The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green,

of the sonnet to George Keats.

THE AMERICAN INVASION

(Court and Society Review, March 23, 1887.)

A terrible danger is hanging over the Americans in London.  Their future and their reputation this season depend entirely on the success of Buffalo Bill and Mrs. Brown-Potter.  The former is certain to draw; for English people are far more interested in American barbarism than they are in American civilisation.  When they sight Sandy Hook they look to their rifles and ammunition; and, after dining once at Delmonico’s, start off for Colorado or California, for Montana or the Yellow Stone Park.  Rocky Mountains charm them more than riotous millionaires; they have been known to prefer buffaloes to Boston.  Why should they not?  The cities of America are inexpressibly tedious.  The Bostonians take their learning too sadly; culture with them is an accomplishment rather than an atmosphere; their ‘Hub,’ as they call it, is the paradise of prigs.  Chicago is a sort of monster-shop, full of bustle and bores.  Political life at Washington is like political life in a suburban vestry.  Baltimore is amusing for a week, but Philadelphia is dreadfully provincial; and though one can dine in New York one could not dwell there.  Better the Far West with its grizzly bears and its untamed cow-boys, its free open-air life and its free open-air manners, its boundless prairie and its boundless mendacity!  This is what Buffalo Bill is going to bring to London; and we have no doubt that London will fully appreciate his show.

With regard to Mrs. Brown-Potter, as acting is no longer considered absolutely essential for success on the English stage, there is really no reason why the pretty bright-eyed lady who charmed us all last June by her merry laugh and her nonchalant ways, should not—­to borrow an expression from her native language—­make a big boom and paint the town red.  We sincerely hope she will; for, on the whole, the American invasion has done English society a great deal of good.  American women are bright, clever, and wonderfully cosmopolitan.  Their patriotic feelings are limited to an admiration for Niagara and a regret for the Elevated Railway; and, unlike the men, they never bore us with Bunkers Hill.  They take their dresses from Paris and their manners from Piccadilly, and wear both charmingly.  They have a quaint pertness, a delightful conceit, a native self-assertion.  They insist on being paid compliments and have almost succeeded in making Englishmen eloquent.  For our aristocracy they have an ardent admiration; they adore titles and are a permanent blow to Republican principles.  In the art of amusing men they are adepts, both by nature and education, and can actually tell a story without forgetting the point—­an accomplishment that is extremely rare among the women of other countries.  It is true that they lack