eir charm, and envy us them, and try to reproduce them at
home. But the Continent is too loquacious. On it social clubs quickly
degenerate into bear-gardens, and the basic ideal of good-fellowship
goes by the board. In Paris, Petersburg, Vienna, the only social clubs
that prosper are those which are devoted to games of chance--those
which induce silence by artificial means. Were I a foreign visitor,
taking cursory glances, I should doubtless be delighted with the clubs
of London. Had I the honour to be an Englishman, I should doubtless
love them. But being a foreign resident, I am somewhat oppressed by
them. I crave in them a little freedom of speech, even though such
freedom were their ruin. I long for their silence to be broken here and
there, even though such breakage broke them with it. It is not enough
for me to hear a hushed exchange of mild jokes about the weather, or of
comparisons between what the Times says and what the Standard says. I
pine for a little vivacity, a little boldness, a little variety, a few
gestures. A London club, as it is conducted, seems to me very like a
catacomb. It is tolerable so long as you do not actually belong to it.
But when you do belong to it, when you have outlived the fleeting
gratification at having been elected, when you...but I ought not to
have fallen into the second person plural. You, readers, are free-born
Englishmen. These clubs 'come natural' to you. You love them. To them
you slip eagerly from your homes. As for me, poor alien, had I been a
member of the club whose demolition has been my theme, I should have
grieved for it not one whit the more bitterly. Indeed, my tears would
have been a trifle less salt. It was my detachment that enabled me to
be so prodigal of pity.

The poor waifs! Long did I stand, in the sunshine of that day when
first I saw the ruin, wondering and distressed, ruthful, indignant that
such things should be. I forgot on what errand I had come out. I
recalled it. Once or twice I walked away, bent on its fulfilment. But I
could not proceed further than a few yards. I halted, looked over my
shoulder, was drawn back to the spot, drawn by the crude, insistent
anthem of the pick-axes. The sun slanted towards Notting Hill. Still I
loitered, spellbound... I was aware of some one at my side, some one
asking me a question. 'I beg your pardon?' I said. The stranger was a
tall man, bronzed and bearded. He repeated his question. In answer, I
pointed silently to