John and Betty's History Visit

This adorns the tomb of John and Margaret Whiting, in the north transept.

Some time was passed in this wonderful church,—climbing the tiny, spiral stairs up to the clerestory, and going cautiously along the bit of a walk at this dizzy height above the floor of the church.

It needs time and much study to appreciate this sad old church, which, in spite of its broken pieces of marble, and ruined splendor and perfection of form, still bravely stands,—a lonely and pathetic relic of its grand past. A young person can scarcely understand it at all; it needs a grown man or woman whose experience enables him to read in the crumbling pillars and walls, stories of the times when England was young, the Church was the great glory and power, and there still lived men who were “fair and fortunate.”

In the vicinity of Smithfield are a number of quaint nooks and corners of old London. Many consider that the very best idea of the ancient city may now be had in Cloth Fair and Bartholomew Close, both of which are in this neighborhood. Here are still standing genuine Sixteenth Century houses amid much darkness and dirt.

“Here in Bartholomew Close,” stated Mrs. Pitt, “Benjamin Franklin learned his trade of printing, and Washington Irving, John Milton, and the painter Hogarth, all lived.”

From Smithfield they hastily betook themselves, by means of hansoms, to Crosby Hall, there to have luncheon. Mrs. Pitt laughed heartily when John said how glad he was to be able to eat amid ancient surroundings. He declared that he had been spending the entire morning so very far back in the Middle Ages, that it would have been too great a shock had he been taken immediately to a vulgar, modern restaurant.

When they had finished their luncheon and were waiting on a street corner for the arrival of a certain bus, suddenly a thrill of excitement went through the crowd, all traffic was quickly drawn up at the sides of the street where it halted, and a weird cry of “Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi” was heard in the distance.

“It’s the fire-brigade,” cried Philip, whereupon he and John were tense with anticipation.

Down the cleared street came the galloping horses with the fire-engines, the men clinging to them wearing dark-blue uniforms with red bindings, big brass helmets, which gleamed in the sunshine, and hatchets in their belts.

It happened that the fire was very near where our friends were standing, so at the eager solicitations of the two boys, Mrs. Pitt consented to follow on and watch operations.

“So it really is a fire this time,” she said to Betty, as they hurried along. “We have very, very few in London, and when the brigade is out, it is generally only for exercise or practice. But, it will interest you and John to see how we fight a fire, and to observe whether the methods differ from yours.”

A building on Bishopsgate Street was really very much on fire when the party reached the spot, and the firemen were hard at work. Although the buildings are not high (or at least not according to American standards), the men use very strong ladders, which can be pulled out so that they will reach to great heights. But the queerest thing of all in John’s estimation was the way in which the people on the top floor of the building were rescued.

A long canvas tube was carried up a ladder by a fireman, who attached it to the frame of an upper window. The occupants of that floor were then slid one by one to the ground through this tube, being caught at the bottom by the firemen.

“Well, did you ever see anything like that!” cried John, amazed at the funny sight. “It’s great, I say! I’d like to try it!”

All the way up town, the talk was of fires. John had been tremendously interested in the English methods, and was planning to introduce the use of the canvas tube to his own city through a good Irish friend of his at a Boston fire-station.

“Honor bright, don’t you have many fires over here?” he demanded of Mrs. Pitt. “We have ’em all the time at home. It must be stupid here without ’em!”

“No, we really have very few,” Mrs. Pitt responded. “In winter, there are a number of small outbreaks, but those are very slight. You see, we burn soft coal, and if the chimney is not swept out quite regularly, the soot which gathers there is apt to get afire. When a chimney does have a blaze, the owner has to pay a fine of one pound, or five dollars, to make him remember his chimney. In olden times, perhaps two hundred and fifty years ago, there used to be a tax levied on every chimney in a house. There’s a curious old epitaph in a church-yard at Folkestone, which bears upon this subject. It reads something like this:

They all joined in a good laugh over this, but Betty remarked that she thought it was “more of an advertisement for a house than an epitaph.”

Their particular bus had been slowly making its way down Ludgate Hill, along Fleet Street, into the Strand, through Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, into Piccadilly itself, and had now reached Hyde Park Corner, where our friends climbed down the stairs and swung themselves off.

Betty was grumbling just a little. “I never can get down those tiny stairs,” she exclaimed, “without almost bumping my head and catching my umbrella in the stair-rail!”

Mrs. Pitt smiled. “That shows you are not a true Londoner, my dear. We are never troubled. But, never mind; they don’t have buses in Switzerland.”

At this, Betty was instantly herself again. “London wouldn’t be London without the funny, inconvenient buses, I know. And it’s dear, every inch of it,—buses and all!”

Mrs. Pitt pointed out Apsley House, where lived the great Duke of Wellington. A curious fact about this stately old mansion is that on fine afternoons, the shadow of a nearby statue of this hero is thrown full upon the front of his former home.

As they were about to enter Hyde Park through the imposing gate, Mrs. Pitt said:—

“When we stand here and gaze at this scene before us,—the crowd, beautiful park, fine hotels, houses, and shops,—it is hard to realize that this was a dangerous, remote district as recently as 1815. That was the time of many daring robberies, you know, when it was not safe walking, riding, or even traveling in a big coach, because of the highwaymen. Even so late as the year I just mentioned, this vicinity from Hyde Park to Kensington was patrolled, and people went about in companies so as to be comparatively secure.”

The remainder of that lovely afternoon was spent in Hyde Park, watching the riding and driving. Having paid the fee of threepence each for the use of their chairs, it was pleasant to sit and look on at the gay sight. Old gentlemen, stout ladies, young people, and small children, all ride, in England, and at certain times of the day, during “the season” (May and June), Hyde Park is always filled with a merry company. In midsummer it is rather more deserted, and yet the walks stretching between the flower-beds, and the Serpentine stream, are always flocking with people on summer Sundays or “bank holidays.”

And so passed the last days which John and Betty spent in London. All the favorite spots—Westminster Abbey, the Tower, Kensington Palace, and many others—had to be revisited, just as though the young people never thought to see them again; and then, at last came the day when the father and mother were expected. They all trooped to Euston Station to meet the train, and in triumph escorted the American friends back to Cavendish Square. There they remained for two short days and then carried the almost reluctant John and Betty away with them. Mrs. Pitt, Philip, and Barbara remained behind on the platform, waving a last good-by, and still hearing the many thanks and expressions of gratitude which John and Betty had repeatedly poured into their ears, in return for their delightful visit to England.

THE END.

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