II

NEW YORK


In five things America excels modern England--fish, architecture, jokes,
drinks, and children's clothes. There may be others. Of these I am
certain. The jokes and drinks, which curiously resemble each other, are
the best. There is a cheerful violence about them; they take their
respective kingdoms by storm. All the lesser things one has heard turn
out to be delightfully true. The first hour in America proves them.
People here talk with an American accent; their teeth are inlaid with
gold; the mouths of car-conductors move slowly, slowly, with an oblique
oval motion, for they are chewing; pavements are 'sidewalks.' It is all
true.... But there were other things one expected, though in no precise
form. What, for instance, would it be like, the feeling of whatever
democracy America has secured?

I landed, rather forlorn, that first morning, on the immense covered
wharf where the Customs mysteries were to be celebrated. The place was
dominated by a large, dirty, vociferous man, coatless, in a black shirt
and black apron. His mouth and jaw were huge; he looked like a
caricaturist's Roosevelt. 'Express Company' was written on his forehead;
labels of a thousand colours, printed slips, pencils and pieces of
string, hung from his pockets and his hands, were held behind his ears
and in his mouth. I laid my situation and my incompetence before him,
and learnt right where to go and right when to go there. Then he flung a