John and Betty's History Visit

“Now,” said Mrs. Pitt, “there is a little confession which I feel that I ought to make. It’s about where we are going to-day. Probably most people would blame me for not taking you to Windsor or Hampton Court, on your first trip out of town. Both those places are charming, but I wanted to show you, first of all, this dear little corner of Kent. All tourists flock to Windsor and Hampton Court, but a great many do not know about this tiny, out-of-the-way village, with which I fell in love years ago. Penshurst Place was the home of Sir Philip Sidney, and is still owned by a member of the same family. You know that Sir Philip lived in Queen Elizabeth’s time, and that his name stands for the model of a perfect courtier and ideal gentleman. He died when he was very young—only thirty-two, I think—and he did very little which you would suppose could have made him so famous. That is, it was little in comparison with what Raleigh and Drake accomplished, and yet the name of Sidney ranks with all the rest. It seems to have been more in the way he did things, than in what he did. Of course, you remember the story of his death,—that when he was dying, he passed a cup of water which was brought him, to another dying soldier, saying, ‘Thy need is greater than mine.’ Well, to-day we shall see where he was born and bred,—where Ben Jonson, Edmund Spenser, and Queen Elizabeth all visited.”

They were now riding through Kent, in which county is some of the most picturesque English scenery. Although it was only the last of April, the grass was the freshest green, the great trees were in full leaf, and primroses were beginning to spring up in the fields. They sped through little villages of thatched-roofed cottages, each with its tiny garden of gay flowers. There were little crooked lanes, bordered by high hedges, and wide, shady roads, with tall, stately elms on either side, and fields where sheep grazed.

“Oh, there’s a cottage which looks like Anne Hathaway’s!” exclaimed Betty. “It couldn’t be, could it? Anyway, it’s real story-book country!”

They left the train at the little station of Penshurst, two miles from the village. Behind the building stood a queer, side-seated wagon, with one stout horse. The driver, when Philip found him, seemed loath to bestir himself, but was finally persuaded to drive them to the castle.

Penshurst village proved to be even prettier than those they had seen from the train. The Lord of Penshurst Place is a very wise, appreciative man, and he has made a rule that when any cottage in the village is found to be beyond repair, it shall be replaced by a new house exactly like the original. In consequence, the houses look equally old and equally attractive, with their roofs of grayish thatch, and the second stories leaning protectingly over the lower windows, overgrown with rose-vines.

Mrs. Pitt went into the tiny post-office to buy their tickets of admission to the castle, and when she called out that there were also pretty post-cards to be had, the others quickly followed. Having chosen their cards, they all walked through the little church-yard, with its ancient yew trees, and out into a field from which they could see Penshurst Place itself.

“Why! isn’t it a huge place!” cried Barbara. “This is just as new to Philip and me, you know, Betty, for we have never been here, either.”

“How charmingly situated it is!” exclaimed Mrs. Pitt enthusiastically. “Just a glance at it would tell you that it was never a strong fortress. Like Raby Castle, another favorite of mine, I believe that Penshurst never stood a siege. But it is so stately and graceful, standing in the center of these perfect lawns and groups of noble old trees! It is a beautiful contrast to the many fortress-castles! This seems to speak of peace, happiness, and safety.”

The castle covers a great deal of ground, and is low and square, with here and there a turret. A terrace, or broad walk, runs the length of the front of the building, where the moat formerly was, and the party crossed this to reach the entrance-way. His Lordship came out just then, with his dog, and glanced kindly at the eager young people. Continuing, they crossed a square court, and came to a second gateway, where a servant met them and conducted them into the old-time Baronial-hall, dating from the fourteenth century.

“This,” announced the guide with tremendous pride, “we believe to be the only banquet-hall now remaining in England, where the ancient fireplace in the center of the room still exists. You’ll see many fine halls, but you’ll not see another such fireplace.”

John went up to investigate, and found that right in the middle of the vast room was a high hearth, on which some logs were piled. “But how——?” he was asking, when the guide’s explanations flowed on once more:

“Yes, the smoke went out through a little hole in the roof. This hall has never been restored, you see. That’s the best thing about it, most people think, lady. Here’s the oak paneling, turned gray with age; there, up on the wall, are the original grotesque figures, carved in wood; here, are two of the old tables, as old as the hall; and there’s the musicians’ gallery, at that end, over the entrance.”

Mrs. Pitt was leaning against one of the massive tables, with her eyes partly closed. “Let’s just imagine the grand feasts which have been held here,” she mused. “I can almost see the Lord and Lady, dressed in purple and scarlet, sitting with their guests at a table across this end of the room. A board stretches down the length of the hall, and here sit the inferiors and retainers. A long procession of servants is winding always around the tables, bearing great roasts, birds, pasties, and all sorts of goodies, on huge platters, high above their heads. Up in the gallery here, the musicians are playing loudly and gayly, and even when they cease the guests do not lack for entertainment, for the fool, in his dress of rainbow colors, is continually saying witty things and propounding funny riddles. In such a place much elegance and ceremony were the necessary accompaniments of a grand feast. In a book giving instructions for the serving of the Royal table, is this direction, which always interested me: ‘First set forth mustard with brawn; take your knife in your hand, and cut the brawn in the dish, as it lieth, and lay on your Sovereign’s trencher, and see that there be mustard.’ As you see, they were exceedingly fond of mustard. Richard Tarleton, an actor of Queen Elizabeth’s time, who was much at Court as jester, is reported as having called mustard ‘a witty scold meeting another scold.’”

The guide was growing impatient, and Mrs. Pitt ceased, saying reluctantly, “Well, I suppose we must go on.”

A servant rang a bell, and soon, down some stairs came a dear little old lady dressed in stiff black silk, with white apron and cap, and mitts on her hands. She escorted the party up the stairs, into her domain.

“Wouldn’t you just know to look at her that she had been in the family all her life?” whispered Barbara to Betty.

First they saw the Ball-room, a stately apartment in which hang three very valuable chandeliers, which Queen Elizabeth gave to Sir Henry Sidney. The next room is still called “Queen Elizabeth’s Room,” for here that Queen slept when upon a visit to the house. The same furniture which she used is still in place, as well as some tapestries made in honor of the visit, by Lady Sidney.

“If Queen Elizabeth slept in that bed,” remarked Betty, “she couldn’t have been very tall.”

Their guide, taking this as criticism of one of her beloved treasures, was quick to say:

“It only looks short, because it’s so uncommon wide, begging your pardon, Miss.”

“Did that stool belong to anybody?” questioned Barbara, tactfully changing the subject. “It looks as if it has a history.”

“And it has, Miss; that stool was used by the late Queen Victoria (God bless her!), at her coronation at Westminster Abbey!” and the loyal old lady patted the black velvet stool respectfully.

The rooms and corridors of the old house are crowded with things of interest. Sir Philip’s helmet is there, and a bit of his shaving-glass. In a small room called the “Pages’ Closet,” are preserved rare specimens of china—Queen Elizabeth’s dessert-set, in green, and Queen Anne’s breakfast-set, in blue and white. Betty and Barbara were deeply interested in Mary Stuart’s jewel-case, and they laughed over a very curious old painting which shows Queen Elizabeth dancing. The long picture-gallery is lined with portraits—most of them Sidneys—and among them those of the mother of Sir Philip, and of his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, for whom he wrote his “Arcadia.”

When they again passed through the Ball-room on their way out, they were shown a little square window on one of the walls, which they had not noticed before.

“Why! I can see down into the Banquet-hall!” exclaimed Philip, who had climbed up to look through.

“Yes,” said their guide, “in the olden times, the master at the ball could look through there to see how the servants were behaving, down in the hall below.”

Out on the lawn again, they lingered for a few minutes while Mrs. Pitt reminded them that there is every reason to believe that under those very trees Spenser wrote his “Shepherd’s Calendar.”

Reluctantly they left the castle and walked back to the carriage, which awaited them in the village.

“If all English castles are as beautiful as Penshurst Place,” declared Betty earnestly, “I can’t go back to America until I have seen every one!”

CHAPTER FIVE

When they reached the entrance, they saw John admiring a group of these “fellows,” who stood just inside the gate. In reality, they are old soldiers who have served the King well, and are therefore allowed to be the keepers and guides of the Tower. They bear the strange name of “beefeaters” (a word grown from the French “buffetiers”), and are very picturesque in their gorgeous scarlet uniforms, covered with gilt trimmings and many badges, a style of costume which these custodians have worn ever since the time of Henry VIII, and which was designed by the painter, Holbein.

Any one may pay sixpence for a ticket which entitles him to wander about the precincts of the Tower, and to see the “Crown Jewels,” and the armory, but Mrs. Pitt, being more ambitious for her young friends, had obtained a permit from the Governor of the Tower. This she presented to the “beefeater” who stood by the first gateway, after they had crossed the great empty moat. The old man stepped to a tiny door behind him, opened it, disclosing a small, winding stair, and called “Warder! Party, please!”

A venerable “beefeater” with white hair and beard came in answer to the summons, and bowing politely to the party, immediately started off with them. They set out along a little, narrow, paved street, lined by ancient buildings or high walls.

“They do say h’as ’ow the Princess Elizabeth, afterwards Queen, was h’imprisoned in that room, up there,” stated the guide, pointing to a small window in a wall on their left. “By Queen Mary’s h’orders she was brought in through the Traitor’s Gate, there. That was a great disgrace, you know, Miss,” he said to Betty, “for h’all the State prisoners entered by there, and few of them h’ever again left the Tower.”

Before them some steps led down to a little paved court, and beyond, under a building, they saw the terrible Traitor’s Gate,—a low, gloomy arch, with great wooden doors. The water formerly came through the arch and up to the steps, at which the unfortunate prisoners were landed. As the Princess Elizabeth stepped from the boat, she cried, “Here landeth as true a subject, being a prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs; and before Thee, O God, I speak it!”

“Isn’t there a proverb, ‘A loyal heart may be landed at Traitor’s Gate’?” questioned Mrs. Pitt; and turning to the guide she added, “Wasn’t it right here where we are standing that Margaret Roper caught sight of her father, Sir Thomas More, after his trial?” As the guide nodded his assent, she went on, “You all remember Sir Thomas More, of course,—the great and noble man whom Henry VIII beheaded because he would not swear allegiance to the King as head of the Church in England. In those days, an ax was always carried in the boat with the prisoner, on his return to the Tower, after the trial. If the head of the ax was turned toward the victim, it was a sign that he was condemned. It was here, as I said, that Margaret Roper stood with the crowd, eagerly watching for the first glimpse of her beloved father; and when he came near and she saw the position of the ax, she broke away from the soldiers, and flung herself into her father’s arms. The two were so devoted that their story has always seemed an especially pathetic one to me. I suppose there were many like it, however.”

“Indeed there were, lady,” returned the guide, quite moved.

Just opposite Traitor’s Gate is the Bloody Tower, the most picturesque bit of the entire fortress. The old portcullis there is known as the only one in England which is still fit for use. At the side is an ancient and rusty iron ring, which attracted John’s attention so much that he asked about it.

“Boatmen coming through the Traitor’s Gate yonder, used to tie their boats to that ring,” the “beefeater” told them. “That shows you ’ow much farther h’up the water came in those days. H’in a room over the gateway of the Bloody Tower there, the Duke of Clarence, h’according to some, drowned himself in a butt of Malmsey wine; and in h’an adjoining room, they say that the little Princes were murdered by h’order of their uncle, the powerful Duke of Gloucester, who stole their right to the throne. Right ’ere, at the foot of these steps, is where ’e ’urriedly buried them, h’after ’is men ’ad smothered them.”

The children stood gazing at the little window over the gateway, their eyes big with horror. It did not seem as though such terrible things could have been done there in that little room, into which the sun now poured through the tiny window.

Every night at eleven o’clock, the warder on guard at the Bloody Tower challenges the Chief Warder, who passes bearing the keys. Each time this conversation follows:—

“Who goes there?”

“Keys.”

“Whose keys?”

“King Edward VII’s keys.”

“Advance King Edward VII’s keys, and all’s well.”

Not until then, may the keys in the Chief Warder’s care be allowed to pass on.

Some steps just beyond lead into the Wakefield Tower, where the “Crown Jewels” are now kept. The “beefeater” remained below, but Mrs. Pitt took the young people up into the little round room where the splendid crowns and other jewels are seen, behind iron bars. After examining minutely the objects on view, while leaning just as far as possible over the rail, John burst out with:

“Just look at those huge salt-cellars!” pointing to several very large gold ones. “I should say that the English must be about as fond of salt as they are of mustard, to have wanted those great things! Oh, I don’t care for these!” he added. “They are stupid, I think! Imagine being King Edward, and owning such elegant crowns, scepters, and things, and then letting them stay way down here at the Tower, where he can’t get at them! What’s the use of having them, I’d like to know! Oh, come on! I’ve seen enough of these!”

“Wait just a minute, John,” interrupted Betty. “See! here’s Queen Victoria’s crown, and in it is the ruby that belonged to the Black Prince, and which Henry V wore in his helmet at Agincourt! Just think!” with a sigh. “Now I’ll go.”

“Speaking of crowns,” observed Mrs. Pitt, in passing down the stairs, “have you ever heard about the large emerald which George III wore in his crown, at his coronation? During the ceremony, it fell out, and superstitious people regarded it as a bad omen. Their fears were realized when that sovereign lost something much dearer to him than any jewel: his American Colonies.”

The previously-mentioned White Tower stands in the center of all the other surrounding buildings. It is large and square, with turrets at the four corners,—an ideal old fortress. As they approached, the guide took out some keys and unlocked a door, starting down some steps into the darkness. “Oh, the dungeons!” gasped Betty, and she and Barbara shivered a little, as they followed.

Just at the foot they halted, and the guide showed them some round holes in the floor.

“’Ere’s where they fastened down the rack. This ’ere’s the Torture Chamber. You may think that being so near the entrance, the cries of the victims could be ’eard by the people outside, lady, but these walls are so thick that there was no possible chance of that. Ah, down in these parts is where we still see things, ladies!”

“Why, what do you mean?” whispered John, dreading and yet longing to hear.

Thus encouraged, their guide continued:—

“Once h’every month, it is my turn to watch down ’ere, during the night. Some of us don’t like to admit it, lady, but we h’all dread that! Many things which ’ave never been written down in ’istory, ’ave ’appened in these ’ere passages and cells! Ah, there are figures glide around ’ere in the dead o’ night, and many’s the times I’ve ’eard screams, way in the distance, as though somebody was being ’urt! Now, this way, please, and I’ll show you Guy Fawkes’s cell,—’im h’as was the originator of the Gunpowder Plot, and tried to blow up the ’ouses of Parliament.”

They felt their way along the uneven floors, and peered into the darkness of Guy Fawkes’s cell, which was called “Little Ease.”

“Just imagine having to stay long in there!” sighed Betty. “Not able to stand up, lie down, or even sit up straight! Did they make it that way on purpose, do you think?”

“They certainly did, Miss,” declared the guide. “They tried to make ’im confess ’o ’ad associated with ’im in the plot; but ’e wouldn’t, and they finally put ’im on the rack, poor man! A terrible thing was that rack!”

“Let’s come away now,” broke in Mrs. Pitt quickly. “I really think we have all had about enough of this, and there are more cheerful things to be seen above.”

So they threaded their way out to the entrance again, getting whiffs of damp, disagreeable air from several dark dungeons, and passing through a number of great apartments stacked with guns. It was a relief to gain the main part of the building, where other people were, and plenty of warmth and sunlight. Their spirits rose, and they laughed and joked while climbing the narrow, spiral stairs.

The large room in which they found themselves was filled with weapons also, and various relics of the old Tower. It was used as the great Banqueting-hall when the Tower was the Royal Palace, as well as the fortress, the State prison, the Mint, the Armory, and the Record Office. The apartment above this was the Council Chamber. They went up.

“It was here that Richard II gave up his crown to Henry of Bolingbroke who became Henry IV, by demand of the people,” said Mrs. Pitt. “Richard was a weak, cruel king, you remember, and was confined in a distant castle, where he was finally murdered. Suppose we examine some of this armor now. This suit here belonged to Queen Elizabeth’s favorite, the Earl of Leicester. Notice the initials R. D., which stand for his name, Robert Dudley. This here was made for Charles I when he was a boy; and that belonged to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk; and this, to Henry VIII himself. Aren’t they interesting? Yes, what’s that you have found, Barbara?”

The two boys were absorbed in the armor for some time, but Barbara and Betty liked a figure on horseback, which represents Queen Elizabeth as she looked when she rode out in state. It is strangely realistic, for the figure is dressed in a gown of the period said to have belonged to that Queen.

“Do you suppose that jewels were sewn into the dress where those round holes are?” asked Betty, gently touching the faded velvet with one finger.

They all examined the dreadful instruments of torture, some of them taken from the Armada, and the ghastly headsman’s block and mask, and then they descended the winding stairs again and went into the little shadowy St. John’s Chapel, on the floor with the Banqueting-hall.

“I want you all to remember that this is called the ‘most perfect Norman chapel in England,’” began Mrs. Pitt. “Some day when you have learned more about architecture, that will mean a great deal to you. These heavy circular pillars and the horseshoe arches show the ancient Norman style. It’s a quaint place, isn’t it? Here Brackenbury, the Lieutenant of the Tower, was praying one evening when the order came to him to murder the two little Princes. In this chapel, the Duke of Northumberland, the aged father of Lady Jane Grey, heard Mass before he went out to execution. ‘Bloody Mary’ came here to attend service upon the death of her brother, Edward VI. Somewhere on the same floor of this tower, John Baliol, the Scotch King, was imprisoned and lived for some time in great state. There is (at any rate, there was) a secret passage between this chapel and the Royal Apartments. I have read so much about the dreadful conspirators who skulked about the Tower, and the fearful deeds that were done here, that I can almost see a man in armor, with drawn sword, lurking behind one of these pillars!”

Some soldiers in their gay uniforms were parading on Tower Green when they went out again, and the scene was a merry, bright one.

“How different from the days when the scaffold stood under those trees!” exclaimed Mrs. Pitt, as they approached the fatal spot. “Here perished Lady Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, Katharine Howard, and Queen Elizabeth’s unfortunate favorite, the Earl of Essex. Most of the victims were beheaded just outside, on Tower Hill. Now, we’ll look into St. Peter’s Chapel.”

It is a gloomy, unattractive enough little chapel, but there are buried here many illustrious men and women, whose lives were unjustly taken by those in power. Here lie the queens who suffered at the Tower, and, strangely enough, their tombs are mostly unmarked. John Fisher, the ancient Bishop of Rochester, lies here, and Guildford Dudley, husband to Lady Jane Grey, the Earl of Arundel, Sir Thomas More, and many others whose names are forever famous.

Our party visited the little room in the Beauchamp Tower, which so many examine with intense interest. Many people were imprisoned there, and the walls are literally covered with signatures, verses, coats-of-arms, crests, and various devices cut into the stone by the captives. Perhaps the most famous is the simple word “JANE,” said to have been done by her husband, Guildford Dudley. A secret passage has been discovered extending around this chamber, and probably spies were stationed there to watch the prisoners and listen to what they said.

“That’s the Brick Tower,” said Mrs. Pitt, pointing to it with her umbrella, as she spoke. “There’s where Lady Jane Grey was imprisoned, and there Sir Walter Raleigh lived during his first stay at the Tower. It was when he was in the Beauchamp Tower, however, that he burnt part of his ‘History of the World,’ the work of many years. It happened in a curious way! Do you know the story? He was at his window one morning and witnessed a certain scene which took place in the court beneath. Later, he talked with a friend who had been a nearer spectator of this identical scene, and they disagreed entirely as to what passed. Raleigh was very peculiarly affected by this little incident. He reasoned that if he could be so much mistaken about something which had happened under his very eyes, how much more mistaken must he be about things which occurred centuries before he was born. The consequence was that he threw the second volume of his manuscript into the fire, and calmly watched it burn. Think of the loss to us! Poor Raleigh! He was finally beheaded, and I should think he would have welcomed it, after so many dreary years of imprisonment. He is buried in St. Margaret’s Church, beside Westminster Abbey, you know.”

“Was there a real palace in the Tower?” inquired Betty, while they retraced their steps under the Bloody Tower and back toward the entrance. “Isn’t there any of it remaining?”

“Yes, there was a palace here once, for royalty lived in the Tower through the reign of James I. No part of it now exists, however. It stood over beyond the White Tower, in a part which visitors are not now allowed to see.”

On a hill just outside the Tower, in the center of a large, barren square, is a little inclosed park with trees and shrubbery. Here stood the scaffold where almost all of the executions were held. The place is now green and fruitful, but it is said that on the site of the scaffold within the Tower, grass cannot be made to grow.

As they walked toward a station of the “Tube,” an underground railway, John suddenly heaved a great sigh of relief and exclaimed:

“Well, I tell you what! I’ve learned heaps, but I don’t want to hear anything more about executions for a few days! What do you all say?”

CHAPTER SIX

John thought that his sister was not opening the bundles quite fast enough, so he pounced upon one and unwrapped it for her.

“This long thing is father’s gift, Betty. It’s an umbrella, of course, and a fine one! Here’s a card which says, ‘Knowing that two umbrellas could never be amiss in England, I send this.’ Do you suppose he guessed that you’d lost yours?”

After the bundles were all opened, the letters hurriedly devoured, and Betty had at last settled down to eating her cold breakfast, Mrs. Pitt said:

“I had not decided exactly what we would do to-day, and now I think I’ll let the birthday girl plan. Where will you go, Betty?”

After due consideration, Betty announced that she would choose to visit St. Paul’s Cathedral, and afterwards, by way of contrast, to have lunch at the Cheshire Cheese.

“What in the world’s that?” inquired John.

Mrs. Pitt laughed. “You’ll see, for we’ll go there, as Betty suggests, when we have seen St. Paul’s. I’m not sure whether you’ll care to have lunch there, but we’ll look in, at any rate. It’s rather different from the places where you are accustomed to take your lunch! No, you must wait, John! I’m not going to tell you any more about it!”

“What a beautiful day!” Betty cried, taking her seat on the bus a little later. “I do wish it wouldn’t always be so windy, though! I almost lost my hat then!”

“As you stay longer in London, you’ll notice that a really clear day is almost always a very windy one as well. We Londoners have to accept the two together,” Mrs. Pitt told the visitors.

Leaving Trafalgar Square, the bus carried them by Charing Cross Station, in front of which is a copy of the old Charing Cross. Edward I, when his queen, Eleanor of Castile, died, put up many crosses in her memory, each one marking a spot where her body was set down during its journey to Westminster Abbey for burial. A little farther along, the bus passed the odd little church of St. Mary-le-Strand, which is on an “island” in the middle of that wide street and its great busy, hurrying traffic. It is good to remember that on that very spot, the maypole once stood. Narrow side streets lead off the Strand, and looking down them one may see the river, and understand why the street was so named. It originally ran along by the bank of the Thames, and the splendid houses of the nobles lined the way.

“These fine stone buildings on our left are the new Law Courts, and the griffin in the center of the street marks the position of old Temple Bar. There! We’ve passed it, and now we are in Fleet Street. Temple Bar was the entrance to the ‘City,’ you know. To this day the King cannot proceed into the ‘City’ without being first received at Temple Bar, by the Lord Mayor. At one time, the city of London comprised a small area (two and a quarter miles from end to end), and was inclosed by walls and entered by gates. Originally there were but four gates,—Aldgate, Aldersgate, Ludgate, and Bridgegate. Think what a small city it was then! It is curious to know that in spite of that, there were then one hundred and three churches in London. The real center of life for centuries was at ‘Chepe,’ or Cheapside, as it is now called. You’ll see it later.”

Betty had been looking eagerly, even while she listened to what Mrs. Pitt was saying. Her eyes now rested upon an old church, over the door of which stood a queer, blackened statue of a queen.

“The church is St. Dunstan’s,” responded Mrs. Pitt again. “That old statue of Queen Elizabeth is one of the few things which escaped the great fire in the reign of Charles II. The figure once stood on the ancient Lud Gate of the city. They say that it was in the church-yard of St. Dunstan’s that John Milton sold his wonderful poem of ‘Paradise Lost’ for five pounds.”

“Let’s see,—that would be twenty-five dollars, wouldn’t it? I haven’t your English money clear in my mind yet,” John confided to Philip. “I can’t somehow feel that it’s real money unless it’s in dollars and cents.”

Philip soon pointed to a little alley-way on their left, and said, “The Cheshire Cheese is in a little court back of there. You can’t think how many buildings, courts, and alleys are hidden in behind all of these shops. Some of the old inns, or coffee-houses, which were famous are (or were) there. Now, here’s Ludgate Hill, and in a minute you’ll have a view of St. Paul’s.”

St. Paul’s Cathedral stands on a hill, and because of its position and huge dome it is the most conspicuous of London’s landmarks. But, because of the closely surrounding buildings, it is much hidden from near view. As the bus mounted Ludgate Hill, having passed under the railroad-bridge, they suddenly saw the tremendous cathedral looming up before them.

They paused for a moment by the statue of Queen Anne, in front of the main entrance, while Mrs. Pitt, following her delightful habit, reminded them of certain notable facts.

“No one knows exactly how long there has been a church upon this site,” she began, beckoning them closer to her, as the noise of the traffic was so great, “but Bede, the oldest historian, says that a chapel was built here by a Saxon king, before the time of the Romans. When Sir Christopher Wren, the architect, built this present edifice, after the great fire of 1666, he found relics of three periods,—the Saxon, the British, and the Roman. St. Paul’s has been burned five times. The last fire (the one of which I just spoke) destroyed the church which we know as ‘old St. Paul’s.’ Now, let’s go in, for there is much to be seen.”

Next to St. Peter’s at Rome, St. Paul’s in London is the largest church, in the world. The first impression a person gets is one of great vastness and bareness, for, unlike Westminster Abbey, here one does not encounter at every step famous statues, memorials, and graves. The nave is tremendous in width and in length. Chapels open from both sides, but they seem far off and shadowy. Way in the distance is the choir, the altar, and the group of chairs used at services. Everything is quiet, empty, and bare.

“I never imagined such a huge church!” said Betty, much impressed. “I feel lost and cold, somehow. What are you thinking, Mrs. Pitt? I’m sure we’d all like to hear.”

“I was just picturing, as I always do when I come here, the scenes the nave of old St. Paul’s presented in Henry VIII’s time. Would you like to hear? Well, in the sixteenth century, this nave was called ‘Paul’s Walke,’ and it was a place of business. Yes,” she assured them, as John and Betty exclaimed, “down these aisles were booths where merchants of all kinds sold their wares. Counters were built around the pillars, and even the font was used by the vendors. Pack-horses laden with merchandise streamed always in and out, and crowds of people elbowed their way about, shouting and gesticulating excitedly.”

“But didn’t they have any services at all in St. Paul’s Cathedral?” asked Betty wonderingly.

“Oh, yes!” continued Mrs. Pitt, “the services went on just the same. The people were used to the noise and confusion. Here came the tailors to look at the fine new clothes which the young dandies wore when they took their morning promenades. All the latest books and poems were always to be found on sale here. Bishop Earle wrote ‘Paul’s Walke—you may cal—the lesser Ile of Great Brittaine. The noyse in it is like that of Bees, in strange hummings, or buzze, mixt of walking, tongues, and feet; it is a kind of still roare, or loud whisper.’

“I am glad to be able to say, however,” she continued, “that before that dreadful period, there was a time when the cathedral was not so dishonored. Once these walls were covered with valuable shrines, pictures, and tapestries, and costly jewels glittered everywhere. There was one huge emerald which was said to cure diseases of the eyes. Here came John Wycliffe, the great reformer, at the summons of the Archbishop of Canterbury, to answer for the publication of his new doctrines. Here, Henry of Bolingbroke prayed for his successful seizure of the throne, and here he also wept over the grave of his father, John of Gaunt. Sir Philip Sidney was buried here, and his father-in-law, Sir Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth’s secretary; and there was a magnificent monument to Sir Christopher Hatton, Lord Chancellor, but these were all destroyed by the Great Fire.”

About the aisles and nave are many monuments to great soldiers, sailors, painters, statesmen, literary men, and others. Most of them are very ugly, and our party did not linger long over these. After walking under the dome, and looking up into its tremendous heights, they went down into the crypt, which is really the most interesting part of the cathedral.

The crypt is vast, dark, and gloomy. Other parties may be heard walking about and talking in the distance, without being seen, and their voices echo strangely. In the “Painters’ Corner,” Sir Joshua Reynolds, West, Lawrence, Landseer, and Turner, all famous artists, lie buried beneath the pavement. Sir Christopher Wren, surrounded by members of his family, lies under the dome, as was his wish. Lord Nelson and the Duke of Wellington both have splendid tombs there.

“These are all we now have of the monuments of the old cathedral,” remarked Mrs. Pitt, pointing to where in a corner some mutilated figures, heads, and broken monuments lay, all in a heap.

John was delighted when it was proposed to climb up into the dome, and to test the “Whispering Gallery,” on the way. It seemed an endless climb up the spiral stairs, and Mrs. Pitt, Barbara, and Betty lagged behind. When they finally came out into the great round gallery, the two boys were over on the opposite side. Betty, after waving to them, sat down on a bench against the wall, and suddenly she heard John’s voice, saying “Glad to see you at last!” She put her lips to the wall and whispering an answer, found that John could hear her, too. They were having quite a lengthy conversation, holding first their lips to the wall to speak, and then their ears to listen, when Mrs. Pitt interrupted them.

“That’s great fun, but we have still a hard climb before us,” she reminded them. “I think we had better go on.”

The remainder of the way was much more difficult, as the steps were steeper and narrower than ever, but they at last emerged on the little platform, running around the top of the dome.

“My, what a view!” they cried.

“Yes, you’re the first visitors in many a day who could see so far,” the man in charge told them.

If the terrible black smoke which comes from the hundreds of chimneys, and the fog permit one to see it all, the view is truly fine. It is especially interesting to trace the river in its various curves, and to pick out the many bridges which span it. Another striking feature is the immense number of spires. The guide pointed out the churches to them, and also the different parts of the city.

“If you thought it was windy on the bus, Betty, I wonder what you call this,” exclaimed Barbara, grasping her hat with both hands. “I’m going down now.”

The others were quite ready to follow, and they wound their way down, down, down, until they stood again on the main floor, under the dome.

“This is called St. Paul’s Church-yard,” said Mrs. Pitt, leading the way around back of the cathedral. “This used to be a very busy place. St. Paul’s School was here, within the yard, as well as many shops. The first printer who produced books for children had his shop in this corner. In the days when the interior of the building was put to such dreadful uses, the outside was treated quite as badly. Shops of all kinds were built up against the cathedral, and sometimes the noise which the carpenters made greatly disturbed those at the service within. It must have been shocking indeed! It is said that for a very small sum, the sexton would allow boys to climb up and ring the bells as much as they liked; and, on the day of Queen Mary’s coronation, she saw a Dutchman standing on the weather-vane, waving a flag.”

“My! I’d like to have seen that!” cried John, to whom such gymnastic feats appealed.

While they walked back to the Cheshire Cheese, Mrs. Pitt explained to them what St. Paul’s Cathedral once comprised.

“In the London of the Middle Ages, the Church ruled supreme,” she told them. “At least one-fourth of the entire city was owned by the churches and the religious houses. To carry on the monasteries and churches, a tremendous number of people were necessary. At St. Paul’s, in 1450, there were: