This incuriousness is not a peculiarity of Londoners only.  It is a part of that temporising habit that afflicts most of us.  If a thing can be done at any time, then that is just the thing that never gets done.  If my Fleet Street friend knew that the Tower was going to be blown to pieces by a Zeppelin to-morrow he would, I am sure, rush off to see it this afternoon.  But he is conscious that he has a whole lifetime to see it in, and so he will never see it.  We are most of us slackers at the bottom, and need the discipline of a timetable to keep us on the move.  If I could put off writing this article till to-morrow I should easily convince myself that I hadn’t time to write it to-day.

The point is very well expressed in that story of the Pope who received three American visitors in turn.  “How long are you staying?” he said to the first.  “Six months, your Holiness,” was the reply.  “You will be able to see something of Rome in that time,” said the Pope.  The second was staying three months.  “You will see a great deal of Rome in three months,” said the Pope.  The third was only staying three weeks.  “You’ll see all there 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.