CHAPTER IV.
LONDON.
IN a couple of hours we were at London Bridge. It was already morning—a cold wintry morn, but not so foggy as usual. We had no luggage to carry, and my purse was nearly empty; and, really, Posela seemed to have nothing, for I had paid his fare and my own, and he seemed utterly to ignore the fact, a point of eccentricity which at another time I should not have quite liked; but which, under the circumstances of my deep debt of gratitude, I could not complain about, so I suggested we should walk to my home in Kensington. As we crossed the bridge he seemed much struck at what he saw; at the crowds and the shipping. He leant over the parapet looking at the Thames.
"This, then, is the greatest city upon earth?"
"Not merely the largest that is, but that ever has been. Not even Imperial Rome was ever as great as London is. It has nearly four millions of population."
"That is truly great. Four millions! That is more than Sweden, or than Denmark, or than Greece!"
"Much more," I replied.
"Do you think it is for the happiness of such a number of people to be living altogether in one city? Have they enough light and air? Is it always smoky here like this?"
We talked on thus as we walked through the City. He showed keen interest in everything, and often varied his questions by sage and thoughtful remarks. His character throughout was very strange; he seemed full of sympathy for human sorrow, and yet he was not dazzled by anything. He seemed curious, and yet when he saw a thing was disappointed, and spoke in a tone of sadness and pity of everything, showing how it might have been better, and ought to have been better than it was. It was, in a sense, disappointing to show our great metropolis to so severe, though, at the same time, so kindly, a critic. He evidently sincerely pitied us, pitied London, pitied England, pitied everything and everybody, and yet, strange to say, he was not conceited, not self-opinionated, not misanthropic. He appeared, however, to look on everything from an exalted standpoint, saw every imperfection, and yet did not rejoice at seeing it. I tried with patriotic zeal to set everything in the best light before my kindly, though mysterious, benefactor, but it was useless. He evidently thought us in England a very unfortunate race of beings, and London a very large, but by no means a grand, city. I remembered his remarks at our first interview, and was sorry to find his expectations of England were disappointed.
We thus came to my home. My father was, I need not say, delighted to see me. I had written from Pontoise, and posted my letter just before leaving; but I had come faster than the post. The family had only heard of me by balloon post some weeks before, and now I was come, most unexpectedly.
"How did you ever get out, my boy? I understood the Prussians would not let any one pass their lines. I suppose you were favoured as an Englishman?"
"By no means. How I got out must remain a secret; in fact, I do not understand it myself. However, all I can say is, that I owe my safety entirely to Dr. Posela, whom I must now present you as my best friend and deliverer."
"Well, sir, I am happy to make your acquaintance, and am too glad to see my son in safety to be too curious to know how you evaded Prussian vigilance. Are you a stranger to England?"
"I was never here," said Posela, "till this morning; and yet I have often looked on England from afar, and wished to be there."
"From Calais, I suppose. One can see the white cliffs of Albion in fine weather there."
Posela made no reply.
The conversation changed. A flood of queries gathered round me. The breakfast-bell sounded, for it was still early, and we went into the breakfast-room. When he had finished his questions to me, my father naturally turned his conversation to our guest, and I noticed at once how much he was impressed with him. On the war he had very little to say, all questions on it appeared disagreeable; but on every other topic he talked well. Still, he was by no means one who wished to lay down the law, or to show his talent. He rather excelled in question than in reply; but his questions showed a naïveté, a thoughtfulness, that was striking. He asked upon almost every topic connected with England—its history, government, politics, statistics, religion, commerce— everything. My father was a man fond of giving his opinion on things, and so he was delighted with his intelligent and thoughtful guest. Some things Posela seemed to have a difficulty in comprehending, especially how there could possibly exist so much misery in such a wealthy land, and how people could differ so on religious topics. The government by parties confused him, as well as the existence of unchecked immorality in our great metropolis. After breakfast we went out to see London, my father accompanying us. We saw as much as we could in that day. Posela took an interest in everything, but was a rapid sightseer. In most things he took in what he saw very quickly, and I thought was rather inclined to hurry. The sight which struck him most was the British Museum, where we stopped some hours, and he here especially took interest in the ornithological department.
In the evening, after our long sight-seeing was done, and I was thoroughly tired (although I had accompanied them to scarcely half the sights), Posela inquired how he could get to America, as he wanted to visit Niagara, and then to proceed to San Francisco. We found that one of the Cunard steamers was to sail in a couple of days, so it was resolved that he should proceed with me to Oxford after another day in London, and thence go to Liverpool to embark.
This programme was carried out. He spent another day's sight-seeing in town, a portion of which he insisted on giving again to the British Museum, where he studied some of the curiosities with keen interest. In the evening we went to a festival service at one of the London churches. It was, he said, the first time he had an opportunity of attending a Church of England service. He had talked to me on religious topics two or three times, and always expressed himself with the utmost reverence. Indeed, he seemed of a highly devotional type of mind, though of what form of Christianity he was I could not tell; he was certainly not an Ultramontane, nor did he seem a foreign Protestant. Once or twice I thought he belonged to the Greek Church, but really of this there was not much evidence.
At the service he behaved with the utmost reverence, and joined in the singing with a rich and wonderfully melodious contralto voice (it was far above a high tenor). He seemed to throw himself utterly into the service, and appeared wrapt in devotion. When it was over, having said my private prayers, I prepared to go, but Posela remained kneeling. I waited and waited. Every one, except the attendants, had left the church, but Posela remained in an attitude of prayer. At last I had to touch him and whisper, "The service is over, and they will want to put the gas out soon."
"Over; and so soon! I thought this was merely the preliminary. How soon men are tired of prayer and praise!"