“And the blue, blue water at its feet!” rhymed Betty, all unconsciously. “I just know the Mediterranean isn’t any bluer!”

“Isn’t it the dearest, oddest little place!” put in Mrs. Pitt, summing up all the children’s remarks in one. “I do think it’s——.” But here Betty interrupted her.

“Look at that little girl!” she fairly screamed. “Don’t let her run down that steep street like that! She mustn’t do it!”

Mrs. Pitt, after one look at the child, merely laughed and replied, “Don’t worry, Betty; she’s used to it. She’s probably done it all her life, and she’ll never fall. Now, I turn you all loose for two hours. Explore the place to your heart’s content, for it will be long before you see such another. Come to the New Inn (that’s it, where the sign is!) at one-thirty for luncheon.”

Enthusiastically the four started off. At first they all picked their way carefully and slowly down over the smooth, slippery stones, but gradually they became more expert in keeping their balance, and could go faster. The two boys made straight for the foot of the town to see the harbor and fishing-boats; Barbara and Betty were bent on investigating all the nooks, corners, and tiny shops of the little place; and Mrs. Pitt contentedly settled herself on the miniature piazza of the New Inn, and looked with never-failing interest and delight at the scene before her.

To explain more in detail, Clovelly is built in what was once a torrent-bed, and the village tumbles down from the top of the cliff to the very edge of Hartland Bay. The droll, Italian-like cottages cling to the hillside, or seem to grow directly out of the gray rock. At first, the street descends rather gradually and straight, but after a short distance, it zigzags first to left and then to right, twists and turns, takes one under parts of houses, into private yards, out to look-off points, and then pitches very, very abruptly down to the Red Lion Inn, which guards the little harbor with its long, curving sea-wall and tiny lighthouse.

From where Mrs. Pitt sat she had a splendid view up and down the street, which was then crowded, it being the busiest time of the season. Just below her, up against the piazza, sat an artist, bent eagerly forward toward his easel, and absolutely oblivious of the throngs of people who were noisily passing close by. There were tourists in gay attire, children romping about in their queer shoes with nails on the bottom to prevent slipping, big stalwart men sliding luggage down on sledges, and patient little mules, which struggled up with big trunks fastened to shelf-like saddles over their backs. To this busy scene the bright little dwellings which line the way, add the finishing touch. The roof of one house is on a level with the second-story window of that above it; the vines are luxuriant, climbing sometimes up over the very chimneys, and flower-beds and flower-boxes are everywhere. A holiday, festive air seems universal.

“Where can one see such a scene?” mused Mrs. Pitt. “Not in Italy surely, for there the ‘picturesque dirt,’ as they call it, is so much in evidence. For my part, I prefer the exquisite neatness and cleanliness of Clovelly.”

Lunch at the New Inn tasted very good,—especially as here the young people first made the acquaintance of the much-praised “Devonshire cream.” Served with wild strawberries, or any other fruit, this thick cream is truly delicious, and unlike anything else. The meal itself was partaken of in the Annex, a larger, newer house across the way, but having finished, the party returned to the original hostelry. It is the tiniest house imaginable, and the little rooms are so crowded with furniture, the landlord’s collection of fine old china, and knick-knacks of all sorts, that John endangered many valued treasures by his awkward movements. Once, in passing some people in the hall, his elbow struck a small cabinet of blue china, and there would have been a terrible catastrophe had not Mrs. Pitt arrived upon the scene at the opportune moment.

“Oh, bother!” exclaimed John, very much irritated, and more ashamed of his clumsiness than he cared to show. “How can a fellow have room to breathe in a bandbox like this! Come along, Philip; I’m going down to talk some more with those sailors.”

The old fishermen who can no longer follow their loved trade sit sunning themselves comfortably on the doorsteps of their Clovelly homes, gazing dreamily out to sea. When Mrs. Pitt, Barbara, and Betty went to find the boys toward tea-time, they discovered them sitting by a group of these old cronies, who were ensconced upon a bench affording a beautiful view of the lower part of the town, the bay, and the cliffs of the rugged coast. The tide had filled the little harbor, and numerous small boats with copper-colored sails bobbed about on the opal waters; near the Red Lion Inn stood a row of sleepy-looking mules waiting for the start up the street.

The men had been exchanging fishermen’s yarns, much to the pleasure of their audience, but when the ladies appeared, they commenced telling ghost-stories or curious bits of folk-lore. One tale especially amused the girls, although John thought he preferred the wild adventures of the sea.

After looking long out over the bay, the particular old salt who was then entertaining them, removed the pipe from between his teeth, and began the following. Mrs. Pitt took pains to remember it, and this is how it reads to this very day in her journal:

“The father of a certain fair young girl had been carried off by smugglers, and kept for ‘a year and a day,’—until a large sum of money was finally paid for his release. He only lived a short time after his return home, however, and his daughter died soon after, worn out by anxiety about her father. This young lady’s ghost continually haunts a certain little village in Devon, where some of the fisherfolk were said to have taken part in the kidnaping of her father. Instead of doing anything more violent, the ghost simply appears on Sunday mornings, just as the dinners are being cooked, and touches the meat with her white, bony hand, thereby rendering it unfit to eat.”

Mrs. Pitt’s famous journal, which is often referred to, contains also this story heard that day at Clovelly:

“In front of a certain farm-house was a large, flat stone, which tradition said was as old as the Flood. Here, at midnight, there always appeared a female figure, clad in a gray cloak and an old-fashioned black bonnet. The apparition would remain there until dawn, always knocking, knocking upon the stone. The inhabitants of the house nearby became so used to ‘Nelly the Knocker,’ as she was called, that they paid no attention whatever to her, did not fear her in the least, and would even stop to examine her queer garments. Finally, however, two young men of the family decided to solve the mystery, so they blasted the rock one day. To their great surprise, underneath were lying two large urns, packed with gold, which treasure enriched them for the rest of their days. But ‘Nelly the Knocker’ came no more.”

In place of repairing to the somewhat stuffy dining-room at the inn, they had their tea just outside one of the most sightly cottages, and were served by a pretty young girl. The china was coarse and the thick slices, cut with a big knife from huge loaves of bread, were by no means daintily served, but it could not have tasted better, and John ate a truly alarming amount of bread and jam.

At Clovelly, the summer twilights are very long and lovely, and down on the breakwater our friends enjoyed this one to the full. One might look over the blue expanse of bay and see the faint outlines of the coast of Wales, and then turn and gaze at the picturesque harbor and the quaint, hanging village, in the houses of which, lights were slowly beginning to twinkle, one after another. They stayed until it was quite dark, and were even then loath to wend their way up the steep street, and to waste so many hours by going to bed in the “Doll’s House,” as John persisted in calling the New Inn.

“Well,” said Betty comfortingly, “it will be fun after all,—sleeping in that funny wee inn, where there are only four bedrooms in the whole house. I choose the one with the pink rose peeping in the window! I saw it this morning. Come on.”

The next day dawned as fair as one could wish, and at Mrs. Pitt’s suggestion a walk along the “Hobby Drive” was first taken. This charming road was built by a Mr. Hamlin, the owner of the town of Clovelly, who lives at Clovelly Court. The drive starts just at the top of the village, and extends for three miles along the edge of the cliffs. The views are startlingly beautiful! Through the fresh green of the trees and vines, glimpses of the deep blue sea are to be had, and to add to the vivid coloring, there is the peculiar red rock which belongs to that part of the coast.

As they were retracing their steps, Mrs. Pitt said with slight hesitation:

“I promise not to give you very much history while you are here, but I must tell you just a bit about the relation which all this country bears to Charles Kingsley’s great book, ‘Westward Ho!’ Have you never read it, John? Fancy! I’ll get it for you at once! Well, Bideford is the nearest town to Clovelly, and it was from there that Amyas Leigh, Salvation Yeo, and all the rest set out with Sir Francis Drake. By the by, that very sailor, Salvation Yeo, was born in the old Red Lion Inn, at the foot of the Clovelly street. Oh, you’d like him, John, and all his brave adventures! At Clovelly Court, in the days of the story, lived Will Cary, another of the well-known characters in ‘Westward Ho!,’ and in the little parish church very near there, Charles Kingsley’s father was rector. Kingsley himself was at Clovelly a great deal, and probably gained here his knowledge of the seas and those who sail them. One of those old fishermen last night (he who claimed to be ninety-eight) told me that he used to know Charles Kingsley well, and I suppose it is possible.”

That afternoon toward tea-time, after another fascinating roam about the town,—into its back-yards and blind alleys, and along its pebbly beach,—as well as numerous exciting rides on the backs of the mules, the party gathered on the tiny veranda of the New Inn, crowding it to its utmost capacity. The purpose of this formal meeting was to decide where they should go the following morning, as they were then leaving Clovelly. Mrs. Pitt had promised them a week more of play in Devonshire before their trip to Canterbury, and she advised visits to Bideford, Minehead, Porlock, Lynton, Lynmouth, and finally Torquay. As the young people had no ideas of their own upon the subject and as they had vast confidence in anything Mrs. Pitt proposed, this plan was at once adopted.

“These places are all by the sea,” Mrs. Pitt continued, “and I’m quite sure you’ll like them. Torquay is just a watering-place, with big hotels, terraces, and gardens, but oh! it is so lovely, and nearby is the duckiest little village of Cockington! You’ll never leave the thatched cottages there, Betty! Lynmouth is very fine, with its combination of mountain and seaside views, and its moors. Close by is the Doone Valley, which figures so prominently in the story of ‘Lorna Doone,’ and we’ll visit that. It will all be beautiful—beautiful as only England and Devonshire can be—but you’ll find nothing at all like this strange little Clovelly, so enjoy it while you may!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Off came the chauffeur’s nicely-brushed coat, his clean hands handled oily tools, and a big streak of grease soon appeared upon his trousers. Great was his humiliation! After about fifteen minutes of disagreeable work, all was well, however,—the engine started, and the sound was again smooth and steady. John’s expression was radiant, and he came to help the ladies in, while the forlorn chauffeur retired to make himself presentable.

“Now, we’re off for Canterbury!” John announced triumphantly, as they at last glided around a corner into Piccadilly.

Slowly and carefully they wended their way down to London Bridge, crossed, and stopped for a moment before the site of the old Tabard Inn.

“I’m going to take you to Canterbury by the very road which Chaucer’s pilgrims in all probability traveled, and I thought that to make the illusion as perfect as possible, we really should halt here in Southwark. This is where the pilgrims met, you know, and from here they set out in the lovely month of April: the ‘verray perfight, gentil knight,’ his son, the gay young squire, the stout Wife of Bath, the dainty prioress, the pale clerk (or scholar), the merchant with his fine beaver hat, the parson, the plowman, the pardonner, the summoner, the cook, and all the rest! They traveled on horseback, you remember, and to beguile the tedious hours when they advanced slowly along the dusty road, they took turns in telling the stories which Chaucer gives us in the wonderful ‘Canterbury Tales.’”

“I never did know just why they went,” Betty ventured, in some confusion lest they should laugh at her.

“Neither did I!” John promptly seconded. “Please tell us, Mrs. Pitt.”

“Dear me, yes! I certainly will, for you must surely understand that!” After pausing a moment in order to think how best to make her meaning clear, Mrs. Pitt went on in her pleasant voice. “You see, pilgrimages were always made to some especial shrine! We’ll take Becket’s for an example. After his terrible murder, Becket was immediately canonized (that is, made a saint), and for many years a very celebrated shrine to him existed at Canterbury Cathedral. In those days, sumptuous velvets and abundant jewels adorned the shrines, and if a person journeyed to one, it meant that his sins were all atoned for. It was a very easy thing, you see. If a man had committed a wrong, all he had to do was to go to some shrine, say certain prayers there, and he thought himself forgiven. Such trips cost men practically nothing, for pilgrims might usually be freely cared for at the monasteries along the route; a man was quite sure of good company; and altogether, it was very pleasant to see the world in this way. The numerous terrible dangers to be met with only added the spice of excitement to many. In short, such numbers of poor men started off on these religious pilgrimages, leaving their families uncared for, that the clergy finally were forced to interfere. Laws were then made which compelled a man to procure a license for the privilege of going to a shrine, and these permits were not granted to all. You understand then, that toward noted shrines such as St. Thomas à Becket’s, pilgrims singly and in companies were always flocking, and among these was the little group which Chaucer has made so familiar and real to us all.”

“Here’s Deptford,” announced John by and by, seeing the name upon some sign. “What went on here?”

“What makes you think anything ‘went on here’!” Mrs. Pitt exclaimed. “Fancy! What a curious boy!”

“Oh!” John burst out. “That’s easy enough! I haven’t seen more than about two or three places in all this country where some fellow didn’t do something, or some important thing go on.”

Mrs. Pitt pushed up her veil, removed her glasses, and wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “I think you are about right, John. And something did happen here in Deptford; in fact, there were several things. First, I’ll tell you that it was here that Queen Elizabeth came in 1581 and visited the ship in which Drake had been around the world. The Queen dined on board the vessel and knighted Drake while there. Event number two was the death of Christopher Marlowe, one of the greatest of all England’s dramatists. Marlowe was only thirty years old when he was killed in a vulgar fight in a tavern. Fancy! Poor Anne of Cleves, after the early divorce from her royal husband, lived near Deptford, at Place House. Writers say that she used often to go up to London, and visit the Court, just as though she had not been (for a few short days, to be sure) the ‘first lady of the land,’ as you Americans say. Poor Anne! She always seemed a pitiful character to my mind. She couldn’t help it if Henry VIII didn’t find her good to look upon!”

Beyond Deptford, as they were smoothly gliding along, all at once there came a loud report.

“Goodness!” cried John. “What in the world was that!” Then he shouted with laughter at the frightened expression on Betty’s face.

“Dearie me! It must be a ‘blow-out’! Is that the trouble, Jo? Yes? Well, come, girls; we may as well step out.” There was forced resignation in Mrs. Pitt’s voice; she was trying not to mind the delay.

For forty minutes she and the girls sat by the roadside and watched the chauffeur and the two boys at work on the tire. It seemed as though every part of this operation took longer than usual. The tools seemed never so easily mislaid; it surely was a longer task than ever to inflate the tube, and then to fit on the wheel-rim. Finally, however, the three rose, grimy and dusty, but triumphant, and ready to set forth once again.

The accident came just at the edge of Blackheath, amid very historic surroundings. Some one has called Blackheath the Rotten Row of the olden days, for there royalty and fashionable people of the town went to ride and disport themselves, just as they now do in Hyde Park; and there important guests on the way to London, were wont to be met with much ceremony by the Mayor and certain great citizens. After the battle of Agincourt, the victor, Henry V, when returning to London, was given a magnificent reception at Blackheath, and many were the speeches of praise which had been prepared. The great soldier cut them all short, however, insisting that the honor be given God. At Blackheath, his descendant, Henry VIII, first saw Anne of Cleves (officially, that is), and straightway decided to divorce her. But perhaps the most joyful scene of all those at Blackheath, took place on the May morning when Charles II came into his own, and all England was glad, after the dark days of the Commonwealth and the iron rule of the sober Puritans.

“This,” declared Mrs. Pitt a little later, “is ‘Shooter’s Hill.’ That should bear a familiar sound. How many have ever read Dickens’s ‘Tale of Two Cities’? You have, I know, Philip. Well, in the second chapter, the stage which carried Mr. Jarvis Lorry on his way, is described as slowly mounting this very hill, while most of its passengers toil along the wet, snowy road, by its side. Do you remember, Betty? You must try to think over all of Dickens’s works which you have ever read, for we are coming to a district which that author knew well and often put into his novels.”

Sure enough, they almost felt as though they had stepped into the world of Dickens’s stories, for so many of the places mentioned therein they were able to find. Slowly they drove through Rochester’s streets, stopping when they came to any spot of especial interest.

“Here’s the old Bull Inn,” said Mrs. Pitt, pointing it out as she spoke. “It is supposed that there are no less than twenty-five inns named in Dickens’s ‘Pickwick Papers’ alone. This is one of them, for Room Number Seventeen was Mr. Pickwick’s bedroom, and there is also Winkle’s, which was ‘inside of Mr. Tupman’s.’ Come, shall we go in?”

The landlord of the Bull has most carefully preserved and cared for all which is of even the slightest interest in connection with Dickens or his books. He most kindly took Mrs. Pitt and her party all about the old house, showing them everything,—including the room where the famous ball in “Pickwick Papers” was held.

Leaving the Bull, they noted the Crown Inn, on the site of the one where Henry VIII went privately to take a look at Anne of Cleves, and the old White Hart, built in Richard II’s reign, which once sheltered Samuel Pepys. In Restoration House (built in 1587) Charles II stayed after his landing at Dover.

“‘Dickens wrote thus about Restoration House in “Great Expectations,”’” Betty read from the guidebook. “‘I had stopped to look at the house as I passed, and its seared red brick walls, blocked windows and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with its twigs and tendrils, as if with sinewy arms, made up a rich and attractive mystery.’”

“Doesn’t that describe it exactly?” exclaimed Mrs. Pitt, with enthusiasm. “That house always fascinated me, too. When Dickens last visited Rochester, it is said that he was seen gazing long at this old place, and some have thought that the result of those reflections would have appeared in the next chapter of ‘Edwin Drood,’ which novel, as you know, he never finished. Now, we’ll drive out to take a look at Gad’s Hill. Luckily, this is Wednesday, so we will be admitted.”

After making inquiries, Mrs. Pitt learned that the owner of Gad’s Hill throws it open only on the afternoon of each Wednesday; so they took their luncheon first, and then motored the mile and a half to Dickens’s home.

Gad’s Hill is charming! Dickens was devoted to this square, vine-covered house, where he resided from 1856 to the time of his death, in 1870. The story goes that when he was a small boy the place had a great attraction for him, and that one day his father, wishing to spur him on in a way peculiar to parents, reminded him that if he worked hard and persevered until he was a grown man, he might own that very estate, or one like it.

As they left the house, Mrs. Pitt said, “This hill is the spot where took place the robbery of the travelers in Shakespeare’s ‘Henry IV.’ The inn just opposite Gad’s Hill is the Falstaff Inn, probably built about Queen Anne’s time. It used to have an old sign with pictures of Falstaff and the ‘Merry Wives of Windsor’ upon it. I read that in the olden days ninety coaches daily stopped here. Fancy!”

“Well,” observed Betty, “I shall certainly enjoy reading Dickens better than ever, when I get home, for now I’ve seen his study where he wrote. It makes things so much more real somehow, doesn’t it, Mrs. Pitt?”

Having visited the cathedral and the old castle, they now left Rochester, and found that the run to Canterbury was rather longer than they had realized.

“But really, you know,” Mrs. Pitt had intervened, “Rochester is just about halfway between the two, London and Canterbury, I would say. And we did stop quite a bit to see the sights connected with Dickens.”

At last, however, about six in the afternoon, they came in sight of Canterbury, its great cathedral towering over all,—its timbered houses, old city-gate, and narrow, picturesque streets. As usual, the young people who never seemed to need a rest, desired to start sight-seeing at once, but unfortunately a sudden thunder-shower came up to prevent.

“Oh, well, it will stop soon,” Betty assured them. “It always does in England.”

This time, the weather was not so kind, however. The rain continued persistently, and the party was forced to remain at the inn the entire evening.

Sunshine, even though it be sometimes a bit dim and watery, is never long absent during an English summer, so the morning dawned bright and clear. Just as they set forth from the hotel, Betty felt in her coat pocket and found that her precious red notebook, in which she inscribed all interesting facts and discoveries, was missing.

Philip promptly came to the rescue, saying: “I saw you put it behind you on the seat of the motor, yesterday, and it’s probably there still. I’ll go to the garage and see.”

Betty gave Philip a grateful little smile, but insisted upon accompanying him on his search. They came upon the treasure just where it had been left, and soon rejoined the rest of the party in the cathedral close, where John was in the midst of taking some photographs.

The first near view which they had of Canterbury Cathedral was in approaching it from under old Christchurch Gateway. In spite of its great age, the cathedral, in contrast with the much blackened gateway, appears surprisingly white and fair. The exterior is very beautiful; the two towers are most majestic, and beyond, one sees the graceful Bell Tower, rising from the point where the transepts cross. In olden days, a gilded angel stood on the very top of the Bell Tower, and served as a beacon to the many pilgrims traveling toward Becket’s shrine.

Walking about inside the cathedral, they saw, behind the altar, the position of the once famous shrine. All that now remain to remind one that this ever existed are the pavement and steps, deeply worn by the feet of many generations of devout pilgrims.

“I told you something of the splendor of this shrine,” Mrs. Pitt suggested to them. “It was said that after his visit to it, Erasmus (the Dutch scholar and friend of Sir Thomas More, you know) in describing it, told how ‘gold was the meanest (poorest) thing to be seen.’ See, here is the tomb of Henry IV, the only king who is buried here, and there’s the monument to the Black Prince. Above hang his gauntlets, helmet, coat, and shield. Do you see them, John?”

The northwest transept, so say all guidebooks and vergers (and they certainly ought to be truthful), was the scene of the murder of the Archbishop à Becket. There is even a stone in the floor which marks the precise spot; but, contrary to her usual habit, Mrs. Pitt absolutely pointed out that all this is false.

“I’m sorry, children,” she said, “but I must contradict this. Becket was killed at five o’clock on a dreary December afternoon of 1170. Four years later, the cathedral was entirely destroyed by fire. Therefore, it is not possible that they can show visitors the exact spot where the tragedy took place. William of Sens came over from France, and in 1184, finished the building which we now see.

“This nave,” she continued, as they again entered it, “is one of the longest in England, and the choir is several feet higher. Do you notice? It is an unusual feature. Also, the fact that the walls bend very gradually inward as they near the east end of the choir, is worthy of note. Here, as at St. Paul’s and a number of other cathedrals, business was carried on, even during services, and pack-horses and mules went trailing through. It’s curious to think of, isn’t it?”

Canterbury’s cloisters are wonderfully ancient. Blackened as they are by the centuries, and their still exquisite carvings broken, yet here, more than in the edifice itself, can one imagine the scene of Becket’s terrible death.

“The residence of the Archbishop stood alongside the church,” Mrs. Pitt proceeded, “and here the murderers came unarmed, upon their arrival in the town, to interview him. Becket was unmoved by their threats, so they left him to go and arm themselves. The entreaties of the monks that their master should seek safety in the cathedral would have been of no avail had not the hour for evening service arrived. Can’t you almost think how dark and cold these stones must have seemed on that winter afternoon, when Becket marched along with majestic deliberateness through these very cloisters, in by that little door, and up to the altar. A feeling of dread and terror was everywhere. Most of the monks had fled to places of hiding, and the Archbishop found himself alone with his three or four faithful friends, whom he commanded to unbolt the heavy church doors, which, in a panic, they had barred. No sooner had the armed men rushed in than the challenge came from Reginald Fitzurse, as Tennyson gives us the scene:

and Becket’s brave answer:

They responded, ‘Your life!’ and there immediately followed the horrible death.”

Mrs. Pitt drew a long breath and sighed.

“Such were the deeds of those unenlightened days. These fierce Norman knights, wishing to gain favor in the eyes of the King, and hearing him say in a moment of anger, that he wished himself rid of the troublesome Archbishop, they at once proceeded to Canterbury and killed him. It was all the outcome of the continual strife and struggle for power, between the Church and the State.”

“What did they do to those three Normans?” demanded John indignantly.

“Nothing. I believe they went free. But Henry II himself tried to atone for the deed in doing penance by walking barefooted to Canterbury and Becket’s shrine. Come, let’s go outside now.”

They then wandered about the precincts of the cathedral, pausing by some lovely, ruined arches which tell of an ancient monastery. Everywhere stretch smooth lawns, with grand old trees, and here and there the houses of those connected with the church. Also, very close by stands the King’s School, which was founded by Archbishop Theodore in the seventh century, ‘for the study of Greek,’ and later refounded by Henry VIII. Here that famous Canterbury boy, Christopher Marlowe, was educated. The school is well worth a visit, if only to see the beautiful outside Norman stairway.

Mrs. Pitt next led the way down Mercery Lane, at the corner of which stood The Chequers of Hope, the inn where Chaucer’s pilgrims put up.

“You remember the old gate by which we entered the town yesterday,” said Mrs. Pitt. “Well, under that same arch came the pilgrims as they approached from London. Although the city-wall then boasted twenty-one towers and six gates, the West Gate is the only remaining bit. Here, at the inn which stood conveniently near the cathedral, the pilgrims stayed, and in Mercery Lane they bought their souvenirs,—probably rosaries or phials of Holy Water. At the further end of the Lane stood the ancient rush-market. Rushes were then in great demand, you recollect, for people used them to strew over their floors.”

One might stay on indefinitely in Canterbury, and still not discover all its treasures and interesting nooks and corners. The streets are narrow, crooked, and contain many very old houses. There is at Canterbury a castle; one may see the ruins of St. John’s Hospital, and of St. Sepulchre’s Nunnery, where Elizabeth Barton, the “Holy Maid of Kent,” once lived; the old gate of St. Augustine’s Monastery still stands, though it is now restored; by exploring, traces of the city-wall may be found, and the weavers’ houses which hang over the little river offer a delightful view. Interest is endless in Canterbury. But as it is impossible to see it all, especially in limited time, the visitor usually seeks out the best known and most famous places; and surely, after the great cathedral itself, ranks St. Martin’s Church.

A little way out of the town, and up against a sunny hillside, is this tiny “Mother Church of England.” Imbedded in the rough stone of the square, Norman tower are the huge stems of giant vines. Altogether, a more primitive, ancient appearing building cannot well be imagined.

“Well,” remarked Betty impressively, “this is the very oldest place we’ve been in yet. It makes me feel as Stonehenge did, somehow.”

“Yes, that’s true,” assented Mrs. Pitt. “The two places do give you similar sensations. It’s simply that you feel the age. I’ve always thought that if I were suddenly blindfolded, carried away, and set down in St. Martin’s Church at Canterbury, that I should know where I was just from the atmosphere, which is so heavy with the weight of the years.”

It is claimed for St. Martin’s that it is the most ancient church in all England, a land filled with ancient churches. It is in the vicinity of sixteen hundred years old, for Bede states that it was built while the Romans were still in possession, and certain it is that numerous Roman bricks may be seen to this day in the outer wall. The church was perhaps erected for the use of Queen Bertha, whose husband, Ethelbert, King of Kent, was also converted to Christianity, and baptized here. After the arrival of St. Augustine, it is believed that he and his followers came here to worship. Inside, the little church is a curious conglomeration of different styles of architecture; here a Roman doorway, there a Norman, and here an ancient Saxon arch. Some of the relics in the church are the Saxon font, built of twenty-two separate stones, a tomb which has been called that of Queen Bertha, and two Elizabethan brasses. The party found a most excellent and intelligent guide, a woman, who showed them the vessel which held the Holy Oil (a very valuable thing), and the “leper’s squint,” a slit in the wall to which the unfortunate sick men were allowed to come and listen to the service.

“That’s something like the ‘nun’s squint’ at St. Helen’s Church in the city,” observed Barbara.

On the way back to their hotel, John and Philip strayed into the old Guildhall which contains some portraits, which failed to impress the boys, however.

“S’pose they were old Mayors or some such fellows,” said John, when questioned as to what he saw. “Couldn’t bear ’em, with their bright velvet clothes and high ruffs. I’m glad I didn’t live then! Excuse me from ruffs!”

“If the important men of the town wore such gay and frivolous attire, they had to pay for it surely,” Mrs. Pitt added. “Last night I was reading that in the records of Canterbury for the year 1556, the Mayor was required to provide for his wife every year, before Christmas, a scarlet gown and a bonnet of velvet. That was enforced by law! Fancy! The women may have had a hand in that, for they very naturally wanted to make sure not to be outdone by the men in the point of fine clothes.”

As the automobile again passed under the West Gate, on its way back to London, Betty turned to Mrs. Pitt, and said in her quiet little way:

“I think you were right in what you said when we were at Salisbury. I think, too, that’s the most beautiful of all the cathedrals I’ve seen. But Canterbury, both the town and church, is very, very interesting. I like the stories about Becket and the pilgrims, too. I’d like to come again some day. Please take hold of my hand, John; I want to stand up a minute and watch that dear Bell Tower as long as I can.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Betty’s radiant face showed what delight the prospect of seeing her father and mother gave her. Glancing at Mrs. Pitt almost at once, however, she hastened to say:

“We’re both sorry to go away from you all, though, and I hope they’ll let us come back. We’ve had such a good time in England! Don’t you think we can go on with our trip here after Switzerland?”

“I really can’t tell, dear, for this is all so unexpected. I don’t know what your father’s plans may be, but I hope he will bring you back to me. I’d be very sorry if it were all at an end! But to think I shall so soon see your father!” Mrs. Pitt sat staring into the grate, and seemed to be lost in her thoughts.

After the general commotion caused by the news had somewhat subsided, and they had all adjusted themselves to the new plans, Mrs. Pitt decided to spend the remaining week in the city, as she had still so much there to show John and Betty. The weather being quite cool and comfortable, they could easily go about.

It happened that two events of those busy days made an everlasting impression on the minds of both John and Betty. First, there was their glimpse of the King and Queen; and then, there was the fire.

As they emerged at about noon one day from the National Gallery, where Mrs. Pitt had been showing them some of the best pictures, Philip heard some one on the steps of the building say that the King and Queen had come to town to be present at the unveiling of a statue. They were soon to pass through St. James Park on their way from Whitehall, it was understood, and our friends at once hastened in that direction. For some time they waited with the crowd, and it was not exactly agreeable, for the day was damp and foggy, and a fine rain had set in. All the while, John was getting more and more aroused, and when he finally saw a small company of the Horse Guards, he so forgot himself as to shout:

“Hurrah! Here they come!”

Because of the rain, the Guards, wearing their blue capes lined with scarlet, were rather less picturesque than usual, but the black horses were as fine as ever.

“They step as if they were proud of going along with the King and Queen,” Betty said in a loud whisper to Barbara.

Between two small squadrons of the Guards came a modest closed carriage in which Their Majesties rode. Fortunately for the young visitors, they both kept bending forward and bowing very graciously from the windows, so that they could be distinctly seen. The sober British crowd was characteristically well-behaved. No demonstration of any sort was given the Royalties, except that the men removed their hats. Swiftly the carriage rolled up the wide avenue toward Buckingham Palace.

“Humph! They don’t make much fuss about it, do they?” was all John said, while Betty was especially impressed by how very much the King and Queen resembled their photographs.

The following morning an interesting trip to Smithfield was taken. Going by the “Tube,” the ride seemed a short one, and they soon found themselves at Smithfield Market.

“Have you ever seen Faneuil Hall Market in Boston?” demanded Mrs. Pitt laughingly, whereupon John and Betty, the two Bostonians, were rather ashamed to admit that they had not.

“Somehow we never have time at home,” was Betty’s remark. “And I think perhaps we never really wanted to very much, either.”

“Well, you wouldn’t understand why, then, but it always reminded me of this great Smithfield Market,” went on Mrs. Pitt and then added a bit boastfully, “I’ve been to Faneuil Hall several times.”

What they saw was a large, lofty building, with a roof of glass and iron, equipped as a most thoroughly up-to-date meat-market. A street runs directly through the center, and from this, one can get a splendid idea of both halves.

“This great barren square of Smithfield was the place where they had the tournaments in the olden days, and because of that, the name was probably once ‘Smooth-field.’ Edward III held a brilliant tournament here, and also Richard II, who invited many foreign guests to be present for that important event. The processions which preceded, as well as the tournaments themselves, were most elaborate. One old writer fairly dazzles us by his description of ‘sixty horses in rich trappings, each mounted by an esquire of honor,—and sixty ladies of rank, dressed in the richest elegance of the day following on their palfreys, each leading by a silver chain a knight completely armed for tilting. Minstrels and trumpets accompanied them to Smithfield amidst the shouting population: there the Queen and her fair train received them.’ Then this same author tells at much length of the commencing of the tournament, and says ‘they tilted each other until dark. They all then adjourned to a sumptuous banquet, and dancing consumed the night.’ For several days and nights this same performance was repeated. That gives you a slight idea of the aspect Smithfield bore in the days when it was far outside the limits of the ‘City.’”

After pausing a few minutes in her talk, while they walked about the square, Mrs. Pitt proceeded:

“In 1381, after the peasant uprising, the leader, Wat Tyler, was killed here. And then, in the reigns of ‘Bloody Mary’ and of Elizabeth, this was the place of public execution. Way back in 1305, the patriot William Wallace was hanged here, and after him came a long line of sufferers,—among them Anne Askew, Rogers, Bradford, and Philpot, who were persecuted because of their adherence to the Protestant Religion. After that terrible period, Smithfield was for many years the only cattle-market in London; and here was held Bartholomew Fair, also. Don’t you agree that this square has had about as varied a history as is very well possible?”

The church of St. Bartholomew the Great, one of the oldest and most interesting in London, is reached from Smithfield by an inconspicuous arch, which leads to a narrow walk close beside brick walls. At the further end is the façade of the church, which boasts of having been erected in 1123, by Rahere, who also founded the neighboring Hospital of St. Bartholomew.

Once inside the doorway, the visitor feels as though he had actually stepped back many centuries, for, as Baedeker says, “the existing church, consisting merely of the choir, the crossing, and one bay of the nave of the original Priory Church, is mainly pure Norman work, as left by Rahere.” Here again, the visitor encounters that strange atmosphere which belongs to the place pervaded by great age.

“You see,” explained Mrs. Pitt, “the church which we see is only a very small part of the original edifice as Rahere built it. The entrance from Smithfield was probably the door to the nave, which was where the grave-yard now stands. It’s curious, isn’t it, how the centuries alter things! Now, step over here, out of the way of the door, and let me tell you a bit about this old church and its founder. This Rahere was the King’s jester, who came to see the error of his ways, grew very religious, and went on a pilgrimage. While on his journey back, he became seriously ill, and turned to St. Bartholomew for healing, promising to build a hospital for poor men if his petition were granted. He was cured, and on his return to London, he built the hospital and also this church, in which he is himself buried.”

They were all delighted with this story, and went immediately to find Rahere’s tomb, of which the ancient effigy is covered by a fine canopy of much later date. One other tomb is that of Sir Walter Mildmay, who was Chancellor of the Exchequer to Queen Elizabeth, and founder of Emmanuel College, Oxford. John discovered the following quaint epitaph, which greatly amused the entire party: