admission. It was just what he wanted; it was what he was thirsting for.
In an instant the scare-head was created: "Boston as English as a
muffin!" An ideal scare-head! That I had never used the word "muffin" or
any such phrase was a detail exquisitely unimportant. The scare-head was
immense. It traveled in fine large type across the continent. I met it
for weeks afterward in my press-cuttings, and I doubt if Boston was
altogether delighted with the comparison. I will not deny that Boston is
less strikingly un-English than sundry other cities. I will not deny
that I met men in Boston of a somewhat pronounced English type. I will
not deny that in certain respects old Kensington reminds me of a street
here and there in Boston--such as Mount Vernon Street or Chestnut
Street. But I do maintain that the Englishness of Boston has been
seriously exaggerated.

And still another very striking memory of Boston--indeed, perhaps, the
paramount impression!--is that it contains the loveliest modern thing I
saw in America--namely, the Puvis de Chavannes wall-paintings on the
grand staircase of the Public Library. The Library itself is a beautiful
building, but it holds something more beautiful. Never shall I forget my
agitation on beholding these unsurpassed works of art, which alone would
suffice to make Boston a place of pilgrimage.

When afterward I went back to Paris, the painters' first question was:
"_Et les Puvis à Boston--vous les avez vus? Qu'est-ce que vous en
dites?_"

It was very un-English on the part of Boston to commission these austere
and classical works. England would never have done it. The nationality
of the greatest decorative painter of modern times would have offended
her sense of fitness. What--a French painter officially employed on an