which was then at its height of development and was so deHghtfuUy 

 satirised by Dumaurier in Punch and by Gilbert in Patience. I have 

 been mystified by the success of the revivals of Patience, for the present 

 generation knows nothing of the follies of Oscar Wilde and his dis- 

 ciples and, I should think, must fail to understand Gilbert's wit. 



The society of the commercial people I did not much care for. I 

 had always thought that the feeling against "trade," so much dwelt upon 

 in the English novels of my youth, was a mere prejudice, but I saw 

 much to justify it and I did not find "the noble British merchant," 

 whatever his sterUng qualities, socially attractive. Nevertheless, I heartily 

 enjoyed the dinners and receptions which I attended, especially the 

 dinners, a form of entertainment of which I had had no previous ex- 

 perience. It was all so new and strange and spiced by the feeling of 

 being "abroad," in a foreign country, which made it a delightful adven- 

 ture. Naturally, it was among the scientific people that I had the pleas- 

 antest and most memorable encounters, frequently with men of 

 world-wide fame, who cordially welcomed the aspiring neophyte. 



Thanksgiving dinner, at the house of Mr. Welch, the American 

 Minister, was a notable occasion, especially to a boy almost on the verge 

 of homesickness, from which he was preserved only by continuous 

 hard work. A large party of Americans was assembled there that 

 evening, including several college friends and army officers who knew 

 my kin, and this feature made the gathering very homelike. Miss Emma 

 Thursby, a famous soprano of that period, delighted us all with her 

 singing. When I went to pay my dinner call, I was thrilled to find 

 talking to my hostess, Mr. James Bryce, of Oxford. Though it 

 was then many years before he wrote The American Commonwealth 

 and still more before he became the most popular of British Ambas- 

 sadors at Washington, I knew his Holy Roman Empire almost by heart. 



I must set down here an encounter with Mr. Welch's butler, to which 

 only Thackeray could have done justice. Miss Welch had asked me to 

 undertake some small commission for her, the nature of which I have 

 forgotten, and one day, at the laboratory's noon recess, I walked the 

 short distance, to report progress. I found the butler sunning himself 

 on the front steps, a thing he couldn't often do in December. In reply 

 to my inquiry, whether Miss Welch were at home, he said: "No, sir, 

 she is not." "Can you tell me when she will be home?" "No, sir, I 

 cannot; her movements is very precarious." Like David Copperfield 

 with Mr. Littimer, I felt very young. 



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