CHAPTER XV

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And now we were once more to cross that narrow strip of troubled water which separates Gallic shores from _perfide Albion_, and whose horrors doubtless have much to do with the dread that so many travelled Englishmen have of crossing the Atlantic. But as has often been remarked, one may cross the Atlantic with scarce a qualm, and yet be utterly prostrated, for the time being, on the vile little tubs of passenger boats in crossing the English Channel--a trip which the tourist inwardly, with what inwards are left of him, thanks Providence is made in less than two hours. The good fortune of a comparatively smooth sea, quiet, bright day, and passage made without a single case of seasickness, which was vouchsafed us when coming over, did not attend us on our return trip, which was made from Boulogne to Folkestone.

On arrival at the French pier, a good stiff breeze in our faces, and ominous white caps to the waves outside, indicated to us what we were to expect. We sought the captain, an Englishman. "Was there no other accommodation than the deck," with its suggestive pile of wash-bowls? The close little cabin was already fully occupied.

"No, sir; better keep on deck--shall be over in little more than an hour."

We remembered the captain's nationality, and the weakness of his countrymen, and determined to make the usual trial.

"Captain, isn't there a private state-room? (looking him fixedly in the eye, and jingling some coin musically in one of my pockets).

"There isn't a nook in the ship (?), sir, that isn't chock up, full, but my own state-room, and I sometimes--if a suvren's to be made--don't mind--"

A gold coin bearing the effigy of Napoleon was in his hand before he could speak another word.

"This way, sir. You and madam will find a couple of nice bunks there; it'll be a head wind and rough passage; keep on your back, sir, and you're all right. Tom, mind yer eye, and look out for the lady 'n' gen'leman."

The captain's comfortable state-room was worth the "tip," for in three minutes after leaving the pier a dozen were sick, and in a quarter of an hour so were seven eighths of all on board; and here we had the satisfaction of being wretched in private, and served by Tom, a brisk boy, with an eye to a shilling in prospective, instead of grovelling in abject misery on deck, in company with fifty or sixty other pitiable objects, and served by two gruff old he chambermaids, who perambulated back and forth with mops, swabs, and wash-bowls.

Arrived at Folkestone, which is a place of fashionable resort, we found, on stepping ashore, drawn up in two parallel lines extending front the landing stage up for twenty rods or more towards the train that was in waiting, a large deputation of fashionably-dressed men and women, besides curious idlers in waiting to inspect and stare at the victims of Neptune's punishment. There stood these English people, who, probably, passed in their circles among their countrymen for ladies and gentlemen, sticklers for laws of etiquette and politeness, no doubt,--in two long parallel lines, like a regiment on dress parade; and between these lines the passengers, all bedraggled, pale, and limey with seasickness, and hampered with the paraphernalia of travel, were obliged to pass, subjected to the stare of vapid swells with straw-colored side whiskers and eye-glasses, and young women with sea-side hats and parasols, who looked each passer by up and down and all over with the critical eye of a recruiting officer, making those of their own sex more mortified at their dishabille, and the other indignant at this insulting stare. But the familiar sound of the English tongue on every side was music to our ears; the railway porters and guards of the train in waiting all spoke English when they asked us where we wished to go.

About seventy miles' railroad ride and we were at London; and notwithstanding the advantages of comparison we had enjoyed in the seeing of Paris, Vienna, and other European capitals, we could not help feeling again, as on our first visit, impressed with the vastness of this great city. Mile after mile of street after street, and still we went past miles of stores and miles of houses, streets of shops, streets of dwellings, squares; a cross street, and presto! out again into another apparently endless street of great retail stores, with gayly-dressed shop windows, and crowds of vehicles and pedestrians; through another street, past a grand park, with its green grass and broad acres, and stately dwellings about it; on amid the never-ending roar, and clatter, and hum, and rush of cabs, great omnibuses, drays, wagons, gay equipages, and nobby dog carts--a never-ending, never-ceasing, constantly changing, moving panorama of novel sights and scenes.

LONDON. It _is_, indeed, a great capital; only think of a city covering an area of one hundred and twenty-five square miles, and containing three millions of inhabitants; where more than eighteen hundred children are born every week, and over twelve hundred deaths per week are recorded. London, which was a British settlement before the Romans came to England; which was burned and ravaged by the Danish robbers of 851, and a city which King Alfred rebuilt and Canute lived in; London, a great city of over one hundred and forty thousand inhabitants in Queen Elizabeth's time; London, that figures in Shakespeare, and Byron, and Dickens, and that we have read of in romances and novels, and studied about in histories and geographies, from childhood up.

There is enough for the sight-seer, the student, the antiquarian, or the tourist to enjoy in this wondrous old city if he stays in it a year. I have really been amused to hear some of our American tourists, who visit Europe for the usual tour, reply, on being asked if they had seen London, "O, yes, we saw everything; staid there a whole week."

This is about the amount of time bestowed on the rare old city by the many fashionable American tourists, who are in haste to get into the glare and glitter of Paris, and who manage by brisk labor to skim over the principal sights, such as racing through Westminster Abbey, running about St. Paul's, giving a few hours to the British Museum, skurrying through the Tower and the Houses of Parliament, and devoting a few evening hours to Madame Tussaud's and some of the theatres. Then there are those who go over and make no stop at London at first, reserving it to visit on their homeward trip from the continent, and find all too late that they have used up too much time in other places, and have not reserved a tithe of what they ought, to see it, ere they must prepare for the homeward-bound steamer.

A great deal, I grant, may be seen of London in a fortnight's time, if the tourist works industriously, and buckles to the task early and late; but the real lover of travel will six weeks to be none too long, and may find abundance of that which is novel, interesting, and instructive fully to occupy his attention that length of time. I cannot but think that early spring--say the last of April and first of May--is the very best time to visit England; the season seems a month in advance of ours in New England, and the tourist sees how much more sensible "crowning a May Queen," "going a Maying," and dancing round a May-pole, are there the first of May, where the flowers are springing and the air is balmy, than in our New England, where chilly east winds seem like the parting breath of winter, and only snowdrops and crocuses dare to put forth an appearance on the south, sunny sides of banks or protecting walls.

After shopping abroad, the good, square, solid honesty of the London shopmen is more fully appreciated, and especially do Americans see here that there is an effort by the tradesman who has gained any celebrity for a specialty--the tailor, boot maker, the umbrella maker, or even a mutton pie vender, to keep his articles up to the original standard, that they may be always reliable, and become a proverb among purchasers. This is in contrast with many of our American dealers, who, after "getting a run" on goods, endeavor to realize a larger and more immediate profit by adroitly lowering the standard of quality, or by skilful adulteration.

But we must pack our trunks for the homeward voyage. A very large portion of this preparation I had done in Paris by a professional packer, styled an _emballeur_, an individual so skilled in folding ladies' voluminous dresses and gentlemen's coats, that they come forth without a wrinkle, and who stows away in one of your trunks almost double the amount that you think it could possibly be made to contain--a service, the expense of which is trifling, but which saves the tourist a vast amount of-time, as well as vexatious and tedious labor.

More than six months of "living in a trunk," and a constant succession of novelty, and continuous travel from one point to another, living at hotels, "grand" good, indifferent, and bad, naturally incline one to long for rest and quiet; and, passionately fond of travel as one may be, there are but few I have ever encountered, who devoted half a year constantly and faithfully to it, but were willing to acknowledge sight-seeing to be some of the hardest labor they ever performed.

There is one thing that also tends to give the student or lover of travel something of an unsatisfied feeling, as his journey draws near its close, especially if he has been limited as to time; and that is, the thought of how much there is in Europe to study and to see, and how little, comparatively, he has accomplished. Yet, even with this feeling, the author could not help hugging to his heart the real, solid enjoyment that had been experienced in visiting those scenes hallowed in dreams of youthful imagination, in realizing the hopes--and anticipations of years, and also the thought of what a pleasure the memory of these sights and scenes in foreign lands would be, in years to come, as they were recalled to mind.

"But the ship it is ready, And the wind it is fair,"

and O, how far our home does seem from us over the ocean, now that we have had practical experience upon its broad billows. But this thought is lost in the anticipation of meeting friends and loved ones whom we have not looked upon for six long months, and a return to familiar scenes of home, for which the heart yearns, notwithstanding the attractions by which we may be surrounded.

A last shopping in London for English umbrellas, ladies' water-proofs, French dog-skin gloves (made in England), English walking shoes, Cartwright & Warner's under clothing, sole leather trunks, furs, which you can buy so very much cheaper than in America; books, such as you think you can get through the custom-house; a few comforts for the voyage, which former experience has taught you that you will require, and you are ready.

Down to the office of the Cunard steamers, in London, we went, to learn at what hour the ship would leave Liverpool, and other particulars. This office we found to be in one of those buildings which your genuine Londoner so delights in for a place of business. The greater the magnitude of a merchant's or banker's business, and the wealthier he is, the more dingy, contracted, dark, and inconvenient he seems to like to have his counting-house or business quarters. There is nothing the old-fashioned London millionnaire seems to have such a horror of, as a bright, fresh office, with plate glass, oak or marble counters, plenty of light, broad mahogany desks, and spacious counting-house. He seems to delight in a dingy old building, down in the depths of the city, with walls thick enough for a fortification; built, perhaps, in Queen Elizabeth's time, and so smoke-begrimed that you can't tell the original color of the stones. A narrow, squat doorway, over which an almost obliterated sign-board bears the name of the firm,--the original members of which have been dead a century, and not one of the present members bears it,--is an indication of the Englishman's substantial character, and how averse he is to change,--knowing that with his countrymen, the knowledge that the firm of "Fogy Brothers" has been known all over the world for a century as responsible merchants, is capital in itself, and one worth having.

In America, from the nature of things and our manner of doing business, we are apt to infer, and often correctly, such a concern is "slow," infected with "dry rot," does not "keep up with the times," or is "rusting out," while the younger blood of Wider Wake & Co., with their vigor and progressive spirit, so infects all about them with their enterprise as to command success, and even attract from the older concern a portion of that which cannot brook the tedious circumlocution of those who are tardy in availing themselves of the real improvements of the age.

I have been into the counting-rooms of men worth millions, in London, which, in convenience and appliances for clerical labor, were not equal to those of a Boston retail coal-seller, or haberdasher, and others whose warehouses would give the uninitiated American an impression that they were old junk stores, instead of the headquarters of a firm whose name was known, and whose bills were honored, in almost every capital in Europe. A mousing visit among some of these old places in the city is very interesting, and has been made more so by some of the inimitable descriptions of Dickens. In fact, on my return to London, I could not help longing for an opportunity to spend some weeks here, and, in company with some old resident, to explore the curious old nooks and corners of the city, which contain so much that is noted in history, exhibit so many different phases of life, and hold so much that, described, would be as novel to half of London itself, as photographs of the depths of an African forest.

The steamship office was down in an old building which had once been a dwelling-house, and there was the old front door, small old baluster and stair rail, and rooms almost the same as they had been left years ago, when a family dwelt there. Your Londoner always uses these old places just as long as he can possibly make them pay without putting a shilling's worth of expense upon them. So we stumbled up the dark staircase, and tumbled into the low-studded room that might once have been the family parlor, where the requisite information was obtained of the clerks in attendance.

When about to return home by steamer, telegraph to the Adelphi, or the hotel you intend to stop at in Liverpool, the day before you take passage in advance, or you may not have a desirable room for your last night's sleep on shore, for these Liverpool hotels are all full, at the arrival and departure of the steamers, of passengers who are arriving and departing.

Coming down into the coffee-room of the hotel for his last English breakfast, the tourist will doubtless meet, as we did, numerous Americans who have been rambling over the continent for months, and are now, like himself, homeward bound.

"Hallo, Binks!--is that you? How are you? Why, we saw your name on the register atop of Mount Righi six months ago. Thought you'd gone home."

"No, _sir_! Been everywhere, seen everything. By the by, speaking of seeing names, we travelled right after you in Italy, got to Danielli's, in Venice, day after you left, found your name in Florence, bought some filigree stuff at same shop you did in Genoa."

Up comes another to exchange greetings, whom you met in Strasburg Cathedral, and who has been to Rome, as you see by his scarf-pin, and introduces his wife, who has been in Vienna, as you observe by her Russia leather travelling-bag. They have also been to Florence, as you see by the daughter's mosaics. In fact, after an experience in shopping on the continent, you can tell by the costumes, ornaments, or travelling paraphernalia of many of the homeward-bound Yankees, almost to a certainty, the leading cities which they have visited during their tour abroad. They all seem to have seen the same sights in the same cities, and talk as glibly about crossing over Rue Rivoli, and going up Rue Scribe, or "when we were riding out in the _bwar_ one afternoon," as if they were as familiar with Paris all their lives as they are with Wall Street, Fifth Avenue, Beacon Street, Chester Park, or Chestnut Street.

Amusing also to the old traveller must be the ease with which some, who have had but a three months' "scoot" over the continent, speak of "running down to Rome," or "stopping at Berlin a day or two," or "the day we went over the Alps," "pretty place is Lucerne. We staid there all day." We could but think ourselves, however, that one needs six months' travel in Europe in order to learn _how_ to see it, and to prepare for a second visit.

We must be at the "landing stage" at the dock at twelve o'clock; so the placard posted in the hotel informs us. And on arrival there with our pile of luggage, we find a fussy little Pancks of a steam-tug waiting to take the mails and luggage aboard, and another to take the passengers themselves. Here, on the pier, are the usual scenes of parting and leave-taking, and some few privileged ones go out on the tug, to the steamer, which lies in the stream half a mile away, emitting volumes of black smoke, and gathering strength for her journey. Forests of masts are at the docks, one or two huge vessels of war out in the stream, some great, dismantled hulks on an opposite shore, and a fresh sea breeze coming in, curls the dark-blue waves over with a white fringe, making the whole scene appear very like dozens of "marine views" that we have seen in art galleries.

Stepping on board, we are at once in the midst of a tremendous crowd of luggage and passengers, ship's crew, stewards, and officers, mixed up in every direction. We have the number of our state-room, and get the steward and porter of the section in which it is situated pointed out to us by an obliging officer. Both of these individuals seem in too great a hurry to stop and hear us as we commence a request; but we have profited by experience. My hand is already in my pocket, a few hurried words, the quiet passage of her majesty's portrait in silver into the palm of the listener, and in five minutes the luggage for our state-room is there, and the porter touches his hat, and asks if there is "anythink else, sir," while the steward comes soon after to tell me to "call for George whenever we want anything." Such is the mysterious power of her majesty's coin on her subjects.

The reader need not have rehearsed again to him the experiences of the passage over, which differs but little from those already described in these pages, except that it was rougher, and, as the sailors say, "all up hill," while from America to England it is down, and that we counted the completion of each day's journey as so much nearer home. But when old Boston's spires came in sight, and the swelling dome of the State House rose to view, it seemed that we had looked upon no sight or scene in foreign lands, and visited no place over the ocean that was a more pleasant picture to look upon--its attraction in our eyes heightened, no doubt, by that charm that invests one's native land and childhood's home.

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Transcriber's Note:

Hyphenation, punctuation, and spelling standardized when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise unchanged. When in doubt, end-of-line hyphens have been retained. Simple typographical errors remedied, but no changes made to quoted inscriptions.

Page 350, first full paragraph: the "o" in "Rochid" has a bar over it.