Yes, I am grateful that my history of London’s great playground was called one of “deep research” by the _Morning Post_, of “bright, cheery entertainment” by the _Pall Mall_, a “thrilling and true romance which Londoners will have to read” by the _Observer_. The _Westminster_ _Gazette_ and the _Sunday Sun_ agreed that the book made universal appeal to all lovers of London and lovers of England. [Illustration: WITH Mʳˢ ALEC TWEEDIE’S BEST WISHES 30 YORK TERRACE LONDON N.W. ] Perhaps not one among the many columns of flattering reviews, however, gave me so much pleasure as the following letter, from an old friend, well known to fame. Love and friendship are the finest assets in the Bank of Life. “_April, 1908._ “MY DEAR MRS. TWEEDIE, “I warmly congratulate you on what is certain to prove a most successful book. I have read it through with great interest—and old Londoner and old Hyde Parker as I am—for I can remember it _seventy_ years ago! I find very many facts and stories new to me. And yet I am a bit of a London antiquary and have written on London and have helped to _make_ London (when I designed Kingsway for L.C.C.). “The book will go, and has come to stay. “We are still very chilly down in the Weald, though daffodils and hyacinths have begun to show and chestnuts are breaking. It is the latest spring I ever knew. The only consolation is—there are hardly any primroses this year to celebrate the Orgy of Evil. “Yours sincerely, “FREDERIC HARRISON.” From generation to generation, Hyde Park has been the wide theatre upon which many tragedies and comedies of London have been enacted, the forum where many liberties have been demanded, the scene where national triumphs have been celebrated. * * * * * Yes, the book was a success; but every success in life brings a would-be friend, and a dozen enemies. True friendship is not influenced by success or failure. CHAPTER XXVII BURIED IN PARCELS “They can’t come in here—I tell you they simply can’t.” I was sitting eating my matutinal egg on a sleety January day in 1909, when I heard this altercation at the door. “They can’t come in here,” repeated the cook, “they simply can’t.” Thinking I had better go and see what it was all about, I ventured forth. On the doorstep stood two laughing postmen. “What is it?” I asked. “Parcels, mum, parcels; we have got a whole van full.” “A van full!” I exclaimed, seeing a large red parcels-delivery van in the road. “Yes, a special van for you, mum, containing one hundred and ninety-six parcels.” I nearly collapsed. “Where _are_ they to go?” I exclaimed. “I don’t know,” he replied. “They can’t come in here,” chirruped the cook, knowing the hall was already packed. “You must leave them in the van,” I suggested helplessly, “until I have time to think what is to be done with them.”