"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.