cheese and fried bacon are certainly the heritage of merry old England. I am convinced that old Shakespeare did not soak himself with tannin, and old Dickens, as long as he lived, did not make merry on preserved beef; as for old John Knox, I am not so sure about it . . .
English cooking lacks a certain lightness and floweriness, joie de vivre, melodiousness, and sinful voluptuousness. Indeed, I should say that English life also lacks this. The English street is not voluptuous. Ordinary and average life is not bestrewn with joyful noises, smells and sights. The ordinary day does not sparkle with the amenities of chance, with smiles, with the budding of incidents. You cannot make friends with the street, with people and voices. There is nothing which winks at you in a friendly and affable manner.
Lovers carry on their love-making in the parks heavily, morosely and without a word. Drinkers drink in bars, each by himself. The average man proceeds homeward reading a
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