‘How is that?’ asked Wentworth.
‘Well, the fact is, London is the last place in the world for anyone to visit. It is too big, too crowded, too noisy, too fatiguing, and at every step you are surrounded with danger. The omnibus and the cab ever threaten one with annihilation, and the pickpocket is always on the watch. The bicycle is a terror by night, as is the irrepressible youngster who converts every quiet corner into a skating-rink. As to the air you breathe, it is full of microbes; your daily bread is white with alum. A wise man will also avoid its milk and cream and water. Yet all of us have to go to London more or less, and there are people who can live nowhere else. Human nature can easily assimilate itself to the conditions which surround it. Fortunately, there is a good deal of indiarubber in all of us. Of this the Londoner avails himself, and thinks himself the finest, smartest, cleverest fellow in the world, though he sees Brother Jonathan shutting him out of his markets, and opens his doors to foreign paupers, whom not a Government under heaven save his own would tolerate for a moment.’
‘Well, you’re right there. But what is your particular grievance?’
‘Grievances, you may say. They are like the hairs on my head; which, by-the-bye, are not so numerous as they were once.’
‘So I see,’ said Wentworth with a smile.
‘To make the most of a short visit to London,’ continued the speaker, ‘you must arrange your plans, and I did mine. My first object was to find out a gentleman who had written to me. Before leaving home, I had written to say that I would call on him on the Tuesday at his chambers in Pall Mall. When in due time I got there, I found he had gone to Scotland for ten days, but that his son had opened my letter and had waited for me till twelve o’clock, when he had started for an estate which his father was laying out with a view to building operations. Accordingly, I resolved to follow him, and then my troubles began. I started on an omnibus for Euston station; arrived there, I partook of luncheon, having twenty minutes to wait. “How do the trains run to Bushey?” I asked of an official. “There is one at twenty minutes to two, and another at the quarter,” was the reply; and I learned on the same reliable authority that the quarter to two train got there first. Accordingly, I waited for it, and when the guard came round to inspect the tickets, he confirmed what the official in the hall had said; adding that I was to change at Harrow. It was thus with a light heart I started, and left the train at Harrow, feeling sure that in a few minutes I should be landed at my destination. Alas, the train had gone, and I had to wait, sad and solitary, for an hour. At Bushey, a woman on whom I called informed me that her husband and the gentleman of whom I was in search had gone to the Board School. It is needless to add that they had done nothing of the kind. In the dust and under a blazing sun, I made my way to an estate which was being cut up into building ground. No Mr. T.—the man I sought—was to be seen; but it was the land I sought. “Was there any more of it?” “No,” said a workman, “that was all.” I felt he was wrong, that there must be more; but I tramped over the ground and made my way back to the station, to wait another dreary half-hour. In time, passengers for London began to assemble on the platform. Two of them passed me. One of them, I suppose, remembered me, as he spoke to his companion, a much younger man, who came up to tell me he was the one I sought. “Had I seen the estate?” “Yes.” “What did I think of the view opposite the hall?” I explained I had never been there. The workman it appeared, had led me wrong, and as it was essential that I should see it, it was agreed that I must have a fly and view the ground. I did so; and got back to town about eight, feeling that unnecessarily I had lost the greater part of the day.
‘The next day I rose betimes to carry out my well-arranged plans. I slept in the City, that I might better carry them out. In the first place I made my way to see a gentleman in Fenchurch Street. He was out. Then I made my way to a great manager’s office in Bishopsgate Street; he had not arrived. Then I made my way to the great doctor in Manchester Square. I have a liver; it had gone wrong, and I knew, such is my experience of the doctor, that he would set it right in the twinkling of an eye. Alas! the doctor had gone out, and that meant running up there again the next day, and that meant my not being able to hear Henry Melvill’s Golden Lecture; a thing on which, in the country, I had set my heart. However, I had a little consolation in reserve. An editor in Paternoster Row owed me a small sum of money. All the years I had known him I had never found him absent from his post. I would call on him, and he would give me a cheque. I did call, and he had gone down to Bournemouth for a week. Close by was another friend, the chairman of a well-known literary club that dine together every Friday evening. I had never dined with them, though repeatedly invited. I would be in town on Friday, and I would spend the evening dining with the club. It is rather dull work sitting in the smoking-room of a hotel of a night. Accordingly, I called on my friend to inform him of my intention to accept his proffered hospitality, and you can imagine my disappointment when the doorkeeper at my friend’s place of business informed me that he was at Folkestone. In my disappointment, I wrote to an old friend living on the Brighton Parade, that I would run down the next day in time for dinner, and pass the night under his hospitable roof. There was much we had to say to each other, as he was a retired Colonial, with whom I wished to talk over Colonial affairs. As soon as the train had arrived at London-super-Mare, I made my way joyfully to his house, feeling sure of a hearty welcome. All the blinds were suspiciously drawn down. After ringing the bell twice an aged housekeeper came to the door; the family had gone to town for the season. I turned away to a hotel, where the accommodation was moderate; but fortunately the charge was the same. On the Friday, back to town with an empty purse, I made my way to an office where I knew I could get the needful. Alas! the gentleman I wanted to see was out. For the first time in his life, I believe, Mr. W. was away—gone to the Handel Festival.’
‘Well, you seem to have been rather unfortunate.’
‘And oh, the terrors of that night! I could not get a wink of sleep. The room was so sultry and confined. I opened the window, and then the noise of cabs at all hours kept me awake. Then I got nervous, and wondered what I should do in case of a fire; and sleep that night was out of the question; in fact, I’ve been wonderfully seedy all the time I have been in town. But I have more to say if you care to listen.’
‘Pray proceed,’ said Wentworth. ‘I am all attention.’