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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHT

WINDSOR CASTLE, STOKE POGES, AND ETON SCHOOL

"It's only a little more than twenty miles out to Windsor," remarked Mrs. Pitt, one June morning. "Suppose we go in the motor, and then we can have a glimpse of both Stoke Poges and Eton School, on the way."

There were always many exclamations of delight at mention of the "motor," so it was settled, and the party set out at ten o'clock, all in the highest of spirits. It was slow and difficult driving through the city streets, but the English chauffeur was quite used to keeping to the left, as well as being perfectly familiar with the rules which govern the traffic, so he had none of the accidents which Betty and John had prophesied that their father's American chauffeur would not be able to avoid. Very soon, however, they had reached the suburbs, and then they came into the open country.

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER NINE

MORE ABOUT LONDON

"Big Ben," the great bell on the clock-tower, was just booming ten deep strokes as our party neared the Houses of Parliament. A steadily rushing stream of people, buses, hansoms, and trucks (not forgetting bicycles, which are still numerous in England), was pouring across Westminster Bridge, and swinging around the corner into the wide street called Whitehall; but in the near vicinity of the graceful, long building, with its pinnacles and spires, in which the English laws are made, all was quiet and few people were moving about. In a square court from which steps lead down to the river, a sentinel was pacing back and forth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Didn't she die propped up on the floor in all her State robes?" asked Betty.

"Yes," was Mrs. Pitt's reply. "It isn't any wonder that she looked like that, is it? She is said to have been beautiful in her youth, but later, she became so very ugly that her ladies-in-waiting got false looking-glasses, for they didn't dare to allow their mistress to see her wrinkles."



After lingering for a short time in the grand old Abbey, they all mounted a bus and rode down to Bishopsgate Street to take lunch, at Crosby Hall.[A] This splendid old example of a London mediaeval palace (having had a varied career since its great days), is now turned into a restaurant, and our party took seats at a long table in what was once the Banqueting-hall.

[Footnote A: Crosby Hall was taken down in 1908, but is soon to be re-erected in Chelsea, near the site of the home of Sir Thomas More.]

"This is really a very historic old house," declared Mrs. Pitt. "It was built in 1470 by Alderman Sir John Crosby, who died about the time it was finished, and it passed into the hands of the Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard III. Here, that cruel man had the news of the successful murder of the little Princes in the Tower, and here held his great feasts—in this room, I suppose."

They were all looking about at the lofty hall with its carved oak ceiling, minstrels' gallery, stained-glass windows, and large fireplace.

"This has recently all been restored, and I suppose it gives us a very slight idea of its past glory. Later on, Sir Thomas More lived here, and then Philip Sidney's sister, the Countess of Pembroke, owned it. Shakespeare mentions it in his play of 'Richard III,' you know. In mediaeval times, there were many great houses in London (Baynard's Castle and Cold Harbour foremost among them), but all except a little part of Crosby Hall have disappeared. The owners of these houses, the wealthy nobles, lived in great magnificence, having four, six, or even eight hundred servants. Just fancy how large the establishments must have been! In Queen Elizabeth's day, the French Ambassador was lodged here with four hundred retainers. At that time, there were more great palaces in London than there were in Verona, Florence, Venice, and Genoa, all counted together; but instead of being situated on the Grand Canal or in a spacious square, the English palaces stood in narrow, filthy streets, surrounded by the poor hovels of the common people.—It seems to me that our lunch is a long time coming," she commented.

Adjoining Crosby Hall is a very interesting church—St. Helen's, which has been called the "Westminster Abbey of the City," because of famous citizens of "the City," who are buried there. Among them is Sir Thomas Gresham, the great merchant of Queen Elizabeth's reign, who founded the Royal Exchange, and did much to increase London's trade. The church—dating mostly from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century—is very quaint and old. It consists of two parallel naves, divided by pillars.

"The church was once connected with an ancient nunnery which covered the whole square outside. The naves were originally quite separated by a partition; one side was used by the nuns, and the other by the regular members of the parish. Shakespeare once lived in St. Helen's parish, and is charged up on the church books with a sum of something over five pounds." Mrs. Pitt gave this information as they walked about, gradually growing accustomed to the dim light.

"See here, John," whispered Philip; "here's something interesting. It's this little square hole in the wall, which is called the 'nuns' squint.' That woman, whom I suppose is the caretaker, has just been telling me what that means. You see, the nunnery was on this side, or, at any rate, the part where the nuns slept. When a nun was dying, the rest would carry her to that little 'squint,' and in that way she could look through to the church and see the altar."

Leaving St. Helen's Place, and passing the picturesque, narrow facade (or front) of Crosby Hall, Mrs. Pitt took them along Cheapside, one of the most crowded streets of the city. The amount of traffic is tremendous there, and it is said that sometimes teams are held eight hours in the alleys before they can get out. They noted Bow Church, and the site of John Gilpin's house at the corner of Paternoster Row.

"Oh, is that the John Gilpin in Cowper's poem?" cried John, excitedly. "He lived here, did he? And where did he ride to?"

"I believe he went out through Tottenham and Edmonton. Mrs. Gilpin was at the Bell Inn at Edmonton when she saw her husband fly by. Over the entrance at the Bell is such a funny picture of the scene! They don't know just where he went, do they, Mother?" inquired Barbara.

"No, I rather think not," was Mrs. Pitt's laughing answer. "Let's walk through Paternoster Row, now. The little bookshops are so old and quaint! For centuries the booksellers have been loyal to this locality, but I hear that they are beginning to move elsewhere now. Here's Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane is not far away. In London, there's a reason for the name of almost every street. The monks, in walking from the river to St. Paul's, used to be telling their beads and reciting their prayers all the while. You see, the Ave Maria was said at this point, and back at the corner came an Amen. In olden days, the makers of rosaries and paternosters had their shops in the little street we have just left, as well as the booksellers. The streets leading off Cheapside show what business was carried on there; for instance, on the south side are Bread, Candles, Soap, Fish, and Money-changing; and on the north side are Wood, Milk, Iron, Honey, and Poultry. By the by, the poet Milton was born in Bread Street. The ironmongers congregated in Ironmongers Lane; the vintners or wine-merchants were in the Vintry; and the makers of hosiery in Hosiery Lane. Now we'll go to Chancery Lane, and pay a short visit to the Record Office, for there are some things there which I want you to see."

The Public Record Office is a modern building, constructed for the purpose of keeping the valuable State documents and archives, which, during the present reign, have been moved from the Tower and the Chapter House of Westminster Abbey. The different departments of government are continually handing over to the Record Office papers which are no longer needed for daily use. Among the intensely interesting treasures of this museum are the logbooks of the Royal Navy, and dispatches from Marlborough, Wellington, and others. There are State papers of Wolsey, and Thomas Cromwell, and letters of all the kings and queens, as well as of Chaucer, the Black Prince, Raleigh at the Tower, Lady Jane Grey as Queen, Sir Philip Sidney on his death-bed, and many, many others of equal interest.

"Why, you'd need a whole week to see all these!" exclaimed Betty, looking up from her examination of a paper containing the confessions of Guy Fawkes.

Mrs. Pitt glanced at her quickly. She was excited, and her face was flushed.

"Yes, and we must not stay any longer, for we have seen enough for one day. I want to show you just one more thing before we go, however, and this is more wonderful than all the rest. See, it is the great Doomsday Book!"

Carefully kept under glass, in cases furnished with dark shades to pull over when the books are not being examined, are the two large volumes of what is known as the "Doomsday Book." On the ancient, yellowed parchment pages, and in strange old characters, are the records, made at the time of William the Conqueror, of the disposal of the lands of England among his Norman nobles. It is simply impossible to believe that it is authentic,—that such a very ancient relic really can exist!

They soon felt tired and ready to leave any further examination of the papers until another visit, however. There are times when all sight-seers, no matter how enthusiastic, come to a point where for that day they can appreciate no more. So our party adjourned to a little tea-shop in Regent Street, and afterwards, to make a few purchases at that fascinating shop,—Liberty's.



CHAPTER TEN

RICHMOND AND HAMPTON COURT PALACE

"Well, I really don't care much how long the boat is in coming," exclaimed Betty delightedly. "It's such fun to watch all the other boats going up and down the river, and to look up at busy Westminster Bridge!"

Our friends were at the little landing in the shadow of the above-mentioned bridge, awaiting the arrival of the steamer which was to carry them to Kew Gardens. It was early morning, and the distant roar of the traffic from the great bridge above reached them together with the shrill whistles of all the different river craft.

"Hey! There goes Sir Walter Raleigh under the bridge there! I can see the name just as plainly! And,—well I never!—there come Lady Jane Grey and Sir Thomas More! Do all the boats have names like that? Wonder how the great people would like it if they knew! Sir Thomas is an express; he's on official business this morning, and isn't going to stop! Now! here comes Queen Elizabeth herself! Nothing less than a queen for me! I hope we'll take her!" John cried excitedly.

The Queen Elizabeth did prove to be the Kew and Hampton Court boat, so when the gangway was put across, the five went on board and took some comfortable seats in the bow.

"Now, there are a number of things which I wish to point out to you right away," remarked Mrs. Pitt, "so please be very attentive for a few moments. Just as soon as we are started and go under Westminster Bridge here, you will have the most beautiful view of the Houses of Parliament, on your right. There! See if the great building isn't graceful from here! And isn't its river-front imposing with all the statues of the sovereigns!

"Now! Quickly! Look to the left, and see the building with the gateway and square, blackened towers and battlements. That's Lambeth Palace," she added, "which has been the residence of the Archbishops of Canterbury (or the 'Primates of England,' as they are called) for six hundred years. It's a delightful old place, with its fine library, and its several court-yards! It's very historic as well, for in one of those towers, according to some people, the Lollards or followers of the religious reformer, Wycliffe, are said to have been tortured. Queen Elizabeth's favorite, the unfortunate Earl of Essex, was imprisoned there, too.

"Here on our left was the famous amusement-park, Vauxhall, which was so popular in the eighteenth century. Some day when you read Thackeray's novels you will find it mentioned. There on the right is Chelsea, where was Sir Thomas More's home. I think his grounds bordered on the river, and he used to walk down to the bank, step into his boat, and his son would row him to the city. At his house there he was often visited by Henry VIII, Holbein, and the great Dutch scholar, Erasmus. Just behind those trees is Cheyne Walk, where Thomas Carlyle's house still stands. (There's the old Chelsea Church, which is most interesting, and Chelsea Hospital for old pensioners.) There have been many famous residents of Chelsea in more recent days; among them George Eliot, the great novelist, who died there; Edward Burne-Jones, the artist; Rossetti, the poet; Swinburne, Meredith, and Whistler. There! now I'll leave you in peace to enjoy your boat-ride, and the music."

They now came to a part of the river which is neither especially historic nor attractive, and the young people amused themselves for a while in talking, or listening to the rather crude music of some old musicians on the boat. It was not long, however, before the banks again became green and beautiful, and they passed odd little villages, and comfortable country-houses, whose smooth terraces slope down to the river. On the arrival of the boat at Kew, they went on shore and walked towards the celebrated Gardens.

"Have Kew Gardens any story or history to them, or are they just famous because of their flowers?" inquired Betty, as they passed through the gateway, and caught glimpses of bright blossoms within.

"Oh, rather!" replied Mrs. Pitt. "You'll find plenty of history about here, Betty. Let's look at the flowers first, though."

Kew Gardens are most immaculately cared for. Wide gravel-paths stretch between the wonderful lawns, which are dotted with flower-beds of all shapes. There are hot-houses containing tropical plants, and in the "Rock Garden" is a pond where there are pelicans and other strange water birds. The party spent an hour very happily in wandering about, admiring the beautiful views as they went. Best of all were the rhododendrons, which were glorious at this season in their riot of pink, deep rose color, and lavender. Betty, who dearly loved flowers, could hardly be enticed away from that fascinating spot, and was only persuaded at mention of the old palace, which she had not yet seen.

When she reached it, she was rather disappointed. Kew Palace is not large, and altogether, is quite unlike a palace, although it was the favorite residence of George III and his queen, who died there in 1818.

"It just looks like any old red-brick Tudor house, which hasn't any history at all. Even its rooms are all empty, and it isn't the kind of a palace I like!" Betty declared in injured tones.

"Well, cheer up, Betty; we're going to Hampton Court Palace soon, and I guess that'll suit you all right. Is this where we take the tram, Mrs. Pitt? There's one coming now!" John ran out into the road and gesticulated frantically, so that the motorman would be sure to stop. That dignified English personage looked rather surprised, but John did not care. He liked to take the lead, and to make himself useful whenever it was possible.

The ride was not quite as enjoyable as they had hoped, because of a very high wind. Upon their perch at the top of the tram, it required about all their attention to keep their hats and other belongings from blowing away. On the whole, they were quite content to get off at the bridge at Richmond, and walk up the long hill to the famous Star and Garter Inn.

"This hill seems longer than ever to-day, Mother," Barbara complained. "When we reach that lovely surprise view (you know where I mean), let's sit down and admire it while we rest a bit."

"Very well, we will," her mother panted; "we're nearly there now."

The view to which Barbara and her mother referred proved to be really very beautiful. On one side of the hill is a little park from which a precipice descends to the river. Looking through an opening in the luxuriant foliage of the trees (an opening which takes the place of a picture-frame), one sees a glorious view of the green valley below, through which the lazy Thames winds dreamily; and if the day is clear, Windsor Castle may just be discerned in the distance.

"Philip, you and John go and engage one of those drivers over opposite the hotel, to take us for a little drive in the Park; as soon as I order our luncheon, I'll be out again to go along." With that, Mrs. Pitt disappeared for a few moments into the Star and Garter.

Richmond Park is a favorite resort for tourists, and driving and bicycle parties. It contains some fine old trees, and a great many deer which add to its attractiveness. Mrs. Pitt directed the coachman not to drive about much, however, but to show them two points of interest.

"This is the 'King's Mound,'" she observed, as the horses slowed down. "Yes, that little low mound of earth just this side of the clump of trees. I'll admit that it looks uninteresting enough; but it is known as the spot where Henry VIII stood while listening for the sound of the gun at the Tower, which told him of the execution of Anne Boleyn."

"Ugh!" Betty interposed, in disgusted tones, giving a little shudder. "Think how he must have felt! Horrid old thing!"

"Don't be silly, Betty!" retorted John. "I guess a little thing like that wouldn't trouble him!"

Almost in the center of the Park is a house called White Lodge, which has long been a royal residence. It is approached by an avenue, which was the scene of Jeanie Deans's interview with Queen Caroline, as Scott describes it in his "Heart of Midlothian."

Their lunch was quickly over, and they were again on their way down the long hill. In the town of Richmond, they mounted another tram for the forty-minute ride to Hampton Court.

"If we only had had a bit more time," Mrs. Pitt apologized, "I should have shown you what still remains of the famous old palace of Richmond. Henry VIII and Elizabeth both held their courts there often, and there the latter died in 1603. The palace was destroyed by order of Parliament in 1649; only a small part of it was spared, and in that the widow of Charles I, poor Queen Henrietta Maria, was allowed to live. Are you getting plenty of history, Betty, my dear?"

"Oh, yes, but I'm always ready for more," smiled that young lady in response.

The tram set them down very near the great palace of Hampton Court. They went quickly through the entrance-gates of wrought iron, and walked towards the building itself. This West Front is as Wolsey left it, and is made of the old crimson bricks, with here and there a black one. Passing under the gatehouse, they came into the Green or Base Court, and here they paused to look about them.

"You'll remember that the great and powerful Cardinal Wolsey built Hampton Court," suggested Mrs. Pitt. "He lived in regal state, and had almost as large a retinue of servants and followers as the King himself. To gratify his great love for splendor and luxury, he built this magnificent residence for himself. He was in need of a home a little removed from the city, where he could rest and enjoy the fresh air. Yet it was also accessible to London, for he could be rowed up the river in his barge. Wolsey's two great ambitions—wealth and power—were both gratified, and for a while all went well; but time brought the King's displeasure, and it was he who took possession at Hampton Court after the complete disgrace which led to the death of the Cardinal. Henry VIII tore down some of Wolsey's buildings, and put up new ones in their stead; and other monarchs added portions also; for instance, the huge State Apartments were erected under the supervision of Sir Christopher Wren, and by order of King William III. We shall see all these later on. Have you noticed those little oriel windows of the gatehouse? They are the originals of Wolsey's palace, and I think this court here is also much the same as he built it. In his day there were pretty latticed windows in these surrounding buildings, a grass plot in the center, and around these narrow passages Wolsey probably rode on his ass."

"Ass!" cried John. "What for? With all his money, couldn't he even have a horse?"

"Oh, rather!" Mrs. Pitt laughed. "No doubt Wolsey would have liked one, but he was wise enough to always follow custom in such matters as had to do with his outward appearance and attitude. All religious men rode on asses; it was the habit of the day. Now, come this way, and see the Great Hall. Oh, Philip! Please fetch me my umbrella; I left it on the step in the court, there!"

Leading into the second or Clock Court, is Anne Boleyn's gateway. Under this is a broad flight of stairs which takes one to the Great Hall, erected by Henry VIII, probably on the site of Wolsey's earlier hall. It is a grand old room with a fine timber roof, and complete with its dais or raised platform at the end, its minstrels' gallery over the entrance doors, its old tapestries, stags' heads, and suits of armor, and its windows mostly filled with modern stained-glass. Out of the hall are two smaller apartments, which also contain good tapestries. From here, the visitor again descends to Anne Boleyn's gateway.

"What a funny old clock!" exclaimed Betty, spying it, up above on the tower under which they had just passed. "It seems to be so mixed up, somehow, that I can't tell the time by it."

"It is curious! It's Henry VIII's Astronomical Clock; it has all sorts of appliances and strange attachments. That's why you can't read it. It was recently repaired and set going again."

"The King's Grand Staircase" is broad, stately, and quite as impressive as its name, and this leads to the pompous State Apartments. These great square rooms, one opening out of another, seemed endless to the young people, and contained no attractions for them. The walls are covered with pictures, some of which are fine, but there are so many which are very similar that even Sir Peter Lely, Holbein, and Van Dyck become hopelessly tiresome. These rooms also contain some old furniture which is interesting, but on the whole, the best thing about them is the ever charming view of the gardens from the windows. The visitor may enter one tiny room called "Wolsey's Closet," which is deeply impressive with its paneled walls and ancient ceiling. The very atmosphere of the sixteenth century still seems to linger here, and one can easily believe that nothing herein has been changed since the great Cardinal used it daily. Near this is a long gallery which is supposed to be haunted by the ghost of Queen Catharine Howard. After the dullness of the State Apartments, this possessed great interest for the boys, and they lingered here as long as Mrs. Pitt would allow. They were forced to come away disappointed, however, without having heard even one little scream.

"You'd better spend the night here, John," remarked Philip, in teasing tones. "That's the proper time to see and hear ghosts." John decided not to wait, however.

Of all the one thousand rooms of the great palace, they saw only one more, and that was Henry VIII's Gothic Chapel, gorgeous in its fine carving and gilding, and in which the magnificent ceremony of the baptism of Prince Edward, afterwards Edward VI, was held.

The gardens of Hampton Court are perhaps better known and enjoyed than the palace itself. They are very extensive, and are laid out in the French style. Directly before the long front of William III's addition, is a great round basin with a fountain, and beyond stretches the "Long Canal,"—a straight and narrow artificial pond, bordered by very beautiful trees. Then there is the "Home Park" on either side of the canal; here Henry VIII and Catharine Howard probably wandered often during their long honeymoon at Hampton Court; and here William III was riding on the day when he was thrown from his horse and killed.

There is what is called the "Wilderness,"—in reality a maze—which was greatly enjoyed by the party; and nearer the palace, again, is the tennis-court, where that game has been played for three centuries and a half. Some of the players here have been Henry VIII, the Earl of Leicester, Charles I, Charles II, and the present King, Edward VII, when he was Prince of Wales.

"And didn't that American, Pettitt, play here?" inquired John. "He won the World's Championship in England, you know. Yes, I thought it was here, though the word Hampton Court never meant much to me before to-day."

There is still the remarkable Hampton Court Vine, the fame of which has spread so far. The vine fills a whole greenhouse, and one of its branches is a hundred and fourteen feet long. The attendant told Betty that the crop consists of about eight hundred bunches, each one weighing a pound. Having duly marveled at this, they explored Queen Mary's lovely bower or arbor, where that Queen used to sit with her ladies at the tapestry-frames.

"Dear me, let's go back now!" said Betty. "I'm sure we've been miles over these grounds."

So they walked along the paths where Henry VIII made love to Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard, where Queen Elizabeth took her morning walks, and where Pope, Swift, Addison, and Walpole wandered in more recent days.

"I think I haven't mentioned Cromwell to you in connection with Hampton Court, but he must not be forgotten, for he came here after he was made Protector, and lived with as much pomp and splendor as any king. Every time I visit this palace I marvel at the amount of history with which it is connected, and at the number of scenes for which it was the setting!"

As she spoke, Mrs. Pitt was leading the way to the railroad-station. A London train came along very soon, fortunately, but they ran up and down in vain looking for seats in their customary third-class compartment. These were all crowded, the following day being a "bank holiday," so when the guard at last came to their rescue, he put them in a first-class compartment. This greatly interested John and Betty, as they had not seen one before.



"It isn't so very different, after all," commented Betty. "The cushions are a little nicer, and there's carpet on the floor, but that's the only change from an ordinary third-class carriage."

"I know it," said Philip. "And most English people never think of traveling first-class except on a long journey; for it really is very little better, and the price is so ruinously dear!"



CHAPTER ELEVEN

STRATFORD-ON-AVON

"We're going to stay in a really, truly old inn at last, aren't we!" Betty gave a sigh of satisfaction and walked rapidly along by Mrs. Pitt's side, as that lady led the way from the station at Stratford to the famous Red Horse Hotel.

"Stratford is exactly like any other little English town," John was commenting to Philip. "There are plenty of new houses made of shiny, red bricks, and all put close together in blocks, with their tiny lawns and gardens in front. I suppose they build that way even in the small towns, because you haven't as much room to spread out as we have in America. Too bad, though, I say! Makes a little town look just like a big city, only smaller. I thought Stratford would be different!" His tones betrayed not a little disappointment.

As they came into the central and older part of the town, however, even John was forced to admit that it was "different," after all. Along Stratford's narrow, clean little streets stand many old houses adorned with great oak timbers, quaint inscriptions, and carvings; and quicker than all else, the sight of these, remaining here and there between the more modern structures, makes one feel the antiquity of the place. These houses totter a little, and lean their upper stories over the street,—perhaps with a kind of curiosity to see better the strange and more and more startling scenes which the centuries bring forth. For instance, what must these ancient houses, which perchance witnessed the passing of some splendid pageant of the "spacious times of Queen Elizabeth," think of the bustle and prosperous commercial air which the town has gradually taken on? What of the sight-seers whose automobiles go tearing along, uttering weird and frightful sounds? No wonder the old houses stand on tiptoe and bend farther and farther over the street in their amazement and horror!

The young people were delighted with the odd little Red Horse Hotel. As it was market-day, the wide street before it was crowded with people, and down the middle was a row of queer, covered wagons, in which the farmers bring their produce, and which are used as stalls on arrival at the market-place. The little hotel is severely plain and square, and has a passage leading into an old-time court-yard. Inside, it has quaint little rooms filled with antique furniture, narrow corridors, and uneven floors, with here a step up, and there two steps down. Leaving their luggage in the rooms assigned to them, the party immediately set out for "the Birthplace," as all Stratford people invariably call the famous Shakespeare house on Henley Street.

"Is that it!" gasped John, as they stood on the opposite side of the way and gazed across at the first home of the great Poet. "Why, I didn't suppose it was as big as that! And it doesn't look old a bit!"

Shakespeare's birthplace has been too often pictured, and is far too familiar to all to need any description given it here. Perhaps it does seem rather larger than we imagined, and the outside certainly looks surprisingly strong and new.



"But you know it now belongs to the nation," Mrs. Pitt explained, "and is always kept in perfect condition. The last restoration was finished only about fifty or sixty years ago. Although the house was so completely renewed, the greatest care was used to make it look as nearly as possible as it did at the time of Shakespeare's birth in 1564. That window above the entrance, with the little diamond panes, is the original, and is in the room in which the Poet was born."

Going under the old porch and through the door with its high threshold, our friends found themselves in the family living-room of the house. It is low and rather dark, and has whitewashed walls and an earthen floor. This was in all probability the kitchen and dining-room as well, and one is reminded of the fact by a huge fireplace which juts out into the room. In olden times this would have been filled with great pots and kettles hanging over the fire on cranes. The chimney is deep enough and wide enough to have two little seats within it—one on either side. John quickly bent down and seated himself where he could look straight up the chimney and see a square patch of blue sky.

When Mrs. Pitt saw him, she smiled and said, "No doubt, Shakespeare himself, when he was a small boy, often sat right there with his brothers and sisters. It must have been very pleasant on cold winter evenings, to creep into these 'inglenooks,' as they were called, beside the great blazing fire, and tell stories. I think the children should have felt themselves very lucky to have such delightfully warm quarters!"

From a small entry at the rear of this room, the narrow winding stairs lead to the floor above. Before going up, Mrs. Pitt wrote their names in the huge Visitors' Book. Betty was much pleased to find, while carelessly turning its pages, the name of a girl friend who had been in England the previous summer.

"How queer that I should see Evelyn's name!" she exclaimed; "but I guess almost everybody who visits England comes to this house."

"Aye! We 'ave thousands of visitors 'ere every year, Miss, and the most of 'em are Americans, it do appear to me! They do be powerful fond o' Shakespeare!" The attendant shook his head knowingly as he gave Betty this information.

One of the most interesting rooms in the whole world is that chamber on the second floor in which the great Shakespeare was born. In itself, it is not in any way remarkable; it contains but a chair or two, and an old table, which holds a bust of the Poet. But its plaster walls, low ceiling, and even its window-panes, are inscribed with the names of great people,—poets, authors, statesmen, men of all countries, occupations, and beliefs,—who have journeyed here to pay their tribute to the greatest of all poets and writers.

"Whenever I meet people who believe that Lord Bacon or any other man wrote Shakespeare's plays, I never discuss the question with them, for I have no arguments to withstand their claims," said Mrs. Pitt intently. "I only remind myself that if such men as Browning, Thackeray, Kean, Scott, and Carlyle, who have all left their signatures here, believed that the 'immortal Shakespeare' wrote his own plays, I can feel safe in believing so, too. Therefore I want you to understand, children, that you are standing in the room where Shakespeare was born, and be glad all your lives when you remember that you have seen it."

The other room on the second floor—a kind of attic—contains an important picture of Shakespeare. It is called the "Stratford Portrait," as it was discovered in that native town, and it is now thought to have been painted in the eighteenth century, from a bust.

The Shakespeare house is double. In the other half, which is now a museum, John Shakespeare, the father of the Poet, used to have his shop and carry on his trade, or trades, for, like many people at that time, he had several. This museum now contains many relics of Shakespeare, which are more or less authentic, as well as a large number of First Editions of his plays. The young people were interested in an old desk, much scratched and marred, which it is supposed that the Poet used when at the Guild School. It is not clear whether it was when he was a pupil there, or at the time he was "Junior Master," as he is thought to have been by some. The desk is long and narrow, having but one little opening into which a hand could be reached to pull out the books. It occurred to John that it would have been a very convenient place to hide apples or pickles, or any such forbidden articles, as the master could never even suspect their existence in that dark interior.

"You will see where that desk once stood," remarked Mrs. Pitt, "for later, I shall show you the old Guild Hall, and the room where the Stratford boys had their lessons. Now, we are all hungry, and we'll go straight to the Shakespeare Hotel and have some luncheon. Don't you all approve that plan?"

Before leaving "the Birthplace," it must be remembered that there exists a really very picturesque old English garden. In it were planted, about fifty years ago, a quantity of the flowers which are mentioned in the plays of Shakespeare, and the result is a very lovely mass of brightly-colored, old-fashioned flowers.

At the Shakespeare Hotel, they were served a typically English luncheon of mutton, peas seasoned with mint, greens, and afterwards a "gooseberry tart." John and Betty were in gales of laughter when the shy, rosy-cheeked maid asked if they would have some "jammed fingers."

"What in the world does she mean?" inquired Betty, between her giggles.

"I don't know, I am sure. Do you, Barbara? Oh, yes I do! Probably she means 'jam fingers.' I have heard the name. Please bring us some," Mrs. Pitt requested.

The "jammed fingers" proved to be long strips of pastry with jam between. They were very good, and John and Betty much preferred them to the sour gooseberries, to which they had not taken at all kindly.

The Shakespeare Hotel is much like its neighbor, the Red Horse, except for the fact that each room bears the name of one of Shakespeare's plays.

"How lovely it would be to sleep in the 'Romeo and Juliet' room,—if there is one!" Betty sighed. "I almost wish we had planned to stay here, although I do want to write letters on the table in Washington Irving's room at the Red Horse!"

Very near the Shakespeare Hotel is what is known as the "John Harvard House,"[B]—more accurately, the girlhood home of the mother of John Harvard. It is high and narrow, but fully as picturesque as is the nearby Tudor House, which is large and square. Both are excellent examples of Elizabethan houses, and are very quaint and pretty. The lower floor of the Tudor House is a most fascinating shop, in which one may find a really astonishing number of post-cards, books, pictures, and little souvenirs relating to Shakespeare.

[Footnote B: This has just recently been restored and presented to Harvard College. The old house will in the future serve as a rendezvous for visiting Americans.]

"Seems to me, everything, from the hotel to the cheapest post-card, has the name of Shakespeare attached to it somehow!"

"You are quite right, John!" agreed Mrs. Pitt. "The modern town has grown up and literally lives upon Shakespeare! Without him, and the immense number of visitors which his memory brings, Stratford could hardly exist at all, as there are no factories or important industries here."

A long, beautiful afternoon of sight-seeing followed. First, came a visit to the site of Shakespeare's home of New Place, to see the old foundations. As they stood looking down at the few pathetic remains, Mrs. Pitt explained how the house happened to be pulled down.

"It was shameful!" she cried indignantly. "I dislike to think of the man who was responsible for its destruction. The house was an old one, even in Shakespeare's day, as it was probably erected in 1490 by Sir Hugh Clopton. A historian named Leland of the sixteenth century says this about New Place and its surroundings: 'There is a right goodly chappell, in a fayre street towardes the south ende of the towne dedicated to the Trinitye; this chappell was newly re-edified by one Hugh Clopton, Mayor of London; this Hugh Clopton builded also by the north side of this chappell a praty house of brick and tymbre, wherein he lived in his latter dayes and dyed.' To appreciate that fully, you should see the queer old spelling! Well, to continue, Shakespeare left New Place to his eldest daughter, Susanna Hall, and I don't know just how long it remained in the family. However, at length it was in the possession of the Rev. Francis Gastrell, who cut down Shakespeare's celebrated mulberry-tree because too many visitors troubled him by coming there to see it. In 1759, he became so angry in a quarrel about the taxes imposed upon New Place, that he had it torn down and the material sold. I can never forgive him for that! It seems to me that I never knew of anger having led to a more outrageously unjust and deplorable act!" Mrs. Pitt's eyes flashed, and her face was flushed from her feeling of what one might almost be pardoned for terming "righteous indignation."

Leaving New Place, they turned into Chapel Lane, which borders on one side the grounds formerly belonging to the Poet's estate.

"Let me give you just a little description of this street in Shakespeare's time," Mrs. Pitt reflected. "You must know that sanitary conditions were fearful then, and that Stratford was as bad, if not worse, than other towns in that respect. Even as late as 1769, when Garrick visited here, he considered it 'the most dirty, unseemly, ill-paved, wretched-looking town in all Britain.' The people had absolutely no idea of cleanliness. In Stratford, there were six places where it was lawful to dump rubbish,—right in the street! Just fancy! Sometimes these dumps prevented a man from making his way about the town. Chapel Lane was considered the worst part of the whole place, for besides the fact that there was a dump here, the neighbors in the vicinity seemed to be more than usually untidy and shiftless,—allowing their pigs to wander about loose, for instance. That was the kind of street which Shakespeare must have entered every time he left his own house. Think of it! Some people have, I believe, attributed his early death to the unhealthful conditions of his surroundings. Inside the homes, things were but little better. People laid rushes on the floor in the place of carpets, and these became filthy from dirt, mud, and other things which clung to them. Fresh rushes were brought but seldom. The churches were not often swept or cleaned, either. Once, when the roof of the Guild Chapel was being repaired, a certain man and his wife were appointed to sweep the interior and clear away the cobwebs. A widow used to sweep the market-place. She was provided with her utensils,—a shovel, broom-stick, and bundle of twigs—and was paid six shillings and eightpence a year. How carefully and how often do you suppose she swept? Dear me! I sometimes have wished that I had lived in Queen Elizabeth's age, but when I remember some of the terrible circumstances of that time, I cannot be too thankful that I live in the twentieth century!"

They had been standing before the old Guild Hall for some few minutes while Mrs. Pitt finished what she was saying. They now turned to admire and examine it more closely. It is a building of plaster and huge timbers, long and low, with a second story projecting slightly over the lower. The old hall on the ground floor is said to be where the boy Shakespeare first saw a play. A room just above it was the Grammar School, which Shakespeare probably attended for five years, and where the desk shown at "the Birthplace" may have been used by him.

"It was rather different going to school in those days!" declared Mrs. Pitt. "The hours were very long, the lessons hard, and the masters strict, and not unwilling to use the rod for the slightest misdemeanor. There have been terrible stories of boys being much hurt, or even killed as a result of this practice. The pupils sat on narrow benches, their heavy books propped up before them on long tables. It must have been very hard to stay here in this dark room and listen to the master's voice reciting monotonous Latin, while birds sang and the fair world of an English summer was just out of reach. If Shakespeare was a real boy,—and we think he was—he was surely describing his own feelings when he wrote the lines in 'As You Like It' about:

'The whining schoolboy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school,—'"

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:

"Good frend; for Jesus' sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare; Bleste be y{e} man y{e} spares thes stones, And curst be he y{t} moves my bones."

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 roles, 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!

'There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;'

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

'I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where oxslips and the nodding violet grows,—'

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

A DAY IN WARWICKSHIRE

Betty did spend the evening "writing letters in Washington Irving's room at the Red Horse," as she had planned. It was in that quaint, tiny parlor that Irving wrote his well-known paper about Stratford-on-Avon, and perhaps Betty hoped to benefit by the literary atmosphere. At any rate, the letters were accomplished with great ease and rapidity, after her curiosity had been satisfied by an examination of the room.

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":

"Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a; A merry heart goes all the way, Your sad tires in a mile-a."

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.