Roving East and Roving West

In Short

This collection of travel essays captures a journey across three continents in 1920. Through the eyes of an observant, mid-career British writer, the book records the sensory details of Indian bazaars, the quiet majesty of Mount Fuji, and the restless energy of urban America. It is a work of "motion recollected in tranquillity," blending historical reflection with personal encounter. Its enduring value lies in its snapshot of a global order—one still anchored in colonial structures and traditional craftsmanship, yet standing on the threshold of a frantic, industrial, and Americanized century.

The Story

The narrative begins in the heat and dust of India, where the author finds himself amidst a land of "noiseless feet." The journey is not one of frantic movement, but of patient observation. He guides the reader through the remnants of the Grand Mogul empire, contrasting the ancient splendor of Fatehpur-Sikri with the burgeoning construction of New Imperial Delhi. He encounters the flora and fauna of the subcontinent—green parrots, speckled kingfishers, and the occasional, heart-stopping brush with a tiger. The Indian arc concludes with a melancholy search for historical graves in Calcutta, grounding the vast, timeless history of the East in the small, personal tragedies of forgotten individuals.

The focus shifts abruptly to Japan, where the author navigates a "little land" of stark contrasts. He is struck by the serenity of Fujiyama, which he describes as the most beautiful object of his travels, yet he remains unsettled by the social realities of the country—the humiliation of being pulled in rickshaws and the incongruity of Japanese men wearing Western bowler hats with traditional clothing. His time in Myanoshita is spent seeking views of the mountain, capturing a Japan that is both immemorial in its landscapes and awkwardly modernizing in its cities.

Finally, the journey reaches the United States, a country that represents the polar opposite of his previous stops. Here, the narrative becomes an energetic, critical, and amused examination of a nation in full stride. He moves from the Pacific coast to the hubs of Chicago, New York, and Boston, marveling at the towering skyscrapers and the "palatial" movie theaters. He engages with the peculiarities of American life—prohibition, the enthusiasm for baseball, the "profusion" of Sunday newspapers, and the strange American habit of dramatizing one's own work. He compares the American temperament to the English and French influences he finds in New York’s bookstores and architecture. The journey ends not with a grand conclusion, but with general reflections on national character, leaving the reader with a portrait of a youthful, confident, and somewhat overwhelming society that views itself as being in a state of perpetual beginning.

How It Unfolds

The Indian introduction The narrative opens with the sensory immersion of the Indian landscape, emphasizing the stillness of the people and the vibrant, strange wildlife that marks the country as truly foreign to an English visitor.

Historical immersion The author delves into the legacy of the Mogul emperors, using contemporary accounts from French travelers like Tavernier to bring the vanished glory of Delhi and Agra to life.

The shift to Japan The tone transitions to the disciplined, precise beauty of the Japanese islands, where the author seeks out the perfect symmetry of Fuji while navigating the awkward friction between native customs and encroaching industrialization.

The American arrival The final movement plunges into the noise and speed of the United States, where the author trades historical contemplation for an analysis of current social phenomena, from prohibition to the "movie" industry.

A cultural synthesis The journey concludes with a comparative look at how America’s architecture and journalism diverge from European traditions, ending on the observation that the American people remain, in spirit, a youthful nation just starting their work.

The People

The book is populated by a cast of historical figures and archetypal characters who serve as mirrors for the author’s own observations. The Grand Moguls—Akbar, Shah Jahan, and Aurungzebe—emerge as ghosts of a vanished, autocratic power, their architectural legacies providing the author with a tangible connection to the past. He also highlights figures like the French adventurers Tavernier and Bernier, whose writings act as his intellectual guides, and the poet Landor, whose verses on "Rose Aylmer" prompt a futile, poignant search for a grave in a crowded Calcutta cemetery.

In Japan, the people are categorized by their function and dress: the laborers in their traditional blue smocks and straw hats, and the "modernized" Japanese who insist on wearing bowler hats. The rickshaw drivers are central to his discomfort, representing a human element of travel that feels inherently unequal. In America, the "policeman" and the "comedian" become symbols of the American spirit—friendly, talkative, and constantly aware of their own presence. The American businessman, as described by the author, is the most significant "person" in the final section: a man who loves his work so much he sits in the audience of his own life, applauding his own efforts.

In Its Own Voice

"Although India is a land of walkers, there is no sound of footfalls."

This observation, made in the opening pages, sets the tone for the author’s focus on the quiet, pervasive rhythm of Indian daily life.

"When I am asked to name in a word the most beautiful thing I saw on my travels I mention Fujiyama instantly."

This statement, delivered during the Japanese leg of the journey, reflects the author’s singular admiration for the mountain’s "serene lofty isolation."

"I have never been able to get rid of the idea that every one I have met in America, no matter how grave a senior, instead of being really and self-consciously in the thick of life, is only getting ready to begin."

This conclusion encapsulates the author’s central argument regarding the American character, suggesting a nation defined by its restless, youthful anticipation.

What It's Really About

The central question beneath the prose is how one retains a sense of self while witnessing a world in transition. The author grapples with the tension between the "old world"—characterized by history, tradition, and a certain stoic lethargy—and the "new world," defined by speed, industrial prowess, and the commercialization of leisure. He explores the limits of the traveler's perspective, acknowledging that he is an outsider looking in, prone to his own cultural prejudices. Ultimately, the book is about the struggle to find "civilization"—defined here as the art of living graciously—within the vast, sometimes alienating differences between the British, the Indian, the Japanese, and the American experience.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the leisurely, essayistic style of early 20th-century travel writing will find this book a rewarding companion. It is not a guide for the modern tourist, but a time capsule of a specific worldview. You will appreciate it if you value precise, evocative descriptions of landscapes and a writer who is unafraid to express his own idiosyncrasies and occasional biases.

However, be prepared for the attitudes of the era; the author’s perspectives on colonial rule, race, and national character are undeniably rooted in the 1920s and will strike a contemporary reader as dated or, at times, condescending. The book is best read as a historical document of how a well-traveled Englishman perceived the shifting global landscape of his time. The experience of reading it feels like a long, polite conversation with an educated, if slightly opinionated, observer. What stays with you is not the specific facts of the locations—which have changed beyond recognition—but the author’s keen eye for the human element: the way a man leans against a wall, the way a city advertises its wares, and the persistent, quiet dignity of the people he encounters along the way.