nds in to sit with him and talk with him when intervals in the
music permitted. And the audience was his friend for that; they
admired him for the way he turned his back on formalities and
ceremonials. General Pershing, who gratifies one's romantic sense by
being extraordinarily like one's imaginative pictures of a great
General, came to sit with him, and there was another outburst of
cheering. I think that the _petits morceaux_ from the operas were but
side-shows. Although Rosina Galli ravished the house with her dancing
(how she must love dancing), opera glasses were swivelled more toward
the Royal box than to the stage, and the audience made a close and
curious study of every movement and every inflection of the Prince.

The cheering broke out again, from people who crowded afresh into the
gangways, when the Prince left, and in a mighty wave of friendliness
the official program of the first day closed.

III

There was an unofficial ending to the day. The Prince, with several of
his suite, walked in New York, viewed this exhilarating city of lights
and vistas by night, got his own private and unformal view of the
wonders of skyscraping townscape, the quick, nervous shuttle of the
sidewalks, the rattle of the "Elevated," the sight, for the first time
in a long journey, of motor-buses. And without doubt he tasted the
wonder of a city of automobiles still clinging to the hansom cab.

About this outing there have been woven stories of a glamour which
might have come from the fancy of O. Henry and the author of the
"Arabian Nights" working in collaboration. The Prince is said to have
plunged into the bizarre landscape of the Bowery, which is Whitechapel
better lighted, and better dressed with up-to-date cafes, where there
are dance halls in which with the fathomless seriousness of the modern,
jazz is danced to violins and banjoes and the wailing ukelele.

They tell me that Ichabod has been written across the romantic glory of
the Bowery, and that for colour and the spice of life one has to go
further west (which is Manhattan's East End) to Greenwich Village,
where life strikes Chelsea attitudes, and where one descends
subterraneanly, or climbs over the roofs of houses to Matisse-like
restaurants where one eats rococo meals in an atmosphere of cigarette
smoke, rice-white faces, scarlet lips, and bobbed hair. But there are
yet places in the Bowery to which one taxis with a thrill of hope,
where the forbidden c