is to
be seen in Rome in three weeks," was the Pope's comment. He was a good
judge of human nature.

But if we Londoners are no worse than most people we certainly miss more,
for there is no such book of revelation as this which we look at so
differently. I love to walk its streets with those who know its secrets.
Mr. John Burns is such a one. The very stones begin to be eloquent when he
is about. They pour out memories at his invitation as the rock poured out
water at the touch of Moses. The houses tell you who built them and who
lived hi them and where their stone came from. The whole pageant of history
passes before you, and you see the spot where Julius Caesar crossed the
river at Battersea--where else should he cross?--you discover, it may be
for the first time, the exquisite beauty of Waterloo Bridge, and learn what
Canovas said about it. York Gate tells you of the long past when the
Embankment was not, and when great nobles came through that archway to take
the boat for Westminster or the Tower. He makes you dive out of the Strand
to see a beautiful doorway, and out of Fleet Street to admire the Henry
room. Every foot of Whitehall babbles its legends; you see Tyburn as our
forefathers saw it, and George Fox meeting Cromwell there on his return
from Ireland. In Westminster Hall he is at his best. You feel that he knew
Rufus and all the masons who built that glorious fabric. In fact, you
almost feel that he built it himself, so vividly does its story live in his
mind and so strong is his sense of possession.

If I were a Dictator I would make him the Great Showman of London. I would
have him taking us round and inspiring us with something of his own delight
in our astonishing City. We should no longer look upon London then as if it
were a sort of Bradshaw's Guide: we should find it as fascinating as a
fairy tale, as full of human interest as a Canterbury Pilgrimage. We should
never go to Snow Hill without memories of Fagin, or to Eastcheap without
seeing Falstaff swaggering along its pavements. Bread Street would resound
to us with the tread of young Milton, and Southwark with the echoes of
Shakespeare's voice and the jolly laughter of the Pilgrims at the Tabard.
Hogarth would accompany us about Covent Garden, and out of Bolt Court we
should see the lumbering figure of Johnson emerging into his beloved Fleet
Street. We would sit by the fountain in the Temple with Tom Pinch, and take
a wherry to Westminster with Mr