was because they were brought up in London.  A city is no place for children—­nor grown people either, I often think.  Birds and children belong in the country.  Paved streets, stone sidewalks, smoke-begrimed houses, signs reading, “Keep Off the Grass”, prying policemen, and zealous ash-box inspectors are insulting things to greet the gaze of the little immigrants fresh from God.  Small wonder is it, as they grow up, that they take to drink and drugs, seeking in these a respite from the rattle of wheels and the never-ending cramp of unkind condition.  But Nature understands herself:  the second generation, city-bred, is impotent.

No pilgrim from “the States” should visit the city of London without carrying two books:  a Baedeker’s “London” and Hutton’s “Literary Landmarks.”  The chief advantage of the former is that it is bound in flaming red, and carried in the hand, advertises the owner as an American, thus saving all formal introductions.  In the rustle, bustle and tussle of Fleet Street, I have held up my book to a party of Americans on the opposite sidewalk, as a ship runs up her colors, and they, seeing the sign, in turn held up theirs in merry greeting; and we passed on our way without a word, ships that pass in the afternoon and greet each other in passing.  Now, I have no desire to rival the flamboyant Baedeker, nor to eclipse my good friend Laurence Hutton.  But as I can not find that either mentions the name “Rossetti,” I am going to set down (not in malice) the places in London that are closely connected with the Rossetti family, nothing extenuating.

London is the finest city in the world for the tourist who desires liberty as wide as the wind, and who wishes to live cheaply and live well.  In New York, if you want lodgings at a moderate price, you must throttle your pride and forsake respectability; but they do things different in Lunnon, you know.  From Gray’s Inn Road to Portland Place, and from Oxford Street to Euston Road, there is just about a square mile—­a section, as they say out West—­of lodging-houses.  Once this part of London was given up to the homes of the great and purse-proud and all that.  It is respectable yet, and if you are going to be in London a week you can get a good room in one of these old-time mansions, and pay no more for it than you would pay for a room in an American hotel for one day.  And as for meals, your landlady will get you anything you want and serve it for you in the daintiest style, and you will also find that a shilling and a little courtesy will go a very long way in securing creature comforts.  American women in London can live in this way just as well as men.  If you are a schoolma’am from Peoria, taking your vacation, follow my advice and make your home in the “Bedford District,” within easy reach of Stopford Brooke’s chapel, and your London visit will stand out forever as a bright oasis in memory’s desert waste.  All of which I put in here because Larry Hutton forgot to mention it and Mein Herr Baedeker didn’t think it worth while.