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