aphical knowledge I much appreciated. He instructed
me in the culinary subject of "bubble and squeak" and many other
learned matters; but unfortunately his social connections were limited
to one class.

One time not a great while back I happened to review in succession for
a New York paper several books by Hilaire Belloc. Mr. Belloc had
written me a note thanking me for these reviews. I decided to write
Mr. Belloc that I was in London and to ask if he could spare a moment
for me to look at him, Mr. Belloc being one of my literary passions.

Then an ambitious idea popped into my head. I determined to write the
same request to all the people in England I had ever reviewed.
Reviewing, mostly anonymous, had been my business for several years,
with other literary chores on the side. I communicated to Mr.
Chesterton the fact that I had come over to look about, told him my
belief that he was one of the noblest and most interesting monuments in
England, and asked him if he supposed that he could be "viewed" by me,
at some street corner, say, at a time appointed, as he rumbled past in
his triumphal car.

Writing to famous people that you don't know is somewhat like the drink
habit. It is easy to begin; it is pleasurably stimulating; it soon
fastens itself upon you to the extent that it is exceedingly difficult
to stop indulgence and it leads you straight to excess. I wound up, I
think, with Hugh Walpole. I had liked that "Fortitude" thing very much.

My Englishised Boston friend--he's the worst Englishman I saw over
there--simply threw up his hands. He groaned and fell into a chair.

"Holy cat!" he cried, or English words to that effect, "you can't come
over here and do that way. It's not done," he declared. "You can't
meet Englishmen in that fashion. These people will think you are a
wild, bounding red Indian. They'll all go out of town until you leave
the country."

Well, I saw it was awfully bad. I have disgraced the U.S.A. That's
what comes of having crude notions about meeting people. I felt pretty
cheap. I felt sorry for my friend too, because he had to stay there
where he lived and try to hold his head up while I could slink off back
home. My friend pointed out to me that Mr. Chesterton and the other
gentlemen had only my word for it that I had any connection with
literature, and that as far as they were aware I might be the worst
kind of crook, and at the very best was in all likelihood a very gre