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.