Appendix
Correspondence
Letter I
Sir John to Dr. Keif.
Hyde Cottage, November 15.
My dear Doctor,
Herewith I return the proof-sheets of Part II. of the “Saunterings in and about London;” and I beg to thank you for them; although I know you sent them less for my amusement than because you wished to procure for me a sort of private view of myself and my prejudices as you call them. Never mind! an English gentleman can afford to hear the truth spoken anywhere and anyhow; and, if you promise to resign some of your Teutonic crotchets, I gladly pledge my word in return, that I will never again try to reason a Frenchman’s hind-leg straight; for, after all, that unfortunate dispute was the worst our friend could lay to my charge.
Now, as for our friend’s book, which you tell me is to be published at Berlin—the most intelligent and erudite of all the German capitals—really, Doctor, I do not half like the idea! How are these two little volumes ever to give the Germans a proper idea of what London really is? A good many capital descriptions there are—but, dear me! how much there is that is wanting. I tell you the very things are wanting which would most improve the German mind, if your friend had but condescended to notice them. Not a word does he say of our picture galleries, incomparable though they undoubtedly are. The Bridgewater, Vernon, and Hampton Court collections are not mentioned; nor is the British Museum—nor St. Paul’s—nor the Colosseum—nor Madame Tussaud’s—nor are Barclay and Perkins! He does not even mention our most magnificent streets and quarters. Regent-street, Bond-street, Belgravia, and Westbourne-terrace are most wickedly neglected by our flighty friend. He has not a word for the monster concerts of Exeter-hall, and he absolutely forgets that there are such places as Covent-garden, Billingsgate, and Hungerford markets. The Zoological-gardens, the Botanical-gardens, Kew, Richmond, Windsor, arts, literature, charities—all are passed over in contemptuous silence.
My dear Doctor, I put it to you; if those places and matters are not mentioned at all, how are the foreigners ever to understand what London is? The people of Berlin are actually led to believe that we have no picture-galleries and hospitals! Your friend might write ten volumes without exhausting the subject. Don’t you agree with me? We must have a word or two on the subject when you come to see us.
The country is charming just now. Where, out of England, can you find such beautiful green meadows, and so mild an air, in November? I walk about without a great coat, thinking of the mountains of snow in Germany, and of the wolves that make their way over the mountains and into the very sanctuary of the Cologne Cathedral. It’s a little damp now and then—especially after sunset—but it doesn’t matter; for in the evening I have my fire and my newspaper. The fact is, there’s no comfort except in England, and in the country! Come and look at our cottage. The children expect you; so do I.
Yours, etc.
P.S.—At this season of the year you had better take a glass of Cognac in the morning. You’ll find some bottles in the cellar. Before going to bed take one of my pills. You’ll find a box on my table. Don’t be obstinate. You can have no idea of the dangers of an English November.
Letter II
Dr. Keif to Sir John.
Guildford Street, November 16.
My dear Sir,
I think of coming on Sunday. In the meanwhile I must give you some sort of explanation respecting the incompleteness of our friend’s “Saunterings.”
He might indeed, in his book, have mentioned all the remarkable places and sights of your metropolis; but he could only have mentioned them. He preferred taking up a few strong features and phases, and expatiating on them. Of course a great deal was passed over in silence; you, as an Englishman, have the greatest right to complain of such neglect. But, most respectable Sir John, pray do not forget that in this manner mention has not been made of many things which are by no means agreeable to British ears when commented upon by foreigners. A good many capital descriptions there are; but, dear me, how much is wanting! I tell you the very things are wanting which we Germans, I trust, shall never think of imitating.
Not a word of your dog and rat fights. Not a word of the manifest incompetency of the majority of your sculptors and painters. Not a syllable of your unequalled musical barbarism. Not a word of the stupendous prostitution—of the dirt—the dissoluteness—the bestiality—in the lower Thames quarters and the Borough. No detailed descriptions of your gin palaces and sailors’ saloons—your learned professions—the intricacies of the law—medicine swamped in charlatanism—your High Church—your Low Church, and sectarian fanaticism—your bigotted Universities, Oxford and Cambridge—the narrow-mindedness of your aristocracy, and the snobbism of your middle classes: all these matters are altogether left out.
My dear Sir John, you are quite right. It would take ten volumes to exhaust the subject. Between ourselves, perhaps you would not half like it if our friend were to continue his “Saunterings.”
London is awful just now. Where in all the world can such fogs and such a pestilential atmosphere be found, except in London? The wolves in the Cologne Cathedral are mere creations of your free-born British fancy; and, as for the present absence of your great coat—do I not know that Englishmen brave even the rigours of a German winter in check trousers and dress coats? But they are cunning enough to don those respectable habiliments over sundry layers of flannel. Have you left off your vests, etc.? Of course you are comfortable in your country cottage, and I shall come to admire you in all your glory.
Yours, etc.
P.S.—Your medical advice is valuable; I mean, in part, to conform to it. I found the Cognac, and shall take it as directed. But your pills I shall not take. I’m reading the French papers, and they do quite as well.