found they were not at all adapted to our
needs. It was impossible to stay there another night. So early the next
morning we sent out our courier-maid, a dove from the ark, to find us a
place where we could rest the soles of our feet. London is a nation of
something like four millions of inhabitants, and one does not feel easy
without he has an assured place of shelter. The dove flew all over the
habitable districts of the city,--inquired at as many as twenty houses.
No roosting-place for our little flock of three. At last the good angel
who followed us everywhere, in one shape or another, pointed the
wanderer to a place which corresponded with all our requirements and
wishes. This was at No. 17 Dover Street, Mackellar's Hotel, where we
found ourselves comfortably lodged and well cared for during the
whole time we were in London. It was close to Piccadilly and to Bond
Street. Near us, in the same range, were Brown's Hotel and Batt's Hotel,
both widely known to the temporary residents of London.
We were but partially recovered from the fatigues and trials of the

voyage when our arrival pulled the string of the social shower-bath, and
the invitations began pouring down upon us so fast that we caught our
breath, and felt as if we should be smothered. The first evening saw us
at a great dinner-party at our well-remembered friend Lady Harcourt's.
Twenty guests, celebrities and agreeable persons, with or without titles.
The tables were radiant with silver, glistening with choice porcelain,
blazing with a grand show of tulips. This was our "baptism of fire" in
that long conflict which lasts through the London season. After dinner
came a grand reception, most interesting, but fatiguing to persons
hardly as yet in good condition for social service. We lived through it,
however, and enjoyed meeting so many friends, known and unknown,
who were very cordial and pleasant in their way of receiving us.
It was plain that we could not pretend to answer all the invitations
which flooded our tables. If we had attempted it, we should have found
no time for anything else. A secretary was evidently a matter of
immediate necessity. Through the kindness of Mrs. Pollock, we