John and Betty's History Visit

As they had already walked a good deal that day, Mrs. Pitt found a carriage, and they drove to Trinity Church and the Shakespeare Memorial. On the way, the driver pointed out the home of Marie Corelli, the writer. It is an attractive, square house, which presents a very gay appearance, with a box of bright flowers on every window-ledge.

Trinity Church stands close beside the picturesque Avon. The waters flow gently against the rushes, making a soft music, and the breeze just stirs the leaves of the tall trees which keep guard over the graves in the church-yard. One feels something of the peace and quiet of Stoke Poges, but here the presence,—or, rather, the memory—of the great Shakespeare hovers over all, and every one hastens inside to see the tomb.

The church is ancient—in part dating from the twelfth century—and it contains many interesting monuments, but somehow the whole seems like one huge memorial to Shakespeare. On the floor, at one side of the chancel, is the slab which marks the Poet’s grave, and which bears the famous epitaph, said to have been written by himself:

On the wall above the tomb is the monument,—a bust of Shakespeare, on which the original colors have recently been restored. Nearby are buried Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare’s wife, his daughter, Susanna Hall, and her husband, and other members of the family.

For some minutes our party stood quietly looking over the altar-rail at the grave and its inscription, but finally, the arrival of some loud-voiced, laughing tourists, who conscientiously made fun of everything they saw, caused them to turn away.

Mrs. Pitt then called their attention to some of the stained-glass windows. “Two of them were given by Americans,” she said. “This one here pictures the Seven Ages of Man, which Shakespeare describes in ‘As You Like It,’ Do you see? Now come to the back of the church and look at the parish register, which contains the record of the baptism and burial of Shakespeare. Here it is.”

A glass case holds this precious relic, and by studying carefully the quaint old writing, the words “Shakespeare” and the dates can be traced.

“Think how fortunate that this register was preserved!” exclaimed Mrs. Pitt, leaning over to examine it again. “Important records of births, marriages, and deaths, as well as notable events, were always kept in these books, and yet the people generally did not consider them of much value. The parchment leaves were often torn out and used to rebind schoolbooks, or to line a housewife’s cooking-utensils! Fancy! Some vergers, however, recognized the great worth of these books and preserved them with care. Luckily the men of this church were of that type.”

Here the modern verger, in his flowing black gown, accosted them, and urged them to buy some of the Shakespeare Post-cards, at a shilling each. Having purchased several, and posted them then and there to various friends, they left the church and walked down the lovely path, shaded by arching lime-trees. They then drove to the Shakespeare Memorial, which also stands near the river.

This large, irregular building of red brick and stone, with its one high tower, was erected in 1879. In it is a theatre where plays are given every spring, on the anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth, as well as at certain other times. The children were amused at seeing a rehearsal in progress on the stage.

“How absurd Lady Macbeth does look strutting about and clasping her hands, dressed in that black skirt, shirt-waist, and sailor hat!” Betty laughed.

In this Memorial Building are many photographs and paintings of celebrated actors and actresses in Shakespearean rôles, as well as a very fine library. There is so much to be seen here—so much detail—that our friends only took a very hasty look about, and then went up into the tower to see the view. Stretched out below them, the quaint little town of Stratford and the lovely green meadows through which the Avon flows, made a very effective picture!

It was now late afternoon, and the sun was getting lower and lower. They did not feel like doing any more real sight-seeing, yet it was still too delightful out-of-doors to return to the hotel, so Mrs. Pitt, who always had some fascinating plan ready, suggested that they walk through the Weir Brake.

“What’s that, Mother? You never took us there!” exclaimed Barbara.

“Didn’t I? Well, I’ll show it to you, and I am sure you will like it, too,” their mother promised. “Come on! We’ll cross this little foot-bridge, and go along the opposite bank.”

The view of Holy Trinity Church from across the river is very charming. The luxuriant foliage almost hides it except for the old gray spire, which rises most gracefully above the tree-tops. They strolled happily along over the rough field, Betty stopping sometimes to gather a few attractive blossoms to add to her bunch of wildflowers. The light was wonderfully soft and lovely, and the sun had gone down only to leave behind it a sky glorious in its tints of pink and lavender, with the deep blue still remaining above.

“Now, we’re coming to the Weir Brake!” announced Mrs. Pitt triumphantly. “Take care, Barbara! Don’t trip over that stump!”

They followed their guide over a stile, across a field where the smell of new-mown hay was sweet, through some bars, and finally along a narrow, rough path on a steep bank close to the Avon. This was the beginning of the Weir Brake, where Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway may perhaps have done their courting, as Mrs. Pitt suggested.

The Avon is narrow at this point, and flows rather swiftly. The sunset sky was reflected in its waters, which were overshadowed by willow trees, rushes, and ferns. On the bank was a tangle of underbrush and wild flowers, and above, the great trees,—the elms, of which Shakespeare so often speaks. As they rambled on and on, the trees seemed to grow larger, and more and more gnarled and picturesque.

“Oh! Can’t you just see Titania and Oberon and all the other fairies dancing here and playing games about these trees! It looks exactly like a stage-setting for ‘As You Like It’ or ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream,’” exclaimed Betty, who was fascinated with what she saw. The evening was just dark enough to produce a weird but beautiful effect of shadows under the elm trees.

“I’m rejoiced that it appeals to you so, Betty!” cried Mrs. Pitt. “That’s just as I always feel! It seems as though you could actually touch spots of which Shakespeare must have been thinking when he wrote certain passages. And it is a fact that he did often have this or similar places in mind; for, although the scene of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ was supposed to be in Greece, Shakespeare allowed his characters and his entire background to be as absolutely English as he was himself. You know that in olden times, the Forest of Arden covered much of Warwickshire; even these old trees with which we are now surrounded, are remnants of that splendid woodland which is so familiar to us through Shakespeare. It was surely in just such a scene that Titania and the other fairies danced, and where Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and the rest came to practice their play,—those so-called Athenians, who were so exactly like Stratford tradesmen of Shakespeare’s day. Certainly it was under just such trees that Hermia, and Helena, Lysander, and Demetrius wandered!

“And see there where those branches touch the water,” she soon continued; “might not that have been the very place where poor Ophelia lost her life? Listen!

Isn’t that a perfect description of this very spot? And then:

Just see the violets all about us here! There are the ‘pale cowslips,’ too! Do you see? Oh, it’s wonderful,—wonderful to find so many of the very flowers which Shakespeare loved and talked of so much!—the daisy, the musk-rose and woodbine! There’s some right by your foot, Betty. But come, come, we really must go now! We’ll go back by the field above, where it is not so steep and dark. Come, John!”

So they hurriedly retraced their steps toward the town. In skirting the fields on the hill-top, they once had to pick their way with some difficulty through holes in bristling hedges, and Mrs. Pitt and the girls were forced to run away from a buck, but these were little incidents to which they were all quite equal, and they arrived at the Red Horse Hotel, nothing daunted, just as the dinner-gong sounded loudly.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Washington Irving’s armchair is there, and the old poker with which he is said to have tended the fire. On the walls hang the pictures of a number of actors and actresses who have played Shakespearean parts. Except for these, the room differs very little from the rest of the inn. About nine-thirty, the children started up to bed, Betty, enthusiastic at the prospect of a high four-poster, which “you really have to run and give a jump to get into.” She and Barbara did not stay long awake to enjoy it, however, for it seemed as though their heads had hardly touched the pillows before the maid was calling them, and the bright sun was pouring in at the windows.

Very early they set out to walk “across the fields to Anne.” The little village of Shottery, where stands the cottage known all the world over as “Anne Hathaway’s,” is only about a mile distant from Stratford, and our party gayly took the path through the fields,—perhaps the very one over which Shakespeare trod when he was Anne’s lover. This led them first past the “back-yards” of Stratford, then over a stile and through the green meadows, where daisies and cowslips abound. As they went along, Mrs. Pitt repeated to them the following little verse from Shakespeare’s “Winter’s Tale”:

The boys learned this, and half-chanted, half-sang it over and over while they all kept time to the rhythm.

“There’s Shottery, I guess!” Betty called, interrupting the singers, as she caught sight of a pretty little group of thatched-roofed cottages. “It seems a very short ‘mile-a,’ doesn’t it!”

Anne Hathaway’s cottage is even more picturesque than its neighbors, or does this only seem so because of the associations which it has for all? Every one knows the picture of the cottage. One end stands close to the country road, and in front of it, behind a green hedge, is the garden. Growing on the cottage walls are at least half a dozen different kinds of roses, as well as honeysuckle and jasmine, which clamber way up and mingle with the heavy thatch. The old casement-windows with their thick panes of glass were swung open to let in the morning’s fresh air. A young girl dressed in pink and carrying a broom, appeared on the doorstep as Philip opened the gate. She was evidently rather surprised to see such early visitors, but she said they might go in. While Mrs. Pitt paused to speak with her, Betty, who had already rushed inside, called out: “Here’s the old settle! I know it from its pictures!”

Sure enough, there it was, close beside the great fireplace,—we hope just where it has always been ever since Anne Hathaway and Shakespeare sat there together.

“But, Mother, is that really the same bench, and did Anne truly live here?” questioned the all too matter-of-fact Barbara.

“My dear daughter,” began Mrs. Pitt, feigning great severity; “banish that thought immediately! Just for one little hour we are going to know that Anne did live here,—that Will said ‘Will you?’ and Anne said ‘I will,’ right on this very bench. I quite refuse to listen to any doubts on the subject for to-day! You write our names in the book, please, Philip. I’m going to rest myself here in Anne’s rocking-chair!”

The girl with the broom looked at her visitor in a puzzled way, and began,—“But, lady, I brought that chair here with me only——” But Mrs. Pitt quickly interrupted her, asking some trifling question. Her illusions were not to be disturbed, it seemed, and the girl beat a retreat.

“Well, Mother,” said Philip, “you aren’t the only one who has ever believed in the house! Here in this old Visitors’ Book are the names of Dickens, Longfellow, Holmes, General Grant, Edwin Booth, Mary Anderson, and——”

“Never mind the rest, Phil; if General Grant said so, it’s true! He knew what he was talking about!” And so John settled the question.

A flag-stone floor is all this little room can boast of, and a low ceiling of huge timbers, but it has an air of homelikeness and cosy comfort, nevertheless. At the windows are flowers which nod to their cousins out in the garden; some gray knitting usually lies on the table; and there is the huge fireplace with all its cranes, different hooks, pots and kettles; and the crowning glory of all, the old oak settle, upon which every visitor religiously seats himself.

“Isn’t there any upstairs?” demanded John, before many minutes.

“Oh, yes! May we go up, please?” Mrs. Pitt asked of the attendant. “Yes, thank you; I know the way, and I’ll be careful.”

So they climbed the rickety stairs, and saw a little bedroom under the eaves, in which stands an old, very forlorn-looking “four-poster.”

“I’m so glad that tiresome, truthful person let us come up alone,” said Mrs. Pitt, panting. “If she had come, too, I could not have explained that this was Anne’s bedroom. She used to sit by this window and dream about Will, and watch for his coming, too. She——”

“Don’t spoil it all, Mother,” pleaded Barbara. “Perhaps it really was her room!”

“And didn’t I just say as much?” her mother laughed. “But seriously! This room never appealed to me as does the one below. Anne couldn’t have been very comfortable up here. If she was tall, she could hardly have stood up straight because of the slanting roof.”

So laughingly, they went downstairs and toward the patch of bright yellow sun-flowers in the farthest corner of the garden. The young girl followed them. “Shall I point out the different flowers?” she timidly inquired.

They were duly shown the “rosemary for remembrance,” the “pansies for thoughts,” and a great many others of Shakespeare’s loved flowers. The view of the cottage from the group of tall sun-flowers is most charming. There is surely nothing in the world more picturesque than a thatched-roof.

Arrived once again at the Red Horse, they all packed up their belongings, and Mrs. Pitt went over to the station with a boy, who wheeled the luggage. When the suit-cases were duly labeled “Leamington,” and the station-master had received his tip of a shilling, to insure his remembering them, Mrs. Pitt returned to the hotel, where she found five bicycles lined up. At sight of her, the rest came running out. “This is great!” cried John, already astride one of the bicycles, and impatient for the start.

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Pitt, much pleased by the enthusiasm. “I thought this would be rather better than driving out to Charlecote and back, and then taking the train to Leamington. I know the roads, and am delighted at riding once more! I had my divided-skirt with me, you see, in case of this very emergency. You girls will manage somehow; your skirts are fairly short.” This was to Barbara and Betty, and then they were off.

The ride of about four miles to Charlecote seemed all too short, for, as Betty expressed it, “the roads are so smooth and level that I can’t stop. My wheel just goes of itself!” They first came in sight of Charlecote Park, where there are still great numbers of deer. As the party passed, the graceful creatures rose from the tall grass, making an extremely pretty picture. They tried in vain to coax them to the fence.

“Deer in Shakespeare’s time must have been tamer, or he couldn’t have stolen one,” observed John knowingly.

“Isn’t the ‘Tumble-down Stile’ near here, Mother?” Barbara questioned.

“Yes, it’s just beyond this turn in the road. There it is now! So long as we are believing all we see to-day, I feel quite justified in telling you that when the youthful Shakespeare was escaping with his deer on his shoulders, he fled by way of this stile. Touch that top rail, John, and see what will happen. No, this end of the rail!”

As John put his hand on the place which Mrs. Pitt designated, that end gave way and hit the three other rails, so that they also bent down to the ground. John was much amused, and repeated the motion again and again.

“Did Shakespeare fall over that stile when he was trying to climb it with the deer, and did they catch him then?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes, that’s the story, and, of course, we know it is true! Now, come this way to the gatehouse. I was able to get permission, through an influential friend, to take you inside. I am so glad, for not every one has such good fortune. This woodland,” motioning to the fine old oaks, as they sped along, “is also a part of the ancient Forest of Arden. That wood was so dense in this county in the thirteenth century, that the King ordered the Constable of Warwickshire to cut down six acres in breadth between Warwick and Coventry, to insure the greater safety of travelers.”

They were now getting distant glimpses of the fine Elizabethan residence itself. It was built in 1558, the year of Elizabeth’s accession to the throne, and was made in the general shape of the letter E, in honor of that Queen. The color of the ancient bricks has been softened and beautified by the hand of Time, which has also caused heavy vines to grow upon, and in certain places, almost to cover the walls. The different courts, gateways, and gables, are therefore most picturesque. The present owner, a descendant of the Sir Thomas Lucy whom Shakespeare knew and ridiculed, permits visitors (the privileged few) to see the Great Hall and the library.

The former is the most interesting of all the apartments, for here one stands in the very room where Shakespeare is said to have been questioned by the pompous Sir Thomas Lucy, after the deer-stealing episode. This lofty hall has a slight modern atmosphere about it now, but the dark paneling, bits of really old glass in the windows, and, above all, the bust of Shakespeare, recall the past very vividly to mind.

Most historians admit that there is some truth in the story that Shakespeare came into unpleasant contact with the Lord of Charlecote, through a more or less serious boyish prank; but not all believe that there can be any truth in the statement that he was brought into the Great Hall by the forester who caught up with him at the “Tumble-down Stile.” It may be, however, that Shakespeare was later on friendly terms with the Lucy family, and so it is possible that he was then entertained in the hall.

“You know,” remarked Mrs. Pitt, “that the disgrace of that affair with Sir Thomas Lucy is thought to have caused Shakespeare to leave his native town and go to seek his fortune in far-away London. Therefore the prank is said by some to have been a most important, though seemingly trivial event in the Poet’s life. Shakespeare’s revenge upon the owner of lovely Charlecote came later, when he very plainly described Sir Thomas in his plays, under the name of ‘Justice Shallow.’”

Another room at Charlecote is very attractive,—that is, the old library. There is preserved some wonderful inlaid furniture which tradition describes as a gift from Queen Elizabeth to Leicester, and which consequently would once have found a place at Kenilworth Castle. A very charming view of the lawn sloping gently down to the river is seen from the library windows.

Within the precincts of Charlecote is a beautiful church which was erected by Mrs. Henry Spenser Lucy, in 1852, upon the site of an ancient chapel. Here there are huge tombs in memory of three Lucys, and also an interesting monument to the wife of Sir Thomas, with its tribute to her lovely character, supposed to have been written by Shakespeare’s “Justice Shallow” himself, who seems at least to have been a devoted husband. This last-mentioned monument was originally a part of the older edifice, of course.

It was now about noon, and they were feeling rather hungry, so at a short distance from Charlecote they selected an inviting place by the roadside, and there they unpacked the lunch which Mrs. Pitt had brought. How good it did taste! They all thoroughly enjoyed the picnic, and when a scarlet automobile went rushing past them, the ladies’ veils fluttering in the breeze, Betty merely remarked:—“An auto’s lovely, of course, but to-day I’d rather have a bicycle. It seems more appropriate, somehow.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Pitt responded. “When you are in such a beautiful county as this, and want to see it well, a bicycle is best. And then, I think it is more respectful to Shakespeare to go through his beloved haunts at a fairly leisurely pace. I imagine that he never would have understood how any one could care so little for Warwickshire as to go whirling and jiggling along through it in a motor, at thirty miles an hour.”

Betty had absent-mindedly picked a daisy from the tall grass in which she was sitting, and was pulling off its petals, reciting the little verse about:

“Oh, dear! It’s thief!” she cried, making up a wry face. “I’d rather have any one than that!”

“Try the other verses,” suggested Barbara, entering into the fun.

“What others?” asked Betty in much surprise. “I didn’t know there were any more.”

“Dear me, yes,” Mrs. Pitt broke in. “I used to know several of them myself,—the one about the house:

and about the conveyances:

Wasn’t there one more, Barbara? Oh, yes, about the dress materials:

“Well, well!” exclaimed Betty. “I never heard those. They must be just English.”

“Perhaps so. At any rate, when I was a little girl, I used to say them, and believe in them, too. I lived here in Warwickshire, in my childhood, you know; my father was rector of a tiny village not far from Coventry. There are ever so many queer old rhymes, verses, and customs still common among Warwickshire children.”

“Tell Betty about some of them, Mother,” Barbara urged. “I’m sure that she’d like to hear, and we don’t need to start on just yet.”

Mrs. Pitt leaned thoughtfully against the lowered bars, at the entrance to a field. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said; but she soon added, “There was the ‘Wishing Tree.’ I remember that.”

“What was it?” the two girls eagerly questioned. John and Philip, privately considering this talk “silly stuff,” had retired to the farther side of a hay-rick, where they were whittling industriously.

“The ‘Wishing Tree’ was a large elm that stood in the park of a neighboring nobleman’s estate. To all the girls of the village, it was a favorite spot, and we used to steal through the hedge and very cautiously approach the tree. If the cross old gardener happened to see us he’d come limping in our direction as fast as his lame legs could carry him, calling out angrily that if we did not ‘shog off right away, he’d set his ten commandments in our faces.’ That’s an odd expression, isn’t it? It’s very, very old,—so old that Shakespeare was familiar with it and used it in one of his plays—‘King Henry VI,’ I think. The gardener meant that he would scratch us with his ten fingers—but he wouldn’t have, for he was too kind-hearted in spite of his threats. He was a queer man, with a brown, wrinkled old face. I can see him just as though it were yesterday.”

“What was that you said?” asked Betty. “‘Shog off!’ What does it mean?”

“Simply Warwickshire for ‘Go away,’” was Mrs. Pitt’s careless answer. Her thoughts had gone back to her childhood.

“You forgot to tell us what the ‘Wishing Tree’ was for,” Betty timidly suggested, fearful of interrupting her reminiscences.

“Why, so I did! We would tiptoe all alone up to the tree, and if, under its wide branches, we made a wish, we thought it was sure to come true. There was another curious old game of finding out how many years we were to live, by a ball. We would bounce it upon the hard ground, and catching it again and again in our hands, would chant all the while:

If that had proved true, I shouldn’t be here to-day to tell of it, for I was never very skillful with the ball, and could only catch it ten or fifteen times at the most.”

Mrs. Pitt laughed. “There is so much of ancient folk-lore here in Warwickshire,” she went on. “I remember that the old country people always crossed themselves or said some charm for a protection, when one lone magpie flew over their heads. That meant bad luck, for the verses said:

Why, what is it, Barbara?”

Barbara had jumped to her feet, and was wildly waving her arms about her head. “It’s only a bee,” she said, rather ashamed. “I don’t like them quite so near.”

It was delightful to ride along on this “rare day in June,” through the fair county of Warwickshire,—the “Heart of England.” If they were just a bit uncomfortably warm on the hill-top where the sun beat down upon the fields and open road, they were soon again in the beautiful woodland, where the cool air refreshed them, or passing through the street of some remote village, shaded by giant elms. In each little hamlet, as well as the row of peaceful thatched cottages, with smoke curling upwards from their chimneys, there was the ancient vine-covered church, with perhaps a Norman tower, where the rooks found a home, and the gray old rectory close at hand.

When Betty asked if it was in a church “like this” that Mrs. Pitt’s father preached, and if her former home resembled the particular rectory they then chanced to be passing, Mrs. Pitt replied, “Yes, my home was somewhat like this one. All English country churches and rectories look very much alike,—that is, almost all are vine-covered, and very old and quaint—yet, I think each has its own very distinct individuality, too.”

Mrs. Pitt, of course, wanted some tea, so about four o’clock they stopped at a clean little cottage, near a stretch of woodland. Mrs. Pitt herself dismounted and stepped up to the door, which stood hospitably open. A little flaxen-haired child ran out curiously at the sound of the knock, and then, frightened, scampered away to call her mother. That good woman, in her neat black dress and stiffly-starched white apron, at once understood the situation.

“You just seat yourselves there under the trees,” she ordered them, “and I’ll bring right out a shive off a loaf of bread, and a tot o’ tea for each of you.”

The young people looked puzzled at this speech, but Mrs. Pitt smilingly led the way to the place their hostess designated. In a surprisingly short time the woman brought out a table (having scorned the assistance of the two boys), spread it with an immaculately clean cloth, and set thereon a very tempting loaf of brown bread and a pot of steaming tea. There was also jam, of course. While they enjoyed their meal, she stood by, her hands on her hips, and a radiant smile upon her face at the praises of her guests. Every few moments the little girl would peep out from behind the cottage, and once she almost came up to the group under the trees; but her mother, when she spied her, sent her hastily back, saying by way of an apology:—“She’s all swatched, but she’s only my reckling, you must know.” As they rode away into the woods, the good woman stood in the middle of the road waving her table-cloth for good-by.

“Wasn’t she a dandy!” John burst out. “Couldn’t understand what she said, though! Might just as well have been Greek!”

“She certainly did have some old Warwickshire expressions!” laughed Mrs. Pitt. “I don’t know when I’ve heard that word ‘reckling.’ It simply means her youngest child, who she said was all ‘swatched.’ That signifies being untidy, but I am sure I couldn’t see the tiniest spot of dirt anywhere upon the child.”

Betty was rather glad when they at last jumped off their bicycles at the hotel in Leamington.

“I guess I’m not used to quite such long rides as you,” she said. “It has been beautiful, though, and I wouldn’t have come by train for anything. I just love Warwickshire, and everything about it, especially the language, which I mean to learn while I am here.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At this very dismal burst of feeling from John, Mrs. Pitt came to the rescue, suggesting a game of billiards. John brightened very considerably after this, and the remainder of the day was pleasantly spent in writing letters, playing games, and reading aloud from Scott’s “Kenilworth,” in preparation for the morrow’s visit to that castle.

“Just think of seeing the very spot in the garden where Queen Elizabeth met Amy Robsart! And perhaps the same room where she slept. Oh, I can hardly wait till morning!” sighed Betty rapturously. “Kenilworth” had long been one of her favorite books.

At bedtime Mrs. Pitt, inwardly rather uncertain about the prospects of the weather, was outwardly most cheerful with her assurance that she “felt sure it would be fine in the morning.”

Mrs. Pitt was “usually right about things,” as the children had long since discovered, and this proved no exception to the rule. The sun shone brightly on the morrow, and the whole country-side looked as though it had been washed and cleaned so as to appear at its loveliest for the visitors.

The drive through Leamington revealed a very pretty watering-place, with baths, parks, gay streets of shops, and many neat little private villas, each being dignified by a name.

“How do they ever find names enough to go around?” Betty thought to herself.

They soon left the town behind, and a short drive along the perfectly smooth, wide, country road, brought them to the well-known bridge over the Avon, and revealed the fact that the river had not lost a bit of its beauty since they left it at the Weir Brake. It is from this bridge that the famous view of Warwick Castle is to be had, and a more charming picture cannot well be imagined. Just at a bend of the river, the great gray front looms up, long and straight, the turrets here and there giving it a most formidable air of old-time majesty and strength.

Leaving the carriage at the castle entrance, Mrs. Pitt led the way up the narrow walk, bounded by high walls of rock, to which the damp moss clings and over which flowers and trailing vines hang. Finally they passed under an old gateway with a portcullis, and found themselves in the inner court-yard of the castle, which is almost round in shape. Old towers or buildings very nearly surround this court, and in the center is a wonderfully smooth grass-plot, which is sometimes used as a tennis-court. Several stately peacocks strutted about displaying their magnificent feathers. They were very tame, and almost allowed Betty to come near enough to touch them. She was delighted when the largest most obligingly dropped a gorgeous feather at her very feet.

“For a souvenir!” she exclaimed, as she picked it up. “How dear of him! I like peacocks even if they are proud! I would be, if I lived here! They know how important they are, and that this garden wouldn’t be complete without them.”

“Do you see that high mound?” asked Mrs. Pitt, pointing to the northern end of the court. “There Æthelflæd, the daughter of Alfred the Great, is supposed to have built a castle, and thus the history of Warwick may be said to have commenced in 914. Just fancy! Since that day, many great families have been in possession here (De Newburghs, Beauchamps, Nevilles, Plantagenets),—from traditional Guy of Warwick to ‘Warwick the King-maker,’ and all along the line to the Greville family, which has owned it since 1759. ‘Warwick the King-maker,’ or Richard Neville, was the famous baron who possessed such wonderful power in England that he could make and unmake kings at his will. It was he who captured poor, weak Edward IV, and brought him here as a prisoner. Of Guy of Warwick, the great warrior and hero, I shall tell you more when we are at Guy’s Cliff, where he lived. He is really more associated with that place than this. You will see here, however, what is known as ‘Guy’s Porridge Pot.’ It is an interesting old vessel, very large and made of metal. Most probably it had nothing whatever to do with the great Guy; some authorities consider, because of the existence of this little rhyme, that it belonged to a certain Sir John Talbot, who died about 1365.

But let’s go over to that door by which we enter. There comes a guide with his party; perhaps we can go in with them.”

They found the interior of Warwick Castle very delightful, and in a perfect state of preservation, for the family of the present Earl occupy it often. The ever-present Great Hall is here more grand and lofty than that of Charlecote, though it has not the appearance of as great antiquity as the one at beautiful Penshurst Place. Its walls are lined with old suits of armor, but, nevertheless, the room is furnished with comfortable easy-chairs, as the family, when in residence, use this as their living-room. Among the collection of armor is the helmet of Oliver Cromwell, and a whole miniature suit of mail which was once worn by the little dwarfed son of Robert Dudley, the famous Earl of Leicester. In a great bay-window, overlooking the Avon, stands the huge caldron of Guy of Warwick. Strangely enough, an exquisite Elizabethan saddle of green velvet had found a temporary resting-place in its great depths.

“I think this Cedar Room is very beautiful,” remarked Mrs. Pitt, as they stepped into that apartment. “Do you see that the walls are entirely of cedar wood from floor to ceiling? Isn’t the effect rich, and doesn’t it smell good? Do you notice the fine carving, and the pictures,—some of Van Dyck’s best works? Oh! I must not call your attention to so many things all at once!”

In the Green Drawing-room, the Red Drawing-room, the State Bed-room, and the various other rooms and corridors, are priceless treasures of art; for besides invaluable paintings by the greatest masters, there are here beautiful pieces of furniture, made of tortoise-shell and inlaid with gold or pearl, and ancient marriage-chests, which once belonged to Italian princesses of bygone days. The armory contains one of the most valuable collections in England, and in the State Bed-room are many relics of Queen Anne. One really wearies of so much costliness which it is utterly impossible to appreciate at one visit.

“Haven’t we time to walk in the gardens a little longer?” asked Barbara, wistfully. To her, Nature was nearer and dearer than all the wonders of art and history.

After a ramble through the bewitchingly lovely gardens,—going across ancient drawbridges, spanning long-unused, grass-grown moats; under little postern-gates; into rustic grottoes—they at last came to the conservatory, in which is preserved the “Warwick Vase.” This is made of white marble, carved with various devices.

“It has a curious history,” answered Mrs. Pitt, in reply to the children’s questions. “In 1770, some workmen found it at the bottom of a small lake which is about sixteen miles from Rome. Of course, it is not possible to determine with any certainty how it came to be there, but as Hadrian’s Villa was in A.D. 546 occupied by a king of the Goths, an enemy who was then laying siege to Rome, it has been thought that the vase was cast into the lake, to save it from the hands of the invaders. The second Earl of Warwick was its purchaser.”

Slowly and unwillingly they wended their way back through the gardens, to the central court of the castle, and then out under the old gateway.

“My!” cried John, “it must have taken heaps of soldiers to defend a place like this in the Middle Ages! I wish I’d been here when it was just plumb full of great warriors,—when the moat had water in it, the drawbridge worked, and sentinels called out to you for the password as you came near the gate. I suppose they could peep out at you from those little windows up high, too.” John looked longingly back, as they walked away.

“Oh, yes!” continued Mrs. Pitt, in tones which made the girls shudder. “From those windows they rained shot down upon the enemy. And there are little slits in the wall from which men poured boiling metal or tar upon those besieging the castle. Upon the roof of Guy’s Tower there, it is thought that a huge machine used to stand,—a machine for slinging down great stones. Oh, yes; there were dungeons here, too,—deep, dark, damp, and evil-smelling dungeons, into which many prisoners were thrown. Why, it was from here that Piers Gaveston, the unfortunate favorite courtier of Edward II, was taken out and executed upon a hill close by. Underneath the fine halls where splendid banquets were carried on, out of sight and reach of the fair gardens and lawns, there were always poor prisoners who were shut away from the daylight for years perhaps, and laboriously carving crests or verses in the stone walls, to while away the hours.”

Mrs. Pitt suddenly burst into peals of laughter as she saw the pained expressions upon the faces of the two girls; then a glance at the rapt, enthusiastic attention of John, caused her to become serious again.

“Never mind, girls,” she said gravely. “Such things are now gone forever; people have advanced too far in their ideas to ever permit of more of those unjust acts and horrible punishments. I can never believe that the world isn’t growing daily better! And, boys, it is all very well to love and long for the golden deeds and knightly ideals of the men of mythical King Arthur’s Court, for instance; read about them all you can, and try to imitate them, but never wish back the terrible conditions of warfare and brutality which existed at the time. The kindly thoughts and acts will endure always, but the rest,—never!”

Silently they took their seats in the carriage, and the coachman next drove them to Saint Mary’s Church, which stands in the quaint village of Warwick. Its old tower holds ten bells, and these play every four hours. There is a different tune for each day, which is always changed at midnight. The Warwick towns-people, living near their church, must have an enviable musical education, for they have continually dinned in their ears all sorts of tunes, from the “Easter Hymn” to “The Blue Bells of Scotland.”

On the site of Saint Mary’s, an ancient church is believed to have stood, prior to William the Conqueror. The present edifice, having been much altered and added to by various benefactors, and at very various times, presents a rather confused and not especially pleasing appearance architecturally. All visitors to the town are attracted there, however, by the presence of the Beauchamp Chapel, which contains the tomb of the Earl of Leicester.

Having paid the entrance fee, Mrs. Pitt and her charges were permitted to descend the few steps leading from the church proper into the Beauchamp Chapel. It is very beautiful, and was built in 1443, by William Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who intended it as his memorial. It was once most elaborate with its fine marbles, monuments adorned with precious stones, and the gold statuettes which filled its niches, but these have long since been carried away. The tomb of Ambrose Dudley, who was named the “Good Earl of Warwick,” stands in the center, and against the wall is that of the great Leicester and the Countess, his wife.

“Look here,” called Mrs. Pitt. “Here lies their son, the little boy who wore the armor which you saw over at the castle. The inscription speaks of him as ‘That noble impe, the young Lord Denbigh, their infant son and heir.’ ‘Impe’ in those days had no such meaning of mischievous as we give it to-day. It then simply signified a young boy.”

Betty was much impressed by a small flight of winding stairs, just off the chapel, which are entirely worn down in the middle.

“Was it because so many monks went up there?” she asked.

“Yes, so it is said,” was Mrs. Pitt’s reply. “Perhaps it may have been a kind of confessional, where the monks knelt.”

There was one more thing in the church which they paused to note; that is, the tomb of Fulke Greville, the first Lord Brooke, who was stabbed by a valet, in 1628. Greville was “servant to Queene Elizabeth, conceller to King James, and frend to Sir Philip Sidney,” as the inscription tells us; and it would seem that the greatest emphasis and respect was even then given the fact that he was “frend to” the noble Sir Philip Sidney.

Nearby, the quaint buildings of Leicester’s Hospital still stand. Here was a monastery until the Dissolution, or the breaking up, of all the religious houses, under Henry VIII. When the property came into the hands of Leicester in 1571, he made the house into a hospital for twelve men. The present brethren have all been soldiers of the Crown, who now receive a pension and are spending the remainder of their days in the sunny nooks and corners of the old timbered houses. One of these brethren who showed the party about, was a most curious old character, and afforded the young people no end of amusement. He invariably gave his information in a very loud voice, which was absolutely without expression, and his eyes were kept steadily fixed upon some distant point.

He showed them the ancient hall in which Sir Fulke Greville once received King James, and it seemed to give him the keenest pleasure to describe how that King was “right royally entertained.”

“Oh, ye’re right, lady,” he panted, “the ’ospital was founded by Robert Dudley, Lord Leicester, ’e ’o was much at Elizabeth’s court, h’as you all know. And it’s a descendant h’of ’is, or of ’is sister, as you may say, ’o ’as the right to appoint the master ’ere in this ’ospital to this day. ’E’s Lord D’Lisle and Dudley, of Penshurst Place h’in Kent,—’im as is descended direct from the Lady Mary, sister of Robert Dudley, ’o married Sir ’Enry Sidney. H’its ’e ’o appoints the master h’over us this very day. But as I was saying,—it was ’ere that ’is Majesty King James was right royally h’entertained.”

“Yes,” broke in John, interrupting the rapid flow of expressionless words. “We’ll remember that all right.” Then in an aside to Philip, he whispered: “That’s the ninth time he has said ‘right royally entertained.’ I’m going to keep count.”

Having examined an embroidered curtain, the work of Amy Robsart at Cumnor Hall, the King of Dahomey’s State Execution Sword, which seemed a bit out of place amid the surroundings, and an old battle-ax, supposed to have been used for one side or the other on the Field of Hastings, in 1066, they bade farewell to their guide (who had suddenly ceased his mechanical orations like a clock which has run down), and drove away toward Kenilworth.

Guy’s Cliff next called for attention. It is first seen at the end of a long, stately avenue lined by great trees. At the back of the castle flows a stream, at this point widened out into a miniature lake, on the bank of which stands a very ancient, moss-covered Saxon mill. The castle across the water and the old mill make such very attractive pictures that their vicinity is always frequented by numbers of artists, sitting under their big umbrellas.

As the party stood under the trees by the mill, Mrs. Pitt gathered the young people about her.

“Now, I want to tell you the story of Guy of Warwick, for whom this Guy’s Cliff was called. He lived long, long ago (if he really did live at all), when England had great tracts of unsettled country, where men were afraid to go for fear of horrible monsters. This brave young Guy was a strong warrior, and he became famous because he slew the Dun cow, and other terrible animals which were tormenting the country folk. Guy later went off to the Crusades. These were pilgrimages which devout men made to Jerusalem, in the endeavor to win back that city from the Turks. Guy was gone some time from England—years probably—and when he came back, he lived the life of a hermit, in a cave near here. The story goes that his wife used to carry food to him each day, and that she never recognized him until he was dying and revealed to her his identity.”

Here Mrs. Pitt was forced to pause for breath, and John broke in excitedly, “Oh, let’s go and see the cave! Can’t we?”

“I’m afraid not, John. You see, Guy’s Cliff belongs to Lord Algernon Percy, and the cave is on his private premises. I fear we would not be allowed to visit it,—especially as the family is now in residence at the castle. Did I tell you that Guy and his faithful wife were buried together in the cave?”

After taking lunch at the King’s Arms Hotel at Kenilworth, and seeing the room in which Scott wrote his novel, they proceeded to the castle. The afternoon was warm and sunny, with a blue sky and a summer haze over the landscape,—the kind of afternoon which invites one to day-dreams. Consequently, Mrs. Pitt ensconced herself against the crumbling wall of Cæsar’s Tower, put up her umbrella to keep off the glare of the sun, and sat dreaming over the remains of the once magnificent castle. Meanwhile the young people, accompanied by a guide, climbed all over the ruin. They scrambled up narrow stairs in thick walls, climbed as high as it was safe to go on old towers, and explored the dark chambers and passages near the old Banqueting-hall.

“This tower is supposed to be where Amy Robsart’s lodgings were,” their dignified guide told them, and then he boldly spoiled Betty’s delight, by saying, “It’s queer now how fascinated all visitors are by Amy Robsart. Of course, they’ve read of her in Scott’s novel, but curiously enough, that’s the only part of the tale which is not taken strictly from history. No one really knows whether Amy Robsart ever was at Kenilworth, and at any rate, it doesn’t seem at all likely that she was here at the time of Queen Elizabeth’s famous visit of 1563.”

“O dear!” Betty sighed, really bitterly disappointed. “I always liked the part about Amy best of all, and now it isn’t true at all!”

“Never mind, Miss; there would be plenty of interest attached to the old place, even if Scott had never written of it. Oh, I know it’s a great book, and makes that particular period of Kenilworth’s history remarkably vivid. What I mean is, that the old castle is not dependent on Scott for its grand history and reputation.” He looked above him at the beautiful oriel-windows of the Banqueting-hall, as if he loved every stone there. After a few such speeches, even the children began to notice that he was “different from most guides”; he used most excellent English, was very neatly dressed, had a pleasant, refined face, and seemed to take an especial interest in the young people.

The guide went on in his deep voice. “Kenilworth was built in 1120, by Geoffrey de Clinton, Lord Chamberlain to Henry I. Later, it came into the possession of the great Simon de Montfort, and it then successfully withstood a siege; but it was during the Civil Wars that Cromwell’s soldiers reduced the splendid castle to these almost equally splendid ruins. Of course, it was at the height of its glory when the Earl of Leicester owned it, and Queen Elizabeth came here on a visit. I’m sure you have all read about that famous week,—of all the pageants, feasts, carnivals, and displays of fireworks upon the lake. The lake was there; water covered all those low fields back of the castle. At that time, the main approach was here,” pointing to where a rustic bridge crosses a little ravine. “There was once a large bridge there, and from that entrance the Queen had her first glimpse of the castle where she was to be so magnificently entertained.”

Just then Barbara saw that her mother had risen and was motioning that it was time for them to go. So they reluctantly left the guide, thanking him as Philip handed him his fee. That gentleman (for so he really seemed) doffed his hat most politely, and appeared genuinely sorry to have them go. As Betty turned to take a last look at the old Banqueting-hall, she saw him standing just where they had left him, and a bit wistfully watching them walk away. When they were once again in the carriage and driving toward Coventry, they described the guide to Mrs. Pitt, who showed much interest. Barbara thought that he was a poor scholar or teacher, who was taking that way of earning a little during the summer months; John was sure he was a nobleman in disguise, for some highly romantic, secret reason; Philip could not even imagine who he might be, so great was the mysterious atmosphere about him; but Betty added: “He’s surely a gentleman, and he was such an interesting, polite guide, that I wish they were all like him.”

“Yes, it is curious,” agreed Mrs. Pitt. “I’d like to have been along with you, for I should have enjoyed studying him. I have once or twice before come across just such puzzling characters. I once spent a month at a small hotel down in Devonshire, where there was a head-waiter who always interested me. I decided that he must have a history, and it was proved that I was right when I discovered him a few months later, dining with a lady at one of the most aristocratic hotels in London. I’ll never forget my sensations when I realized why his face was so familiar, and where I had seen it before! That mystery was never explained, and I’m afraid yours never will be.”

They found Coventry a delightful old town. Here it was that so many of the Miracle Plays used to be given in olden times. The “Coventry Plays” were famous, and Mrs. Pitt took the party to the court-yard of Saint Mary’s Hall, where they were wont to be performed; for such entertainments always took place in the open air,—in squares or courts, the stage being rudely constructed upon a wagon, which could be taken from place to place.

At the corner of two streets is an absurd figure of “Peeping Tom,” which recalls the fabled ride of the Lady Godiva, and her sacrifice to procure the freedom of the people of Coventry from unjust taxes.

Coventry streets are very narrow and crooked (Hawthorne once said that they reminded him of Boston’s winding ways), and there are many picturesque houses, their upper stories jutting out over the street. One most charming example of sixteenth century architecture is Ford’s Hospital, a home for forty aged women. The street front is unique in its construction of timbers, gables, and carvings. Inside is an oblong, paved court, overhung by the second story of the building.

“It’s like Leicester’s Hospital at Warwick, only this is really more quaint, isn’t it? The old ladies peeping out from their little rooms are dear! I’m going to make friends with them,” Betty declared, as she disappeared under one of the low doorways. She was soon seen accompanying an old dame on crutches, who was hobbling out to show off her bit of a garden, back of the house.

On the return trip to Leamington, they were rather quiet. Having seen so many famous places, it was natural that they should wish to think them over. The driver approached Leamington by another road than that by which they had left it, and it took them past Stoneleigh Abbey, the country seat of Lord Leigh. It is situated in the midst of woodland, which has been called “the only real bit of old Arden Forest now to be found in Warwickshire.”

“They say that the Abbey is remarkably beautiful,” said Mrs. Pitt, “but I’ve never been fortunate enough to see it at any nearer range. The house is not very old, having been erected in the eighteenth century, but it stands on the site of a Cistercian Abbey, of which one gateway still remains.”

It was late when they reached the hotel at Leamington, and they were forced to hurry in order to be dressed in time for dinner. The gong found them all assembled, however, for such a day of sight-seeing makes one hungry. They all had a good laugh at Betty, for when she was caught in a “brown study,” and Mrs. Pitt asked to hear her thoughts, she replied:

“Oh, I was thinking over what a lovely day it has been,—especially at Kenilworth!” and then added with a sigh, “If I only could know who that guide was, everything would be perfect!”