John and Betty's History Visit

These were of the higher rank; there were innumerable others of lower rank, such as the master of the singing-school, the binder, and the translator. The brewer, in 1286, brewed 67,814 gallons, and the baker baked about 40,000 loaves. This gives one a little idea of what it meant to conduct a cathedral in those days of the all-powerful Church.”

Between the poor shops of Fleet Street, open many little passages, and these lead into tiny courts and winding alleys. The entrance to one of them is marked with the sign, “Wine Office Court.” Directly off from this narrow, dark alley stands the famous Cheshire Cheese, the only genuine old-time tavern or “coffee-house” which still exists unchanged. It is a little, low building, with quaint bow-window of square panes.

“Why, we can’t all get in there, can we?” laughed John, as Mrs. Pitt stepped inside. The door is very small, and the hallway was so crowded by curious visitors, and by jostling, pushing waiters, that it did not seem possible for another person to enter. They managed, however, to elbow their way through the crowd into the celebrated “coffee-room” itself.

That “coffee-room” is splendid! The ceiling is very low, and the walls are wainscoted in dark wood. Although the room is so small, there are numerous long tables, and old-fashioned, high-backed settles. One seat, in the corner farthest from the door, is marked with a little tablet, telling us that there was Dr. Johnson’s chosen place. Several pictures of that noted gentleman adorn the walls. It always seems very much out of keeping with the quaintness of the room, to find it full of laughing, chattering Americans. A few quiet English clerks come there for their noon meal, but the majority of the patrons of the Cheshire Cheese are the tourists.

“There’s nothing to do but to wait here until we can get seats,” said Mrs. Pitt; so they all remained standing in the middle of the floor, directly in the path of the waiters, until finally some seats were free, and they slid into one of the long benches which extend down each side of the tables, placed endwise to the wall.

“Are you sorry you proposed coming here?” Mrs. Pitt asked Betty, watching with amusement her crest-fallen face as she saw the soiled linen, and untidy look of the entire table.

“Oh, no,” Betty answered doubtfully, “only I guess people come here more because Dr. Johnson did, than because they like it.”

Mrs. Pitt laughed. “That’s very true,” she said. “The service isn’t exactly prompt, either. We’ve already waited quite fifteen minutes, I am sure. I ordered lark pie and Cheshire cheese for you, of course. Every one takes them on his first visit here.”

The lark pie was Dr. Johnson’s favorite dish, but that fact does not suffice to make it very enjoyable. Betty frankly confessed that she could not manage to eat hers, but John pretended to be very industrious over his, although he did a good deal of looking about the room and commenting upon things he saw.

“There’s even sawdust on the floor,” he announced jubilantly. “Did you ever! My! How hot and stuffy it is here! Were all old inns just like this, Mrs. Pitt?”

“Yes, pretty much so, I think,” was the response. “There were ever so many of them, you know, and each was frequented by a certain class of men. For instance, there was the ‘British Coffee-house,’ where all the Scotch visitors went; there was ‘Robin’s,’ which was noted for its foreign bankers and ambassadors; and there was ‘Dolly’s Chophouse,’ where the wits congregated. Most of the famous clubs held their meetings at one or another of the ‘coffee-houses,’ too. The ‘Spectator Club’ met at ‘Button’s Coffee-house,’ and there the ‘Spectator Papers’ had their beginnings. There Addison, Steele, Pope, and others, spent their leisure hours. Some of the London clubs of the eighteenth century had very queer names!” she continued. “There was the ‘Ugly Club,’ the ‘Quack Club,’ the ‘Beefsteak Club,’ the ‘Split-Farthing Club,’ and the ‘Small Coalmen’s Music Club,’ for example. Here, at the Cheshire Cheese, Goldsmith often came with Dr. Johnson. Can’t you imagine the two sitting over at that table, with Boswell not far away, patiently listening, quill in hand? Dr. Johnson was very careless and untidy, you know, and invariably spilled his soup. It was he who used to walk up and down Fleet Street touching every post he passed!”

All this time they had been waiting for their cheese. When it finally came, it proved to be much better than the lark pie. The cheese is served in little three-cornered tins, and is poured hot over crisp pieces of toast.

When they had finished, they went up the winding stairs to see the room where the famous “Literary Club” used to meet. Dr. Johnson’s chair is preserved there.

“Didn’t Dr. Johnson live near here, too, Mother?” asked Barbara, as they came out again into the court.

“Yes, I believe he lived in both Johnson and Bolt Courts,” Mrs. Pitt told them. “His haunts were all about here. In number six, over there, Goldsmith is said to have written ‘The Vicar of Wakefield.’”

From there, they walked up Fleet Street, discussing their unusual lunch as they went. They had all enjoyed it,—even Betty.

She made them all laugh, however, by announcing seriously, “I’m glad I went, but I think it is just about as nice to read about lunching there, as to really do it. And then, you wouldn’t be quite so hungry afterwards!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Just splendid!” exclaimed John most emphatically. He had turned away from the window now, and was entering earnestly into the conversation. “I just tell you what, Betty, it’s a different thing to peg away at an old, torn history-book at school, and to come over here and see things and places, while Mrs. Pitt tells you about them! Why, I honestly like English history the way we’re learning it now!”

Betty smiled in an elder-sisterly fashion. “Well, I always did like to study history, but it surely makes it nicer and easier to do it this way. But besides that, John, don’t you think it’s queer and very interesting to see the way the English do things—all their customs, I mean. They’re so different from ours! Why, when I first saw Barbara that day at the train, I thought it was the funniest thing that her hair was all hanging loose down her back. I wouldn’t think of being so babyish! I thought perhaps she’d lost off her ribbon maybe, but she’s worn it that way ever since. And her little sailor-hat looks so countrified as she has it,—’way down over her ears!”

“I know it; it seemed mighty funny to me to see Philip’s black suit with the long trousers, his broad collar, and skimpy short coat! It’s what all the boys at the Eton School wear, he says. They must feel like fools! Why, I’d feel like—like—‘Little Lord Fauntleroy’ going around with those clothes on all the time!” John’s voice was full of scorn, yet his eyes twinkled with fun. “But, the high hat, just like father’s opera-hat, which Philip wears, beats it all!” he continued. “I’m so used to it now, though, that I don’t think of it any more. It’s queer how soon you get used to things! It’s just like riding along the streets, and keeping to the left instead of to the right. The first time I rode in a hansom (you weren’t there that day, Betty) and we suddenly turned a corner, keeping close to the left curb, I poked open the little door in the roof and shouted, ‘Hey there! Mister! You’ll bump into something if you don’t look out!’ The driver just stared; he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.”

“Yes,” went on Betty in her turn, “keeping to the left did seem queer at first. You know, John, how often we have wished that Dan and the automobile were over here. Honestly, I think Dan would surely have an accident! He never could remember to keep to the left! Now, we simply must go on with our letters! Begin when I say three! One—two—(hurry, John, you haven’t dipped your pen!), three!” and both commenced to write industriously.

The letters were finally finished just as the tea-bell rang. Betty ran to wash her hands, and then they went down to the library, where tea was served every afternoon that they were at home.

“Why! I quite like tea over here!” Betty remarked. “I never drink it at home! Mother would be so surprised if she saw me! Do all English people drink it every afternoon as you do, Mrs. Pitt?”

“Yes, it seems to go with the English people, somehow. We’d quite as soon think of doing without our breakfast or dinner as our four-o’clock-tea. You’ve noticed, my dear, how I always manage to get my tea at some little shop when we are on one of our sight-seeing tours. Really, I am quite lost without it! Oh! it’s just a habit, of course.” As she spoke, Mrs. Pitt poured herself another cup.

When the tea things had been removed, and a fire was lighted, stories were called for.

“Tell us some of the stories you know about different places and old customs, Mother,” urged Barbara.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Pitt willingly. “Let—me—see! You remember, don’t you, having the guide point out London Bridge to you, from the top of St. Paul’s, day before yesterday? That’s the oldest bridge, you know, for it seems to have existed as long ago as we know anything of London itself. But legend has it that before there was any bridge over the Thames, people crossed in a ferry which was run by a certain John Overs. This man naturally became rich, as very many people were always paying him for taking them across the river, but he was a great miser. The ferryman had one fair daughter about whom he was as miserly as he was with his money,—keeping her shut up out of reach of her lover. One day, John Overs thought he would like to save the cost of providing food for his household, so he pretended to be dead. He expected that his servants would fast in consequence, as was the ancient custom; but so great was their joy when they thought their master dead, that they all began to dance, to make merry together, and to feast upon all they found in the house. The old miser stood this just as long as he could, and then he sprang up to lay hands upon them. The servants fled, believing that it was something supernatural—all except one, who, more daring than the rest, killed his master with his weapon. So old John did die after all, but in an unexpected way.

“Part the second of my story tells of how the monks of a neighboring abbey finally consented to bury the body; when the abbot returned, however, he was very angry at what they had done, and gave the friars some orders. They dug up the body of the poor old boatman, tied it to the back of an ass, and turned the animal loose. The body was finally thrown off at the place of public execution (directly under the gallows), and there it was buried and remained. Meanwhile the daughter, Mary, was having more trouble. Immediately upon the death of her father, she had sent for her lover, but in coming to her, he had been thrown off his horse and killed. This was too much for the unfortunate girl, who decided to retire to a nunnery, leaving her entire fortune to found the church of ‘St. Mary Overy.’ That is the real name of the church now known as Southwark Cathedral, which stands just across London Bridge. Now, how do you like that story?”

“Great!” exclaimed John. “Whoever thought that up had a vivid imagination, all right!”

“Why, don’t you believe it, John?” said Betty, who always took everything most seriously.

When they were quiet again, Mrs. Pitt talked on.

“London Bridge, up to the time of the Great Fire, was crowded with houses, you know, and there was even a chapel there. Over the gate at the Southwark end of the bridge, the heads of traitors were exhibited on the ends of long poles. Here Margaret Roper, whom you met at the Tower, came, bargained for, and at last secured the head of her father, Sir Thomas More. But, to go back to the houses! Hans Holbein, the painter, and John Bunyan, the poet, are both said to have resided on London Bridge. I also like the story which tells of a famous wine merchant, named Master Abel, who had his shop there. Before his door, he set up a sign on which was the picture of a bell, and under it were written the words, ‘Thank God I am Abel.’ Here’s a picture of old London Bridge. Imagine how quaint it must have looked crowded by these picturesque old houses, and with its streets filled with travelers. All those entering London from the south came across that bridge, which was consequently a great thoroughfare. Near the Southwark side of the bridge is where the Tabard Inn stood—the inn from which the Canterbury Pilgrims set out; and near the bank, known as Bankside in those days, was the celebrated Globe Theatre, connected with Shakespeare and his associates. The popular Paris Gardens were there, too, where the sport of bear-baiting was seen in Queen Elizabeth’s time. If we went over there, we could see the former sites of these historic places, but they are now covered by unattractive, modern buildings or great breweries. It’s hard to conjure up the Globe Theatre out of present-day Southwark,” she added with a sigh, as if she were speaking to herself. “Not far from the site of the Tabard Inn, a picturesque, gabled house once stood, in which John Harvard was born. Yes, John, that was the man who founded Harvard College, at your American Cambridge.”

“Yes, and I mean to go there myself some day!” announced John, immediately fired by the familiar name of our oldest university. “My father went, you know.”

Mrs. Pitt and the two girls spent the remainder of the evening in talking over plans for the next day, but John’s thoughts had been turned to college, and so he and Philip had a lively time comparing notes about English and American colleges.

“Where do you mean to go, Philip?” John inquired.

“Oh, to Cambridge, of course! My father, his father, and all my family for generations back have been to Trinity College, Cambridge. That’s the largest college in England, and was founded by Henry VIII. Oh, it’s jolly there! There are old quadrangles around which the men live; there’s a beautiful old chapel, built in the Tudor period; and there’s the dining-hall. That’s grand! Back of the college is the river, the Cam. There’s a lovely garden there, and over the river on which the men go boating, is an old bridge. I had a cousin who lived in the rooms which Byron once occupied. He, Macaulay, Tennyson, Thackeray, Dryden, and many other famous men went there. Oh, it’s the only college for me! I shall be there in three years, I hope!”

“Well, Harvard’s our oldest college. It was founded by your John Harvard almost as soon as Boston itself, and ‘Teddy’ Roosevelt went there! It’s good enough for me! The only trouble is that they can’t seem to beat at football, somehow, and I mean to play and see if I can’t help ’em win. That’s the only trouble with old Harvard, though,” John said, feeling that he must be loyal to his college in this international discussion; “otherwise she’s all right! There’s the Stadium, where all the big games are played, and there’s the Charles River for us to row on. There are loads of fine new buildings, too, and I’d like those better than the old ones. We don’t care who lived in ’em! Oh, the fellows at Harvard have a splendid time!”

Mrs. Pitt had overheard some of this conversation with much amusement, for the ideas and ideals of the two boys were so different, and so very characteristic of each.

“I think you’d enjoy a visit to Cambridge, John,” she said. “We must try to manage it. You’d find one of our colleges very unlike yours in America. Both Oxford and Cambridge Universities are made up of many colleges, you know; at Oxford, there are twenty-two, and at Cambridge, eighteen. Each college has its own buildings, its own professors, its own chapel and dining-hall, and each college is complete in itself, although they all belong to one university. You would think the rules very strict! When the Cambridge men go to chapel, and at other specified times, they are required to wear their gowns and queer little flat caps, called ‘trenchers’ or ‘mortar-boards.’ At Oxford, the gates of each college are closed at nine o’clock every evening; a man may stay out later (even until twelve), if he can give a good reason for it. If he remains out all night, though, he is immediately dismissed. How would you like that?” she laughed, seeing John’s disgusted expression. “There are men called ‘scouts,’ who look after the men’s rooms, and bring them their breakfast. The students are very carefully watched, and if one of them stays away from his meals at the dining-hall more than two or three times a week, the affair is investigated.”

“My! When we go to college in America, we are men, and can look after ourselves!” John drew himself up very straight, and spoke with great dignity. “Cambridge may be older and have more—more—‘associations,’ but I’d rather go to Harvard.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

They could go faster now, and the big touring-car sped over the wonderfully smooth roads at a speed which delighted the young people. The weather was proving a bit uncertain. Every little while, a tiny shower descended upon them out of a blue sky full of great white clouds, the sun shining warm and bright all the while.

“Oh, don’t let’s put up any umbrella,” exclaimed Betty, during one of the showers. “Rain never seems to do any harm in England. You don’t get wet, and never mind it a bit. Truly, I like it, for it’s so pretty to see it raining with the sun out. There! now, it’s stopped again! Just see that lovely rainbow!”

The English country is always beautiful in its individual way, but it is especially so on one of these showery days, when every leaf and flower looks fresher than ever with the rain-drops glistening on it. Now and then, they slowed down while passing through a busy town, where pretty ladies and children in little two-wheeled carts drove about doing the morning marketing. Most of the way, however, lay through country roads bordered by green-hedged fields in which the ever-present sheep grazed; and here and there were high brick walls over which the stately, vine-covered homes were just visible. There were also picturesque little workmen’s cottages at the edge of the wood, and lodges covered with climbing-roses.

It seemed as though they had only been riding a very short time when, upon emerging from a shady road, they drew up at a little gateway. John felt impatient at having to stop, and looked questioningly around at Mrs. Pitt from his place on the front seat. The others were already getting out, he found, and Mrs. Pitt was saying:

“This is Stoke Poges, and I want you to see it, for it’s such a lovely spot. Probably you have all learned in school parts of Gray’s ‘Elegy,’ and very likely you never cared or thought much about the poem. Even if that’s true, you can’t possibly help loving this peaceful, beautiful place, in which it was written.”

They were now walking along a little path which led into the church-yard. A straight gravel walk stretches between the graves, up to the ancient church, which is very small, and has one tower closely covered with ivy. The fine old Saxon porch, and one doorway show great age; but it is in the whole effect rather than in any detail of the little church and its surroundings that the charm lies. One cannot imagine a more quiet, remote spot! On one side is the group of yew-trees which Gray mentions in the poem, and in their shelter are the hoary stones which mark the graves of the “rude forefathers of the hamlet.” Standing there, one almost hesitates to speak above a whisper for fear of arousing something or somebody out of sleep, or of breaking the wonderful spell of the place. Pausing under those trees, and feasting one’s eyes upon the lovely, rural scene, not a sound reaches the ear except the twitter of the birds, and perhaps the faint jingle of a cow-bell. Mrs. Pitt gave a start at the sound of John’s voice, when he suddenly said:

“Let’s go and find Gray’s tomb, Philip; the guidebook says it’s on the other side of the church.”

The rest lingered for just one more look at the little church, with its vines, and the rich, dark-red brick-work of the moss-grown Saxon porch, which the sun touches lovingly as it filters through the heavy leafage of the yew-trees; then they followed Philip and John.

Close to the outer wall of the church is a large tomb in which Gray is buried with his beloved mother. No word on the slab tells that the famous poet is buried within; there is only his mother’s epitaph, which Gray wrote, and in which he speaks of himself as “the only child who had the misfortune to outlive her.”

When Mrs. Pitt came up, John was standing near the tomb with his hat off, saying, “All right, Mr. Gray; I’ll read your poem over again just as soon as ever I get home.”

The bustling, lively scenes of Eton School presented a marked contrast to the quiet of Stoke Poges. Moving about the grounds between the different school-buildings, were dozens of boys all dressed in the regulation Eton suit, such as Philip himself wore. They were laughing, shouting, and playing games, just like other boys, but such actions somehow seemed out of keeping with their quaint costumes. From the automobile John looked down upon them, his eyes full of wonder and surprise.

“I suppose they are real boys,” he said in a puzzled way, “but they don’t look like them.”

While Philip talked with some of his friends, and John lingered near the group, the others visited the beautiful Eton Chapel, and were especially interested in the familiar picture of Sir Galahad, which hangs there. The principal buildings of the school are ranged about two large courts; in the center of the Outer Quadrangle is a bronze statue of Henry VI, the founder of the school. The library is valuable and contains some costly books and manuscripts. Fox, Peel, Chatham, Wellington, and Shelley were Eton boys, and the latter’s autograph may still be seen on one of the desks.

As they left Eton and crossed the bridge over the Thames, they duly admired the magnificent view of Windsor Castle, which may be enjoyed from that point. Above its many roofs and towers stands the great round keep, the oldest part of the castle, having been built by Edward III.

The castle is on a hill in the center of the town, and the quaint, red-roofed houses reach even to its walls. After passing the statue of Queen Victoria, the automobile left the party at the entrance to the castle, through Henry VIII’s gateway, carved with the Tudor Rose. Inside, they joined a party and were shown about by a guide.

They saw so many buildings that John and Betty found it rather bewildering. In thinking it over afterwards, certain objects remained most clearly in their memory.

“St. George’s Chapel is really the most beautiful thing there, of course,” said Betty, as they rode away. “I never saw such carving as there is on the seats—no, stalls—in the choir! Henry VIII, Jane Seymour, and poor Charles I are buried there, too. I like those faded banners and the coats-of-arms which belonged to the Knights of the Garter. The whole place is lovely, I think. There are lots of little chapels off from it, too, like Westminster Abbey; didn’t the guide say that the tomb of Queen Victoria’s father, the Duke of Kent, is there?”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Pitt, “and I hope you haven’t forgotten the Albert Chapel. It adjoins St. George’s, you remember, and we stood in the doorway when our turn came and looked in. It is very old, and is on the site of an ancient chapel of St. Edward, but Queen Victoria made it what it is now, and restored it in honor of her husband, Prince Albert. The interior is truly remarkable for its fine marbles, mosaics, sculptures, stained-glass, and precious stones. I fancy they would not especially appeal to you, however. How did you like the State Apartments? It was fortunate that the Royal Family was not in residence, so that we could be admitted.”

“Well,” began John, “they made us hurry so that I didn’t see very much. That guide drove us along as though we were a flock of sheep! I liked that big room though, where all the portraits of the generals are. They called it the Waterloo Room, didn’t they? Anyway, there were splendid pictures of Wellington, Metternich, Blücher, and lots of other fellows. Did you see the busts of Wellington and Marlborough in one of the other rooms, Philip? There are silk flags which hang over both the busts, and that cross old guide growled out that they are replaced every year on the anniversaries of the two battles;—Wellington gets a new flag on June 18th, because of Waterloo in 1815, and Marlborough gets his on August 13th, on account of the battle of Blenheim in 1704.”

“In that room,” explained Mrs. Pitt, “is where the ‘command’ theatrical performances are held. When the King hears the report of a play which he thinks he would like, he simply commands the company to come to him; and if he happens to be at Windsor, he and the Court witness the play in the Waterloo Chamber. Your American Sousa’s Band played there once. I saw Betty and Barbara lingering before the large picture of Charles I and his family. I am glad you liked it, girls, for that’s an especial delight of mine. Dear little ‘Baby Stuart’ is so lovable! That was in the Van Dyck Room, which contains many of that master’s works. Those State Apartments are only for the use of Royal guests, you understand, when they come on visits. I always wish that we could see the King or Queen’s private rooms, don’t you? It would be so interesting. What’s your favorite part of the castle, Barbara?”

“Oh, I like the terrace better than anything else,” Barbara answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “The view of the valley, with the river and Eton Chapel in the distance, is so pretty! Then, there is something so stately and impressive about the wide, long terrace itself. I once read that it was Queen Elizabeth’s favorite walk, and there couldn’t be a more appropriate place for a queen to choose. I like that gateway with E. R. on it, showing that it was built in Elizabeth’s reign; and it’s fun to look up to the little bay-window which is said to have been her room. Then I like the old Curfew Tower, too,” she added.

“Yes,” broke in Mrs. Pitt. “That’s one of the gloomiest parts of the whole castle, in its history as well as in its aspect. Of course, terrible things happened at Windsor just as they did elsewhere; but although Windsor dates from a very early period, and figures in the reigns of all the sovereigns, its history contains more of the bright and happy than of the tragic. Down in a miserable, windowless cell in the lower part of the Curfew Tower, it is wrongly said that Queen Anne Boleyn was put to spend the night before her execution, as you know, and there still remain in the Tower some fearful instruments of torture. The Horseshoe Cloister near there, is very ancient, and the houses are delightfully mediæval. Did you look in some of the tiny windows as we passed through? It is said that in a small hall there, in the Horseshoe Cloister, Shakespeare’s ‘Merry Wives of Windsor’ was first produced.”

“Who was it that the guide told us was imprisoned near the Round Tower, and who fell in love with a lady whom he saw walking in the gardens? I have forgotten the names.” It was Betty who spoke, for she had been quietly thinking over the visit.

“That was young James of Scotland, whom Henry V caused to be captured in time of truce, and thrown into prison at Windsor, where he remained almost twenty years. The English treated him kindly, however, and he spent his time in studying and watching the lady in the garden, who afterwards became his queen.”

“Oh! But, really, the stables are best of all!” exclaimed Philip, who loved horses like a true Briton. “I do like to go there and be shown about by one of those men in the black suits and yellow vests, and the bright cockades in their silk hats. Once when I was little, one of them let me go into a stall and feed some sugar to a splendid great horse named Black Beauty. I wished I could do it to-day, too! All the carriages which carry the Court ladies are stupid, I think, but the horses and ponies are jolly!” whereupon Philip and John went off into an animated discussion about the horses of the Royal Stables, and how much they envied the men who cared for them.

“Oh, what a sweet little village!” cried Betty, jumping up excitedly, as the automobile slowed down and entered a little narrow lane.

Chalfont St. Giles is an extremely picturesque, old-time village. Its thatched-roofed cottages huddle together in a beautiful green valley, and about the edge of a pond where ducks swim, and happy, barefooted children play. One of the old houses is a place of interest to many, as the great poet, John Milton, lived there after he fled from London at the time of the plague.

The poet’s home is a most primitive cottage with low ceilings, and a little dark room, lighted by one casement window, in which he may have written part of “Paradise Lost.” When standing in that chamber, one is reminded of the well-known picture which shows the blind Milton dictating one of his poems to a daughter. Outside is a delightful old-fashioned garden in which the largest and reddest of poppies grow, and where it is said that Milton loved to linger.

“I wish we needn’t hurry,” sighed Mrs. Pitt, “but I’m afraid we’ll be late to dinner. See, we are short of time already!”

So they quickly took their seats again for the short trip back to town, and drew their wraps about them, as the air had grown chilly. They all felt rather tired, and were silent as they reviewed in mind the history and scenes of Windsor Castle, one of the most beautiful and certainly the most famous of English royal residences.

CHAPTER NINE

“In the days when the Thames was the most used highway of the Londoners, here was probably one of the places where the nobles could step on shore from their luxurious barges.” Mrs. Pitt said this as they were looking down upon the soldier from the street above.

Close up against one side of the Houses of Parliament is Westminster Hall, with its quaint row of supporting buttresses. This ancient edifice was built by William Rufus, the son of the Conqueror himself. Having entered by St. Stephen’s Porch, the usual approach, they went down a few steps at the left into this fine old room. It is empty now, and its vastness is unadorned except by some statues of kings and queens along the sides.

“This hall,” stated Mrs. Pitt, “was first begun by William Rufus, but it has been restored and added to at various times by many of the other sovereigns. It also formed part of the ancient Palace of Westminster. I want you to notice especially the oak roof with its heavy timbers, and unsupported by any columns. It is considered very fine in its construction, and I think it beautiful, as well. Have you the guidebook, Philip? Read to us some of the great events of the hall while we stand here.”

So Philip began. “Well, some of the earliest meetings of Parliament were held here; also, all the kings as far down the line as George IV have celebrated their coronation feasts in this hall. Here Charles I was tried and condemned (there’s a brass in the floor which marks where he stood at the trial), and here Cromwell in royal purple robes was received as Lord Protector. Some of the others who were tried here are William Wallace, the Scotch patriot, Sir Thomas More, Sir Thomas Wyatt, Guy Fawkes, and the Earls of Essex and Strafford. Until very recently the Law Courts adjoined here.”

“Thank you, Philip; now, if you are ready, Betty, we’ll go on and see something more of this great building.”

It gives one a slight idea of the extent of the huge structure to know that therein are one hundred stairways and eleven hundred rooms! Visitors are shown the “King’s Robing-room,” the “Victoria or Royal Gallery,” the “Prince’s Chamber,” and so many rooms and corridors, that it is impossible to remember them all, or even to appreciate them at the time of a visit. Fine wall paintings, statues, and rich decorations of all kinds abound. Both the rooms where sit the House of Peers and the House of Commons, respectively, are magnificent apartments; perhaps the former is rather more splendid in appearance, with its stained-glass windows picturing all the English sovereigns, its frescoes, and throne, with the gilded canopy.

As they finally passed out and started over toward Westminster Abbey, Mrs. Pitt said:

“It was at one of these entrances (perhaps at the very one by which we just left), that a most curious thing happened in 1738. It had just been decided that ladies should no longer be permitted in the galleries of the Houses. Certain noble dames who were most indignant at this new rule, presented themselves in a body at the door. They were, of course, politely refused admission, and having tried every known means of gaining entrance, they remained at the door all day, kicking and pounding from time to time. Finally, one of them thought of the following plan. For some time they stood there in perfect quiet; some one within opened a door to see if they were really gone, whereupon they all rushed in. They remained in the galleries until the ‘House rose,’ laughing and tittering so loudly that Lord Hervey made a great failure of his speech. Wasn’t that absurd? It seems that there were ‘Suffragettes’ long before the twentieth century.”

Arrived at the Poets’ Corner once again, they found that one of the vergers was just about to conduct a party “in behind the scenes,” as Barbara called it. “Behind the scenes” includes the Chapel of Henry VII and that of Edward the Confessor, besides the many smaller ones which surround the choir.

These little irregular chapels are crowded with all sorts of tombs, from those of the long effigy to those of the high canopy. Sometimes a husband and wife are represented on the tomb, their figures either kneeling side by side, or facing each other. Often the sons and daughters of the deceased are shown in quaint little reliefs extending all around the four sides of a monument. The figures are of alabaster or marble, and there are frequently fine brasses on them which bear the inscriptions. It is interesting to remember that the effigy or reclining figure of a Crusader always has the legs crossed.

A flight of black marble steps leads up to Henry VII’s Chapel. Betty thought this reminded her a little of the choir of St. George’s Chapel at Windsor,—and it is true that the two are somewhat similar. To build this memorial to himself, Henry VII tore down another chapel, and also an old house in which the poet Chaucer once lived. The loveliest feature of this chapel is the “fan-tracery” of the ceiling. Its delicacy and grace are very beautiful! There are wonderfully carved oak choir-stalls here also, each having been assigned to a certain Knight of the Order of the Bath, and decorated with the Knight’s armorial bearings. Above each stall is a sword and a banner of faded colors. The tomb of the founder, Henry VII, and of his wife, Elizabeth of York, is in the center of the chapel, and surrounded by a brass screen. George II and several members of his family, Edward VI, Charles II, William and Mary, Queen Anne and her consort, and Cromwell, are all buried near by—most of them having no monuments. In the north aisle of this chapel is the tomb of the great Queen Elizabeth, and just opposite it, in the south aisle, is that of her cousin and enemy, poor Mary Queen of Scots.

Just behind the high altar is the chapel of Edward the Confessor, containing the once splendid, mediæval tomb of that sainted King. Its precious stones have been stolen away now, and the whole is covered by a gorgeous cloth put there at the coronation of Edward VII.

“I’ve seen the tombs of so many kings and queens,” exclaimed John, heaving a sigh, “that I truly can’t take in any more. Why, they’re so thick all around here that you can’t move without bumping into three or four of ’em! There’s Henry V, and overhead the shield and helmet he used at Agincourt; and here’s Edward I, and Richard II, and Edward III, and Queen Eleanor, and Queen Philippa. Who was she? Oh, here’s the old Coronation Chair, isn’t it?” At sight of this, he once more became interested.

This famous old chair was made in the time of Edward I, and every English sovereign since that day has been crowned in it. Underneath the seat of the chair is kept the ancient Stone of Scone, which is said to have been used as a pillow by the patriarch Jacob. Edward I, in 1297, brought the stone from Scotland as a sign of his power over that country, and placed it in the Abbey. King Edward III’s sword and shield-of-state stand beside the chair. There is something about these three objects which makes one stand long before them. They are so ancient—so deeply impressive—and embody so much of English history itself.

In a little room above one of the smaller chapels are found the curious Wax Effigies. These figures made of wax, and of life size, were carried at funerals, and were intended to look like the deceased, and dressed in their clothes. They are very ghastly, robed in their faded, torn garments, as each peers out from its glass-case. Queen Elizabeth, Charles II, William and Mary, Queen Anne, General Monk, William Pitt, and Lord Nelson are among those represented.

Betty stood before the figure of Queen Elizabeth, whose waxen face is pinched and worn, and really most horrible to look at.

“Didn’t she die propped up on the floor in all her State robes?” asked Betty.