KIT INSPECTS LONDON.
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 the _North
Cape_ ready for sea again, expanded into several weeks. So in spite
of himself Kit had a good deal of 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 the _Flower 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, then Oxford 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
building is 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 always poke 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, and the 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;
_such_ chops, 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 you can 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. The
tomb 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.
No wonder 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 the _North
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 a great 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 great number
of ’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.”