I see that the _Spectator_, in reviewing a new book on the Tower, says
that, whilst visitors to London usually visit that historic monument,
Londoners themselves rarely visit it. There is, I suppose, a good deal of
truth in this. I know a man who was born in London, and has spent all his
working life in Fleet Street, who confesses that he has never yet been
inside the Tower. It is not because he is lacking in interest. He has been
to St. Peter's at Rome, and he went to Madrid largely to see the Prado. If
the Tower had been on the other side of Europe, I think he would probably
have made a pilgrimage to it, but it has been within a stone's-throw of him
all his life, and therefore he has never found time to visit it.
It is so, more or less, with most of us. Apply the test to yourself or to
your friends who live in London, and you will probably be astonished at the
number of precious things that you and they have not seen--not because they
are so distant, but because they are so near. Have you been to the Record
Office, for example? I haven't, although it is within a couple of hundred
yards of where I work and although I know it is rich in priceless
treasures. I am always going, but "never get," as they say in Lancashire.
It is too handy.
I was talking the other day to a City merchant who lives at Sydenham, and
who has never seen Hampstead Heath. He had been travelling from Sydenham to
the City for a quarter of a century, and has worn the rut so deep that he
cannot get out of it, and has hardly more likelihood of seeing the Northern
Heights than of visiting the mountains of the moon. Yet Hampstead Heath,
which he could see in a morning for the cost of a threepenny ride in the
Tube, is one of the incomparable things of Nature. I doubt whether there is
such a wonderful open space within the limits of any other great city. It
has hints of the seaside and the mountain, the moor and the down in most
exquisite union, and the Spaniards Road is as noble a promenade as you will
find anywhere.
This incuriousness is not a peculiarity of Londoners only. It is a part of
that temporising habit that afflicts most of us. If a thing can be done at
any time, then that is just the thing that never gets done. If my Fleet
Street friend knew that the Tower was going to be blown to pieces by a
Zeppelin to-morrow he would, I am sure, rush off to see it this afternoon.
But he is conscious that he has a whole lifetime to see it in, and so he
will never see it. We are most of us slackers at the bottom, and need the
discipline of a timetable to keep us on the move. If I could put off
writing this article till to-morrow I should easily convince myself that I
hadn't time to write it to-day.
The point is very well expressed in that story of the Pope who received
three American visitors in turn. "How long are you staying?" he said to the
first. "Six months, your Holiness," was the reply. "You will be able to see
something of Rome in that time," said the Pope. The second was staying
three months. "You will see a great deal of Rome in three months," said the
Pope. The third was only staying three weeks. "You'll see all there is to
be seen in Rome in three weeks," was the Pope's comment. He was a good
judge of human nature.
But if we Londoners are no worse than most people we certainly miss more,
for there is no such book of revelation as this which we look at so
differently. I love to walk its streets with those who know its secrets.
Mr. John Burns is such a one. The very stones begin to be eloquent when he
is about. They pour out memories at his invitation as the rock poured out
water at the touch of Moses. The houses tell you who built them and who
lived hi them and where their stone came from. The whole pageant of history
passes before you, and you see the spot where Julius Caesar crossed the
river at Battersea--where else should he cross?--you discover, it may be
for the first time, the exquisite beauty of Waterloo Bridge, and learn what
Canovas said about it. York Gate tells you of the long past when the
Embankment was not, and when great nobles came through that archway to take
the boat for Westminster or the Tower. He makes you dive out of the Strand
to see a beautiful doorway, and out of Fleet Street to admire the Henry
room. Every foot of Whitehall babbles its legends; you see Tyburn as our
forefathers saw it, and George Fox meeting Cromwell there on his return
from Ireland. In Westminster Hall he is at his best. You feel that he knew
Rufus and all the masons who built that glorious fabric. In fact, you
almost feel that he built it himself, so vividly does its story live in his
mind and so strong is his sense of possession.
If I were a Dictator I would make him the Great Showman of London. I would
have him taking us round and inspiring us with something of his own delight
in our astonishing City. We should no longer look upon London then as if it
were a sort of Bradshaw's Guide: we should find it as fascinating as a
fairy tale, as full of human interest as a Canterbury Pilgrimage. We should
never go to Snow Hill without memories of Fagin, or to Eastcheap without
seeing Falstaff swaggering along its pavements. Bread Street would resound
to us with the tread of young Milton, and Southwark with the echoes of
Shakespeare's voice and the jolly laughter of the Pilgrims at the Tabard.
Hogarth would accompany us about Covent Garden, and out of Bolt Court we
should see the lumbering figure of Johnson emerging into his beloved Fleet
Street. We would sit by the fountain in the Temple with Tom Pinch, and take
a wherry to Westminster with Mr. Pepys. We should see London then as a
great spiritual companionship, in which it is our privilege to have a
fleeting part.