The Emily Emmins Papers. Carolyn Wells

       Carolyn Wells

      The Emily Emmins Papers

      Published by Good Press, 2021

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066094508

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Titlepage

       Text

      "

      TO

      EDITH MENDALL-TAYLOR

      IN MEMORY OF

      PICCADILLY

	CHAPTER	PAGE
I.	A Ticket to Europe	1
II.	Crossing the Atlantic	23
III.	“In England—Now!”	45
IV.	Mayfair in the Fair Month of May	67
V.	A Hostess at Home	86
VI.	The Light on Burns’s Brow	106
VII.	Certain Social Uncertainties	126
VIII.	A Sentimental Journey	146
IX.	All in a Garden Fair	167
X.	“I Went and Ranged about to Many Churches”	186
XI.	Piccadilly Circus and its Environs	208
XII.	The Game of Going On	230
XIII.	A French Week-End	252

      The Emily Emmins Papers

      It has always seemed to me a pity that nearly all of the people one meets walking in New York are going somewhere. I mean they have some definite destination. Thus they lose the rare delight, that all too little known pleasure, of a desultory stroll through the city streets. For myself, I know of no greater joy than an aimless ramble along the crowded metropolitan thoroughfares. Nor does ramble imply, as some might mistakenly suppose, a slow, dawdling gait. Not at all; the atmosphere of the city itself inspires a brisk, steady jog-trot; but the impression of a ramble is inevitable if the jog-trot have no intended goal.

      I am a country woman,—that is, I live in a suburban town; but it is quite near enough to the metropolis for us to consider ourselves near-New Yorkers. And Myrtlemead is a dear little worth-while place in its own way. We have a Current Culture Club and a Carnegie library and several of us have telephones. I am not a member of the Club, but that must not be considered as any disparagement of my culture—or, rather, of my capacity for assimilating culture (for the Club’s aim is the disbursement of that desirable commodity). On the contrary, I was among the first invited to belong to it.

      Oh! yes, you have temperament, she twittered.

      “You must be a member, Miss Emmins,” said the vivacious young thing who called to lay the matter before me, “because you have so much temperament.”

      This word was little used in Myrtlemead at this time (although, since, it has become as plenty as blackberries), and I simply said “What!” in amazement.

      “Oh! yes, you have,” she twittered, “and you create an atmosphere. Don’t attempt to deny it,—you know you do create an atmosphere.” This was too much. I didn’t join the Club, although I occasionally look in on them at their cultured tea hour, which follows the more intellectual part of their programme. As they have delicious chicken-salad and hot rolls and coffee, I find their culture rather comforting than otherwise.

      Living so near New York, I find it convenient to run into the city whenever I hear it calling.

      Lilacs blossom along the curb

      In the spring its calls are especially urgent. I know popular sympathy leans toward springtime in the country, but for my part, as soon as March has blown itself away, and April comes whirling along the cleared path of the year, I hurry to keep my annual appointment to meet Spring in New York. The trees are budding in the parks, daffodils and tulips are blooming riotously on the street-corners, while hyacinths and lilacs blossom along the curb. A pearl-colored cloud is poised in that intense blue just above the Flatiron Building, and the pretty city girls smile as they prank along in their smart spring costumes behind their violet mows. The birds twitter with a sophisticated chirp, and the street-pianos respond with a brisk sharpness of tune and time. The very air is full of an urban ozone, that is quite different from the romantic lassitude of spring in the country.

      Of course, all this is a matter of individual taste. I prefer walking in dainty boots, along a clean city pavement, while another equally sound mind might vote for common-sense shoes and a rough country road.

      Common-sense shoes and a rough country road.

      And so, as I, Emily Emmins, spinster, have the full courage of my own convictions, I found myself one crisp April morning walking happily along the lower portion of Broadway. Impulse urged me on toward the Battery, but, as often happens, my impulse was side-tracked. And all because of a woman’s smiling face. I was passing the offices of the various steamship companies, and I saw, coming down the steps of one of them, a young woman whose countenance was positively glorified with joy. I couldn’t resist a second glance at her, and I saw that both her hands were filled with circulars and booklets.

      It required no clairvoyance to understand the situation; she had just bought her first ticket to Europe, and it was the glorious achievement of a lifelong desire. I knew, as well as if she had told me, how she had planned and economized for it, and probably studied all sorts of text-books that she might properly enjoy her trip, and make it an education as well as a pleasure. And as I looked at the gay-colored pamphlets she clutched, I was moved to go in and acquire a few for myself.

      With Emily Emmins, to incline is to proceed; so I stepped blithely into the big light office and requested booklets. They were bestowed on me in large numbers, the affable clerk was most polite, and,—well, I’m sure I don’t know how it happened, but the first thing I knew I was paying a deposit on my return ticket to Liverpool.

      I may as well confess, at the outset, that I am of a chameleonic nature. I not only take color from my surroundings, but reflect manners and customs as accurately and easily as a mirror. And so, in that great, business-like office, with its maps and charts and time-tables and steamer