New-York tribune., 1912-01-14
Anglo-American Memories
Civ.
SOME RECENT AMERICAN IMPRESSIONS
Copyright, 1912. George W. sms,,.,,
London, January .. tenergy; and

j ndQ not seen NC" IOlh AOl ANN'
years. The Mauretania arrived at IL
v the evening: an hour when the
chores Of the harbor and the city it.
-elf offered you only fltful and fariash-
ing lights, and the new broad-windowed ed
ferryboats, all ablaze with electricity,
were more visible than the city itself; or
than the Statue of Liberty enlightening
the world. The clever Alsatian who
unloaded this work Of art upon us meant
to describe it, | imagine, as Liberty
Lighting the World. In fact II does
neither Mr.. Tison Young says she Is
a lie. She is, at any rate, ugly, i'll pro-
portioned, misshapen. with the uplifted
arm prolonged by the torch that seems
part Of the arm; and so limb which is
a mere deformity. The effect OF the
darkness pierced by these points OF
flame was stagelike. : can imagine that
il the cloud capped towers which we, in
an unpoetical mood, have called sky
scrapers, were illuminated. the view of
the city would be a view of fairyland l
saw the whole by daylight again from
the deck Of the Mauretania as | sailed
away some weeks later, a receding WIS.,
ion: the outlines softening as they re-
ceded.
What the eye sees is an architectural
chaos: as If an earthquake had passed
that way; levelling and uplifting till
these masses of steel -girdered structures
assume the kind of rude symmetry
which Nature evolves out of her most
destructive mood. Impressive beyond
doubt. You know it is not Nature but
Man whose hand has done all this. Not
one building seems TO have been de-
signed with any thought Of beauty; nor
even of proportion; but, flung together
as they are, chance has created a GER
tain uncouth beauty Of mass which no
architect intended. There is, at any
rate, a sense Of power. Only race OF
giants could have wrought these mira
cIes. On no one Of them did any human
hand rest lovingly, as upon the cathe-
drals and palaces Of Europe centuries
old They are machine made; turned out
by steam or electricity for certain definite
uses. The idea which gave them birth
is q purely utilitarian idea; the divorce
between use and beauty is in each build
ing complete; and then they reunite, as
If, after all, these builders Of the prosaic
had builded better than they knew.
Never. ! suppose, was the New York
land owner so happy as when he dis
hot ~ the soil 70
the sky.
A similar illusion possesses you when
YOU penetrate into the interior OF the
city; mean Of the real city: that part
Of It which We describe, like the Philis-
tines we are. as downtown. In my two
DAYS stay in New York I made that
Journey twice, once in a surface car
which wound its way through a laby-
rinth OF narrow streets, stopping for
breath every thirty seconds; an hour s
pilgrimage from Gath street to the City
Hail. l missed my appointments, but
that did not matter. What mattered
was the impression not to be had other
wise as these fortresses Of granite slid
slowly past Again you saw that moth
ing but the useful had been allowed a
place in the architects mind, and no one
Of his achievements had any separate
aim except TO become a warehouse or q
store wherein business could be trans
acted in the least space and at the
greatest speed. Beneath their weight
the earth groaned. Above them the sky
had vanished you found yourself, as Mr.
Fuller described the Inhabitants Of Chi
cago, a cliff dweller: savage walls, rough
hewn and pitiless, rising high about you
darkness upon the face Of the earth: the
light Of heaven neither within nor with.
out: a binding electric glare doing th'
work of the sun.
OF the encompassing glory Of the Ba!
you caught no glimpse, nor could yol
hear the rushing tides Of the two grea
rivers on either side. What flowed o.
oczed past you was the tide Of business
for which. and for which only, New
York exists. The city is a workshop
and the air is resonant with the clang o
engines and every kind Of huge anC
cruel machine. These are the mills o.
dIOlNcT GOu IMAM NIlt OHS SOu WI OH
In far off churches. They grind no
slowly but at unceasing speed; mol
small. but with a large exactness mor'
terrible still; and, as George Herbert
has il, sure. A machine that does no
30 to the scrap heap; and man who
has become a machine and so remains
No appeal 10 mercy is here Of any use
the Deity, whoever or whatever he Il
who presides over this lower New Yorl
world is inexorable. You must go tn,
pace or you go under. These cold
gray walls with grated and barred
windows, what are they but prisons
What is New York but q prison, lik
Hamlet's Denmark, or Hamlet's world
in which there are many confines ward
and dungeons.
True that afternoon. but in the even
ing | found myself at the Opera in
scene which has not it's equal in splen
dor in any other opera house cnywher
in the world. 1t was the first night o
the season. ! had dined in hous
where the French genius for interio
decoration al its best period had some
how found its way across the Atlantic
the brain OF an American woman choos
ing out of it what was best for her pur
pose. The brilliant cool spaces glowin
with color and lovely ornament were tn
right contract 10 the grimnes. of tn
afternoon. The atmosphere had change
and the snirit had changed There