NOTEBOOK

walking beside her, the two talking zealously, two vast
footmen in blue livery walking behind them—everybody
who came along either on the street or on the sidewalk,
took off hats and bowed—little boys, gentlemen, ladies,
soldiers, cabmen, everybody, and the queen saw every
bow and bowed in return and still kept up her end of the
conversation.

I can't exactly define what it is, but there is something
very cheerless and depressing about the inside of
European houses, and English:—outside is another mat-
ter—beautiful England.

Europe is the hungriest place in the world for an Ameri-
can to live in. The food is trifling in variety (at least the
tables are) and villainously cooked.

English toast! Execrable! Muffins good. In Europe they
don't give you hot bread. Ah, for a hot biscuit and coffee,
real coffee with red cream—and red potatoes, fried
chicken, corn bread, real butter, real beefsteak, good roast
beef with taste to it.

His old Southern memories and appetite
troubled him. He often spoke of the excellencies
of French cookery, but now and again, remem-
bering the fried chicken and corn bread and
gravy of his youth, he could find no good thing
outside of his native land, especially in England.

January 23. Frank Bliss wrote to inquire what progress
I am making on the book. Of course I sat down in Munich
as soon as he took up his pen in New England, and by the
time he had got his brief inquiry on paper I was well
under way with my long answer to it. Had not heard from
him since last June.

Pontius Pilate, wandering around with heavy con-

149