THE unloading of a steamer in England, the young supercargo soon found, is not the rapid process that it is in America, though much cheaper. The workmen receive smaller pay and move more slowly, the machinery is not so modern, none of the facilities as good.
“This is about halfway between New York and the West Indies,” Kit was forced to conclude, “in the way they do work. It must be true, as I have often heard, that ‘New York is the quickest unloading port in the world, and the most expensive.’”
He tried at first to hurry the men up and so save money for his employers; but it was uphill work for one young American to change the customs of centuries, and he had to let things take their course. Even the agents, he noticed, were in no hurry. When the sugar was all unloaded, there was no new cargo ready to take its place, and the four or five days that might have sufficed to make theNorth Capeready for sea again, expanded into several weeks. So in spite of himself Kit had a good dealof idle time while the ship lay at Gravesend—idle, that is, as far as his work was concerned; there were too many new things to be seen all around him, too many facts about London to be learned from the Captain’s books, for much of his time to be really unemployed. Frequently he had to go to the agents’ office in Fenchurch Street, and on those occasions whenever he had an hour or two to spare he took a “’bus” to some other part of the city, taking care to remain in the same one till it reached its destination and then return in it, for fear of losing himself.
One morning when there was no cargo to load and no prospect of any arriving, Captain Griffith suggested that they should go up together and have a look at the city.
“I speak of ‘the city’ in the same way as I should speak of it at home,” he added, “meaning the whole town. I suppose you have learned that in London the part they call ‘the city’ is a very small section where most of the financial business is done; so when a Londoner says he is going into the city, he means into that small and crowded part of the town. But I mean it in the larger sense, including the whole place, or as much of it as we have time to see.”
“Why, that will be fine, sir,” Kit replied. “I have an appointment for this morning with young Mr. Watkins, one of our agents’ clerks. He is going to show me something of London, and we will both enjoy it if you will go along.”
“Well, if you youngsters won’t think an old man in the road,” the Captain laughed, “I will go with you. I once knew London pretty well; but it is fifteen or eighteen years since I have seen much of it, and perhaps I will need a guide as much as you do.”
On the way up in the train (it is always “up” when you go to London; no matter if you start from the top of the highest mountain in Scotland, you speak of going “up to London”) Kit told the Captain about the old sailor from theFlower City, and showed his father’s knife.
“Do not set your hopes too high,” the Captain said after he had heard the story; “but I should look upon that as a very encouraging piece of news. It shows that their boats were sound and that the crew were still afloat after the schooner went down. As one man was saved, another may have been. There is still great doubt, of course; but I should continue to hope.”
When they reached the Fenchurch Street office, they found Mr. Watkins waiting for Kit, still arrayed in a long black coat and high silk hat, but much newer and brighter ones than he wore while at work, and looking so stiff and starched that Kit had to laugh to himself to think what a figure he would cut in any American city at that hour of the morning.
“Now where shall we go first?” the clerk asked, when they reached the street.
“I don’t want to interfere with any plans you may have made,” Captain Griffith answered, “but if you have not settled upon any place, I suggest that we go first to see the Temple. That I consider one of the greatest curiosities of London—like a quiet country village set down in the very heart of the largest city in the world.”
“Is it a church, sir?” Kit asked.
“No, indeed!” the Captain laughed; “quite the opposite; it is one of the headquarters of the London lawyers, though there is a fine old church in the grounds. But it is so different from anything we have in America that I can hardly explain it to you. You will soon see for yourself, if we go there.”
“We can easily walk as far as the Temple,” Mr. Watkins said, “and you can always see more in walking than in riding. This way, right up Fenchurch Street. The way we give the same street different names in London is puzzling to strangers, but you soon grow used to it. Now this is one of the chief thoroughfares running east and west; and when you learn the principal ones, you can easily find your way about. I believe in your country each street bears the same name through its entire length, but it is not so here. For instance, this is Fenchurch Street. We keep right along in this street for miles, if we choose, but it has a great many different names. In a short distance the name changes to Lombard Street, then Cheapside, then Newgate Street, then Holborn Viaduct, then New Oxford Street, thenOxford Street, then away out in the West End it becomes Bayswater Road, though it is really the same street all the way through. But we do not go as far as that. We will have a look at the Bank of England as we pass King William Street, then when we get to the end of Cheapside we will see the Post Office and St. Paul’s Cathedral, and cut through St. Paul’s Churchyard to Ludgate Hill, which will take us to Fleet Street, and there is the Temple.”
“I believe I have heard of every one of those places before,” Kit exclaimed, as they made their way along the crowded street; “and I am glad we are going through St. Paul’s Churchyard. I have heard so much about the old London graveyards, and that must be one of the best of them.”
Why did the Captain and Mr. Watkins look at each other and smile when he said this, Kit wondered.
“You will find that nearly every London name is familiar,” said the Captain, “if you have heard or read much about the place. But I am afraid you will be disappointed in St. Paul’s Churchyard, for it is not a burying-ground. It is only the name of a street; all the graves were emptied long ago and the ground sold for business purposes.”
“Why, there are no windows in the Bank of England!” Kit cried, when they reached that great, low, square building occupying a whole block.
“Plenty of them,” Mr. Watkins answered, “but not on the outside. These outer walls that you see are not really part of the building. The real buildingis inside these walls, and separate. It has to be very strong and well guarded, you see, because so much money is kept there.”
“And that crowd in front of the big doors!” Kit went on. “Why, it looks as if the bank had failed, and the depositors were trying to get their money.”
“Ah, that crowd ought to remind you of home,” said Mr. Watkins, laughing. “We often see such a crowd in front of the bank. The people are generally American tourists, ‘Cook’s personally Conducted,’ we call them, and they are visiting the banks among the other sights. They are led about from one place to another like flocks of sheep.”
“You are seeing something of the world without being a ‘personally conducted tourist,’ Silburn,” the Captain said. “We sailors have some advantages, after all.”
“I don’t think I should like to be led about like a sheep,” Kit laughed, “though I suppose it is cheaper and saves a lot of time. You must see a great many Americans in London, Mr. Watkins; though of course you do not always know them when you see them.”
“Oh, don’t we!” the clerk exclaimed. “They say there are always about forty thousand Americans here, and we can tell one the minute we lay eyes on him. They dress a little differently, you know; and then when they speak they have such a different accent. I hope you’ll not mind my saying so.”
“Not a bit of it!” the Captain answered; “give it to us. Turn about is only fair play, and we alwayspoke a little fun at the Englishmen in America; when we see a stranger arrive with three or four big leather satchels, a leather hat-box, a tin bath-tub, and two or three steamer rugs, we know he is an Englishman before we hear him speak. We have a great many of them, too, and generally disappointed because they can’t shoot Indians in Broadway, or go buffalo hunting on Boston Common. You English, somehow, are never happy unless you are shooting something. But if I am not mistaken that group of large buildings is the Post Office.”
“Yes, sir, that is the Post Office,” Mr. Watkins answered. “And I think you will have to admit that it is the best-managed Post Office you ever saw.”
“Yes, I admit that cheerfully,” said the Captain. “It is the very best in the world. I can send a letter from Gravesend in the morning to the further end of London, and have an answer the same afternoon. I could not do that in any city in America.”
“What, better than the New York Post Office, sir!” Kit exclaimed, in surprise.
“Much better managed,” the Captain replied; “very much better. And the police force here is much better than in any American city. Here, wait on this corner a minute, and see the ‘bobby,’ as they call him, manage the great crush of vehicles and people. There, see that! He just raises a finger, and every vehicle stops to let the people who have been waiting get across. And now that they have crossed he gives the slightest wave of the hand, andthe vehicles start again. We have nothing like that at home. But wait a minute longer. There! You see by raising a finger again he stops the whole line of vehicles going north and south, to let those pass that are going east or west; and by another slight motion he stops the east and west ones, and opens the north and south street. Oh, it is beautifully done. Without such control there would be an endless block in the streets. By the way, Silburn, I want you to watch this great ‘traffic,’ as they call it, in the streets, and tell me to-night what you think are the peculiarities of it; and at the same time keep an eye on the public buildings, and tell me what you think of them.”
“Very well, sir,” Kit answered. “But I can tell you now what I think of St. Paul’s. Oh, what a tremendous pile of stone! Why, I never saw anything like it! What a handsome cathedral it would be if they would scrub it! But it looks as dirty as if there had been a shower of ink.”
The others laughed at this odd description, but had to admit that it was quite accurate—for St. Paul’s looks as if it needed a good scouring. Contenting themselves for the time with admiring the outside of the great building, they went on as far as Ludgate Circus, and turned southward into New Bridge Street instead of going on into Fleet Street.
“They have a circus here sometimes in this open space, I suppose?” Kit asked as they were crossing Ludgate Circus.
“Oh, no,” Mr. Watkins replied. “There are a number of these ‘circuses’ in London—Regent’s Circus, Finsbury Circus, and so on. That does not mean that there is ever a circus in them. It is simply the old Roman way of designating a circle.”
A short distance down New Bridge Street, which leads to Blackfriars Bridge, they turned to the right into Tudor Street, and in a few minutes went through one of the big gateways into the grounds of the Temple. It was indeed, as the Captain had said, like going into a country village, in the green grass, the noble trees, the delicious quiet, though separated only by a wall from the busiest part of the world’s busiest city.
“This is historical ground we are on,” Mr. Watkins said as they walked in. “Though given up to the lawyers now, this was originally the quarters of the Knights Templars of Jerusalem—the order established for the defence of the Holy Sepulchre, you know. That was nearly nine hundred years ago, and of course there were not as many buildings here in those days. Then it was taken from them and fell into the hands of the Knights of St. John, and later on it became the property of the lawyers of the higher courts, who still hold it. They have their offices in these buildings, and many of them live here with their families. Some of the buildings are nearly a thousand years old, and some are quite modern. A beautiful place to live, isn’t it, almost in a park, but with the city just outside the gate?”
“Why, there must be fifteen or twenty of these big buildings!” Kit exclaimed; “and are they all full of lawyers?”
“All full of lawyers,” the clerk answered, smiling. “And there goes one of the lawyers. He is on his way to court, as you can tell by his wearing his wig. You know the barristers always wear a big wig in court. Do you see that little shop over there by the arches? That is the shop of a wig-maker who does business here and makes most of the wigs. He has to pay well for the privilege of doing business here, too.”
“But wigs!” Kit asked. “What do they wear wigs for? They’re not all bald, are they?”
“Oh, no!” Watkins laughed. “They wear them because that has been the custom for hundreds of years—wigs and long black gowns, whenever they appear in court. We never change old custom here, you know. If our great-grandfathers did a thing, we think that sufficient reason for our doing it too. But turn up this way; I want to show you the Temple Church. I think it will interest you, for it is the Church the old Templars used to worship in; it was built in 1185.”
They went through the big Gothic doorway of the Temple Church, where a guide took them in hand and pointed out all the curiosities. Under the dome at the front was a large open space, where there lay stretched full length on the floor a dozen or more life-size figures of men clad in armor, and all black like tarnished bronze.
“Some have their legs crossed, you will notice,” the guide explained, “and others lie out straight. Those with crossed legs were the Knights of the Cross, the others their squires and followers. The legs are crossed so as to make the sign of the cross, you know. You would hardly believe that the figures are made of white marble, would you? Yes, sir, all white marble; they are so old that they have turned black.”
In the other part of the church, nearer the pulpit, he showed them the handsomely carved pews that the lawyers sit in, and explained that after attending service on Sunday mornings the occupants go into the great hall to dine together in state. “It is always a fine banquet,” he added, “so they are pretty regular in their attendance at church. Do you see that little tower on the side, with just a slit for a window? That was once the Temple prison where unruly knights were confined; sometimes they were left there to starve.”
After inspecting the church they turned to the right into a narrow court between the church and some other large buildings, where a number of tombstones marked the graves of eminent persons. Most of the stones were carved with armorial bearings, showing that the persons beneath had been lords or dukes or other noblemen; but one tomb without any such pompous tracing attracted Kit’s attention.
“Why, look here!” he cried. “This says, ‘Here lies Oliver Goldsmith!’ One of the best books I ever read (it was called the ‘Vicar of Wakefield’)was by a man named Oliver Goldsmith. I don’t suppose it can be the same one, though.”
“It is the very one,” the Captain told him. “There may have been a thousand Oliver Goldsmiths in the world, but still there was only one. See what a beautiful inscription it is. All the coronets and coats-of-arms in the world could not make a tomb as interesting at those simple words, ‘Here lies Oliver Goldsmith.’ A man could hardly pass that tomb without stopping to look at it.”
“Well!” Kit exclaimed, “I never thought I should see his grave.”
“Oh, a great many celebrated men have been associated with these Temples,” Mr. Watkins explained. “Dr. Johnson once lived here, you know, and one of the newer buildings is called Dr. Johnson’s building.”
“By the way,” the Captain interrupted, “that reminds me. It is time we had something to eat, and I want you both to take lunch with me after we go down and have a look at the gardens.”
While they walked through the beautiful Temple gardens, with their fountains, flower-beds, and gigantic trees, with the Thames flowing in front and the great series of Temple buildings in the rear, Kit wondered how speaking of Dr. Johnson reminded the Captain of eating lunch. He could not at the time see any connection between them, but he saw it a few minutes later.
“Let us go out this way,” the Captain said, “into the Strand. I have not been here for many years,but these old places do not change much. I know of a very good restaurant not far from here.”
In the Strand they turned to the right, and a few steps took them into Fleet Street, where the Captain soon stopped and guided them into a narrow alley bearing the sign, “Wine Office Court.” A few feet up the court, on the right-hand side, they went through a doorway that looked nearly as old as anything about the Temple, and so into a restaurant with old-fashioned high-backed benches, stiff old chairs, heavy oak tables, and a fireplace that looked as if it might have been used by the Crusaders.
“You take that seat at the end of the table, in the corner, Silburn,” the Captain said, “and Mr. Watkins and I will take the sides. We don’t have to consider here about what we will eat, because the great dish is a chop and a baked potato, with some of the baked Cheshire cheese to finish up on. You know the name of this place is ‘The Olde Cheshire Cheese.’ I was reminded of it as soon as Mr. Watkins spoke of Dr. Johnson.”
“This is one of the famous old eating-houses of London, Silburn,” the Captain continued. “I wanted to bring you here because I saw you reading my ‘Boswell’s Life of Johnson’ the other day, so I thought it would interest you.”
“Oh, he must have been a great man, sir,” Kit answered. “I am very much interested in that book.”
“Well, look at that brass plate on the wall just over your head,” the Captain laughed.
Kit turned his head and read the words, cut in a small brass plate that was screwed to the wall, “The seat of Dr. Samuel Johnson.”
“Why, what does that mean, sir!” Kit exclaimed. “That can’t be the man I have been reading about!”
“It is the very man,” the Captain declared. “This restaurant is so old that it was here in his day, and it was his favorite eating-place. And that exact seat where you are sitting was his favorite place, where he sat every day to eat his dinner while he talked with many of the famous men you read of in the book. You see you are on the track of famous people to-day.”
“I feel as if I were a sort of character in a book,” Kit replied, “instead of a real American eating chops and baked potatoes;suchchops, too! this is a great country for chops, but I don’t think much of their oysters. I tried some a few days ago, and they tasted soapy, as if they had been raised in a wash-tub. Then when I went into a drug store to look at a directory they charged me a penny for the privilege. Think of paying two cents to look at a directory! But those are small matters. It is an event in a fellow’s life to be sitting where the great Dr. Johnson used to sit, and to see the grave of such a man as Oliver Goldsmith. I can hardly realize it.”
“Oh, we will associate with some more noted people before we stop,” the Captain replied. “If you both feel like it, we will take a hansom down to Westminster Abbey when we finish here, where youcan see the tombs of more celebrated Englishmen than you have ever heard of. It is a good place for a young man to go, for he naturally begins to inquire about the great people who are buried there, and to read about them.”
When the lunch was concluded and they were about to go, Mr. Watkins made a remark. It was something that he had been thinking about half through the meal; for it was intended to be a joke, and an Englishman approaches a joke as cautiously as a good driver nearing a railway crossing.
“I suppose there will be a new plate on the wall next time you come here, Mr. Silburn,” he said.
“Why so?” Kit asked.
“Well,” said Watkins, “you see that plate says, ‘The seat of Dr. Samuel Johnson.’ Now they will have another one under it, I have no doubt, adding, ‘Also of Mr. Supercargo Silburn.’”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of it,” Kit replied. “I ought to laugh at the joke, but I really cawn’t, don’t you know, after that big chop and potato.” He tried to imitate the English manner of speaking; but if that was another joke, it was all lost on Mr. Watkins.
The three crowded into a hansom and were soon set down in front of Westminster Abbey, and for the next hour Kit had eyes for nothing but the long rows of tombs. The architecture might have surprised him under other circumstances, but no architecture was as interesting to him as the burial-place of so many famous people he had heard of. Thetomb of David Livingstone was one of the first that caught his eye. Then he found Sir Isaac Newton’s, and those of Browning and Tennyson side by side, and Shakespeare, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay, a bust of Longfellow, and scores, hundreds of others whose names he had at least heard.
“Shall we go in among the tombs of the kings?” Captain Griffith asked at length.
“Not on my account, sir,” Kit replied; “I don’t want to spoil the effect of these great people by looking at a lot of mere kings.”
“You mustn’t mind my young friend’s disparagement of your kings, Mr. Watkins,” the Captain laughed; “he is a thorough young American, and we don’t raise kings over there to any great extent. But it will suit me not to spend any more time here. What do you say to having a look at the town from the top of Primrose Hill, with just a glance into the British Museum as we pass it?”
Both “the boys,” as the Captain called them, were pleased with this proposition, and he called another hansom to take them first to the British Museum. There Mr. Watkins took pains to show them the interesting parts, and Kit was particularly interested in the mummies and their curious casings. What he wanted most to see, however, was the great library, one of the largest in the world; and he was disappointed when told that it was impossible to get into the reading-room without a ticket, which could be had only with a deal of red tape.
“I don’t believe they would let the Prince of Wales in without a ticket,” the young clerk said, “so I am sure we have no chance.”
There was no disappointment, however, about the view from the summit of Primrose Hill. They drove around through Hampstead to reach the hill from the rear, and when they stood on its very top the whole of London seemed to lie at their feet.
“Ah, it is a grand sight!” Mr. Watkins exclaimed. “We Londoners never tire of looking at it, though it is an old story with us. You see what a deep valley the city lies in, with the Thames running through the middle of it. The hills on the other side of the valley are in Surrey and Kent, two of our English counties. And do you see that blazing fire near the top of the Surrey Hills? It looks like fire, but that is the Crystal Palace with the sun shining upon it.”
“Yes, it is a grand sight,” the Captain said. “And you must not forget, Silburn, that you are looking at this moment at the homes of more people than you can see from any other spot on earth. Here are six millions of people living between us and those opposite hills—more people than there are in the kingdom of Belgium, and nearly as many as there are in the whole of Canada. You never saw such a view as this before.”
“No, sir, I never did,” Kit admitted; “it is a great sight; but I can’t help wondering why they built such a big city down in such a hollow. Nowonder they have such thick fogs here. I suppose you’ll laugh at me for it, but I think our hills out in Fairfield County are much handsomer. I should rather live in Huntington than in London.”
“Well, I like to hear you tell the truth about it,” the Captain laughed. “Some Americans who come over here think they must praise everything because it is the fashion to do so. These Europeans like to boast of their own countries, but they seem to immigrate to America pretty fast. Eh, how is that, Mr. Watkins?”
“Yes, sir, they do,” the young clerk answered. “And I am one of them. If I had half a chance, I should go to America myself.”
The setting sun gave warning to the sight-seers that it was time to bring their excursion to an end. Both Kit and the Captain urged Watkins to return to Gravesend and eat supper with them on theNorth Cape; but he still had work to do in the office, and the party separated in Trafalgar Square, Captain Griffith and Kit taking a ’bus to the Fenchurch Street station, whence a train soon carried them to Tilbury, opposite Gravesend.
“Now, Silburn,” the Captain said that evening while they sat in the cabin, “I want you to answer those questions I asked you to-day. What have you to say about the traffic in the London streets?”
“They are the most crowded streets I ever saw, sir,” Kit answered; “but it does not seem to me that there is any more business done in them than in agreat many other streets I have seen. I looked out for big trucks, express wagons, baggage vans, and such things, but did not see a great many. The crowding seemed to me to be done by the greatnumberof ’buses and hansoms. If the ’buses were taken away, there would be no great crowd in the London streets. So if they had the same modern means of transit that we have in our American cities, fast cable and electric cars and such things, there would be plenty of room.”
“And the public buildings?” the Captain asked.
“Some of them must have been very fine when they were new, sir,” Kit replied; “but they are so dark with smoke and dirt and age that they make a fellow feel gloomy. I should think the Londoners would have the blues most all the time, with their dark buildings and those terrible fogs. It is a great place, of course; but somehow it doesn’t seem to me exactly like a city. It seems more like a lot of big villages that have grown together.”
“Ah, they’re not going to make an Englishman of you, that’s certain!” the Captain laughed. “But you are right in both the opinions you have given. It is the lack of quick transit that crowds the streets; and modern London is not exactly a city, but a collection of large towns that have grown together. You will be quite an expert in cities some day, if you study their points so carefully.”