knights over their armour. Such a coat is called a _tabard_ in these
fourteenth-century days. Now look well at this particular inn, because
most of the other taverns are very like it, and this fashion of
building lasted for years. In fact, there were some left in Southwark
till quite lately, and even now there is just a corner of one still
remaining. The inn you see follows three sides of this square
courtyard. Look at the curiously-carved galleries running round two
floors of it, and at the quaint gables above.”
“How pretty it looks to see all the pilgrims walking and sitting
about,” exclaimed Betty. “And how they are chattering and laughing!”
She could have stayed for hours watching them and was sorry when
presently they all remounted and with loud farewells to the jolly host
of the Tabard, clattered out into the country road.
“Just think what miles of dull streets they would have to ride through
if they were riding to Canterbury in our time,” she said.
“As it is,” said Godmother, “they’re in leafy lanes already, where
the birds are singing and the banks are covered with wild flowers.
That road they are taking to Canterbury, is still called the Pilgrim’s
Way. The next time we take a country motor drive I’ll show you the
continuation of it that runs over the green Surrey hills which by the
end of the day those pilgrims will reach....”
“What shall we do now?” Betty inquired when the long procession was out
of sight.
“Would you like to look on at a Miracle play?”
“What is a Miracle play?”
“Come and see. Fortunately there is one going on now at the Church of
St. Margaret’s, not very far from St. Saviour’s.”
“Is St. Margaret’s Church still standing? We didn’t see it this morning
when we went in the car, did we?”
“Not a stone of St. Margaret’s is left in our time. Some day you shall
see all that there is now, to remind us of a church which in this
fourteenth century is very celebrated for its Miracle plays. They don’t
as a rule begin till Whitsuntide, but there happens to be a special
performance because it’s May Day, and a general holiday.”
“A play in a _church_?” exclaimed Betty.
“Yes. Most of the acting in this fourteenth century, takes place either
in churches, or in churchyards. Scarcely any of these people you see
about you, can read, and so the priests and monks have hit upon the
plan of teaching them the Bible stories by means of acting. Sometimes
religious plays are performed inside the churches, but more often—as
in the case of the one we are going to see—outside them, where there
is more room for the people. There! isn’t that a curious sight?”
They stood before a church which seemed to be part of a great
monastery, whose buildings rose at the back of it. In front of the
church was a wide grassy space where a great crowd of people was
gathered, gazing breathlessly at strange figures moving about upon
platforms raised up on scaffolding, close to the church door.
There were three of these platforms. On the lowest, near the ground,
swarmed a number of boys dressed as demons, dancing round an ugly
creature with claws and a long tail, who was meant for the Devil.
“That platform represents Hell,” said Godmother. “The next one, which
as you notice is on a level with the top of the church door, is
_Earth_, and the two people upon it are Adam and Eve. You see there are
one or two trees, to show that it’s meant for the Garden of Eden.”
“And there’s the serpent!” exclaimed Betty. “He’s wriggling!”
“Yes, there’s a boy inside that painted case representing the serpent,
tempting Eve to take the apple. Now look up at the highest platform,
level with the church windows. That is Heaven, and the figure with the
golden crown, and the priestly robe, stepping from the window on to the
platform, means God to the people. You have only to glance at them to
understand how full of awe and reverence they are.”
Looking at the faces in the crowd, Betty saw that this was true, for
the people were silent and grave. Many of the children, frightened by
the black demons and the clanking of their chains, were hiding their
heads in their mothers’ skirts, and some were crying.
“It all seems very childish and even absurd to _us_, doesn’t it? But
remember these are simple ignorant people who can neither read nor
write, and to _them_, it is wonderful. It is through these plays that
they have learnt most of the Bible stories they know.”
“It’s awfully interesting!” Betty murmured, feeling that though at
first she had been inclined to laugh at what seemed to her a funny
performance, the people were so serious that she must be respectful.
“This fourteenth century is the great time for Miracle plays,”
explained Godmother, as they walked away from the gaily-coloured
crowd grouped round the church. “Most of the people have still very
childlike minds, and they depend upon the priests and monks to teach
them. We have noticed already how full London is of these priests, and
everywhere, as you have seen, there are monasteries. Pay attention to
them as we pass, because the next time we see London, nearly all of the
monasteries will be in ruins.”
“In ruins? Why?”
“Think of your history. The Reformation is coming, when all the monks
will be turned out of their homes, and the great buildings in which
they lived will be pulled down, and all the enormous wealth now
belonging to the Church will be taken away from it, and given to the
State. England will become a Protestant country, and the old form of
worship will disappear in London, as in every other town in the land.”
“What a pity about the monasteries,” Betty said. “They are so beautiful
and splendid. It’s awful to think of not seeing them again.”
“Yes. You see London now when the Church is all-powerful. The next time
you come, its power will be broken, and London will be a Protestant
city....”
“Where shall we go now, Godmother?” asked Betty as they left the south
side of the city, and recrossed London Bridge.
“Well, it’s almost time we slipped back into our own day. But before we
do that, you shall just have a glimpse of the _Chepe_.”
“The _Chepe_? What does _that_ mean?”
“Didn’t we drive down Cheapside this morning?”
“Yes. I remember it. That busy street near St. Paul’s, was Cheapside.”
“And do you remember Bow Church in Cheapside?”
“Yes,” said Betty eagerly. “It has a lovely steeple with a dragon on
the top. I always remember it because the bells that Dick Whittington
heard, were the bells of Bow Church.”
[Illustration: THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS]
“Well, come and see Cheapside as it looks now at the end of the
fourteenth century. It isn’t called Cheapside yet. The people of London
call it the _Chepe_, which is an old English word for _market_. The
Chepe (_Cheapside_ in our day) is the great market-place of London.
We needn’t walk to it. Just shut your eyes and wish yourself there. A
magic visit such as this has many advantages. One of them is that we
needn’t tire ourselves with walking.”
Betty did as she was told, and a second later looked round her.
“Oh, Godmother, what a nice place! But it isn’t a bit like _our_
Cheapside. It’s much wider, for one thing—and of course the houses are
all different. Oh! it’s lovely.”
They stood in a broad open space paved with cobblestones. On either
hand there were quaint houses like those in Thames Street, and among
them a few much finer and larger, with carved balconies, and coloured
and gilded coats of arms on their walls. “Those are the houses of the
wealthy merchants,” said Godmother, pointing to the grander buildings.
“Do you remember when we were in the car this morning passing a street
out of Cheapside called Wood Street?”
“With a big tree at the corner? Yes!”
“Well, we are standing just about there.”
Betty gasped with astonishment.
“Oh! how difficult it would be to _imagine_ all this if I wasn’t
actually seeing it,” she murmured.
Down the middle of the market-place, at intervals, were stone
fountains, and close to where she stood (opposite the modern Wood
Street), rose a beautiful stone cross.
“That’s one of the crosses put up by Edward the First, in memory of his
wife, Eleanor. You remember the story? And that church on the right, is
Bow Church.”
“But it doesn’t look a bit like the Bow Church I know!”
“Except for the foundations it’s _not_ the Bow Church we know, but
another, built on its ruins. You have to remember that all this market,
and in fact _nearly the whole of London_, is going to be swept away by
a fire nearly three hundred years later on.”
“In the Great Fire, you mean? In the reign of Charles II? So I suppose
_that’s_ why London looks so different in our time?”
“It had to be almost rebuilt, so no wonder it’s different.”
“What a pity!” sighed Betty. “I like it so much better as we see it
now.” She scarcely knew which to look at first, the quaint timber
houses surrounding the market-place, or the amusing crowd with which it
was filled. In the open space before her were arranged wooden booths
upon which bread, milk, fruit, poultry and meat were sold, just as
in a modern country market. But the crowd round the stalls was very
different in appearance from a modern crowd. The noise was terrific,
for from every booth came cries from the sellers to buy, buy, buy! and
everywhere there was laughter and screaming and singing.
“Why are the houses decorated, I wonder?” asked Betty presently. For
beautiful draperies of scarlet and blue and purple were hung over most
of the balconies, and banners fluttered from the windows.
“Don’t forget it’s May Day. The Lord Mayor is going to ride through the
Chepe. He must be coming now. See how the people are hanging out of the
windows, and crowding on to the balconies! Let us stand up here on the
steps of the cross, and watch.”
In a few moments a pretty May Day procession was seen crossing the
market-place, led by a boy playing on a pipe, and followed by young
girls and children crowned with flowers, and singing. Then came the
clanking of horses’ feet, and soon a stately-looking man riding on a
horse whose gay trapping hung low, came into sight. He wore a rich
crimson cloak trimmed with fur, and a flat cap of crimson velvet with a
plume, and by his side rode several other splendidly-dressed gentlemen.
“Those are the Sheriffs, the men who help the Mayor to govern the
city,” Godmother explained. “This Lord Mayor is very popular. Listen to
the cheering of the people! And see, they are showering flowers upon
him from the windows.”
Just as he passed the cross, the Lord Mayor reined in his steed, lifted
his cap and bowed to the applauding crowd, and at the moment, Betty
caught sight of the heavy gold chain that lay about his shoulders, and
across his tunic.
“Godmother! There’s the very chain you took out of your cabinet,” she
cried.
“It is. And do you know the name of the Lord Mayor who wears it? No?
Then I’ll tell you. Sir Richard Whittington.”
Betty stared at her. “Not _Dick_ Whittington?”
“Yes—that’s Dick Whittington grown up, and this is the third time he’s
been Lord Mayor of London.”
“Why, I’ve been to a pantomime about him!” exclaimed Betty. “I never
knew he was a _real_ person.”
“He’s a very real person, as you see.”
“Then it’s true, about his cat, and Bow Bells ringing ‘_Turn again,
Whittington_,’ and Alice, the beautiful girl he married, who was his
master’s daughter?” asked Betty, all in one breath.
“I’m afraid it’s not _all_ true, though a great deal of it is. In the
story, he’s a poor boy who leaves London with a bundle on his back, to
seek his fortune. Stopping to rest on Highgate Hill he hears the bells
of Bow calling him to return, for he shall be Lord Mayor of London.
Well, I’m afraid he wasn’t a poor boy. He was the son of a country
gentleman, and he was sent to live with a relation of his, a great
London merchant called Sir John Fitzwarren. Dick was an industrious boy
while he was learning his trade, and now he has grown very rich. His
wife is Alice Fitzwarren, his master’s daughter, and he is Lord Mayor.
So a good deal of the story is true after all.”
“But the cat?” said Betty. “Isn’t it true about his lovely cat?”
“_Something_ must be true about the cat, because later on, the image
of a cat was put on all the houses that were built with the money Dick
Whittington left for that purpose. So a cat must have had something
to do with his success. I only wish we knew exactly what it was! Dick
Whittington is now so wealthy that he sometimes gives banquets to the
King, and he has a splendid house not far from the Chepe.”
“He looks nice and kind,” said Betty.
“He is very generous, and has done much for London. Already he is
building a monastery and some almshouses for poor people.”
“Why, there are some Whittington Almshouses at Highgate.”
“Yes. But they were only built about a hundred years ago. They were
built, however, with Dick Whittington’s money, and it was a nice
thought, wasn’t it, to put them where, according to the story, he heard
Bow Bells?”
“They said ‘_Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London!_’ And now
he _is_ Lord Mayor, and there he goes riding by. It seems too good
to be true that I’ve actually seen him, Godmother!” declared Betty
excitedly. “I used to love the picture-book of Dick Whittington we had
in the nursery when I was little. And I loved the pantomime about him
too. It was so _jolly_ to hear the bells ringing when Dick sat on the
stile at Highgate and listened to them.”
“There’s another old rhyme about Bow Bells, which tells a pretty story
about these young ’prentices you see all round you, standing at the
doors of their masters’ shops and shouting, ‘Buy! buy! buy!’ This is
the tale. At one time an order was given by the Lord Mayor that Bow
Bell should ring every night at nine o’clock. It was the signal for the
shops to be closed. But according to the ’prentices the bell always
rang late, and so kept them at work longer than there was any occasion.
They were angry about this, and made a rhyme which they wrote out and
put up against the clock:
‘Clerk of the Bow Bell, with the yellow lockes,
For thy late ringing, thy head shall have knockes.’
To which the bell-ringer replied in another rhyme,
‘Children of Chepe, hold you all still,
For you shall have the Bow Bell rung at your will.’”
“Oh, how nice of him,” said Betty. “I like the part about the yellow
locks. Look! there’s a young man going past now with fair hair almost
to his shoulders. He must be rather like that clerk who had to ring Bow
Bell.”
“You will remember that rhyme the next time you go down Cheapside in
an omnibus and pass Bow Church. Many other things you may remember
also. For instance, when you look at the names of some of the streets
leading out of the modern Cheapside, they will recall this market-place
of the Middle Ages. Do you see, for instance, how certain articles of
food like milk and bread and honey are sold in separate places? All the
milk sellers have their stalls together, you see, and all the bakers
are together over there, and so on. Well, certain streets in or near
the modern Cheapside are still called by such names as Milk Street,
Bread Street, and so forth, and they mark the very spots where now,
bread and milk are being offered for sale. So you will perhaps find
Cheapside a more interesting place now that you have seen the _Chepe_
of which it is the remains,” added Godmother with a smile.
“Oh, every time I see it, I shall remember this!” Betty declared as
her eyes wandered over the beautiful market-place with its cross and
fountains, its picturesque houses brilliant with coloured draperies,
and its throng of quaintly-clad lively people. The bells of many
churches were ringing and clashing merrily, but she heard the sweet
chimes of _one_ above all the rest.
“Bow bells!” she said, looking up at the church. “I wonder if the Lord
Mayor is listening to them now, and remembering the time when they said
‘_Turn again, Whittington_’!”
But the last words were uttered in Godmother’s parlour, and outside, a
newspaper boy was calling the latest racing news. “_All the winners!
All the winners!_” he shouted.
* * * * *
Two or three days later, when Betty happened to be walking down St.
James’s Street with her mother, it suddenly occurred to her that they
were near the London Museum.
“Do let us go in for a minute,” she urged. “I want to see if there’s
anything there that will remind me of the reign of Richard the Second.”
“Why are you interested in Richard the Second?” asked her mother. “Are
you doing his reign at school?”
“No. But somehow I seem to know how London looked then. I’ve got a
picture of it in my mind, and I can’t think why.”
“Well, we shan’t find any room _labelled_ Richard the Second, of
course,” said her mother as they entered the building, “so we’d better
look for a room that has to do with the Middle Ages.”
“Here it is!” cried Betty presently. “It says _Mediæval_ London on that
doorway. That’s the same as the Middle Ages, isn’t it?”
In this room, when they had looked at cases full of things that were
made and used in the fourteenth century, such as bowls, jugs, lanterns,
keys, ornaments and a hundred other objects, Betty’s mother all at once
said, “Come and see this picture of London in the fourteenth century.
Isn’t it a little place? How curious to think it was once like that.”
Betty gazed eagerly at a picture which represented the painter’s idea
of the appearance of London about the year 1400.
“Yes, it’s very good,” she declared. “There’s London Bridge, with just
a few old houses at one end of it. And there’s all that was built then
of the Tower. And that’s the first St. Paul’s Cathedral, with a spire
instead of a big dome. Oh! and look, mother! There’s St. Saviour’s in
Southwark at the other end of the bridge. Behind it there’s another
church called St. Margaret’s, where they used to have Miracle plays.
Such funny plays. Only of course they taught the people about the
Bible.”
Her mother looked surprised. “You know quite a lot about it, Betty!”
she declared.
“It seems somehow as though I’d _seen_ it,” said Betty in a puzzled
voice.
“How wonderful it is to think of the country coming up close to that
wall that goes round the tiny city,” her mother remarked, still
examining the picture. “Fancy being able to walk through green fields
in Southwark!”
“The children picked flowers there,” said Betty, rather dreamily, “and
came running back over London Bridge with them, and sang, ‘_London
Bridge is broken down._’”
“My dear child, what an imagination you have!” laughed her mother.
* * * * *
That same evening, Betty had another reminder of London in the Middle
Ages. In the library at home, when she was looking for something to
read, she found a book full of poems about London. Some were by new
poets and some by writers of long ago. A rather long one was called
_London Lackpenny_, and though the spelling and some of the wording
was curious, she could make out its sense. It seemed to be about a
poor young man who long, long ago came to London, and found it was a
difficult place to live in unless one had plenty of pennies.
[Illustration]
“Why, he’s talking about the very _Chepe_ I saw!” she thought as she
came to a certain verse.
“Then to the Chepe I began me drawne
Where mutch people I saw for to stand.
One offered me velvet, sylke, and lawne,
And other he taketh me by the hande,
‘Here is Paris thred, the fynest in the lande.’
I never was used to such thyngs indede
And wanting mony I myght not spede.
Then I hyed me into Eastchepe;
One cryes rybbs of befe, and many a pye;
Pewter potts they clattered on a heape,
There was harpe, pype, and mynstrelsye.”
“What have you got hold of there?” asked her father, looking over her
shoulder. “Oh, that funny ballad written by old John Lydgate in the
Middle Ages. I expect it’s quite a good description of Cheapside as it
was then.”
“It’s just right. It was exactly like that,” Betty exclaimed, thinking
of the booths in the _Chepe_, piled with goods, and all the noise and
bustle and shouting, and the sound of music from harps and pipes,
mingled with the clashing of church bells.
“How do you know?” asked her father, smiling.
But Betty hadn’t the slightest idea—till she saw Godmother again.
III
In Tudor Days
THE LONDON OF SHAKESPEARE AND QUEEN ELIZABETH
“What are we going to see this morning?” Betty asked on the following
Saturday.
“We’re not going to see anything till I know whether you remember at
least the _names_ of the kings between Richard the Second and Queen
Elizabeth,” returned Godmother firmly.
“Oh, then, it’s to Queen Elizabeth’s time we’re going presently?”
Betty exclaimed. “I shall like that. I really _do_ know the kings
after Richard the Second, Godmother. So I’ll make haste about them.
Henry the Fourth came next, and he was a usurper. Then Henry the
Fifth. After him, Henry the Sixth (when the Wars of the Roses began),
then Edward the Fourth, next Edward the Fifth, the poor little
murdered-in-the-Tower king. After him, Richard the Third, his cruel
uncle. Then Henry the Seventh, Henry the Eighth, Edward the Sixth (who
died young), and then his sister Mary, and _then_ his other sister
Elizabeth.”
“Well done!” said Godmother, laughing, as Betty rattled off the names.
“Well, the reigns of all those sovereigns took up about a hundred
and sixty years. So when we magically see London again, it will be a
hundred and sixty years older than it was at our last visit.”
“Oh, can’t we go back at once?” Betty urged impatiently.
“Not quite at once. The car is here, and I’m going to take you to the
Royal Exchange.”
Much as she loved the magic part of these Saturdays, Betty also enjoyed
the drives through modern London, especially as she knew the magic
would come later. So she gladly followed Godmother into the waiting car.
“The Royal Exchange?” she began, almost before they were seated. “I’ve
been past it often. It’s that big place near the Bank and the Mansion
House. But I don’t know what it’s for.”
“It’s the great centre for English trade affairs. There, everything
that has to do with England’s commerce is discussed by the merchants
who meet to talk and arrange their business.”
In a very short time they reached that busy part of the City where,
close together, stand the Bank of England, the Mansion House, and
the Royal Exchange. But before the car drew up, Godmother had called
Betty’s attention to the names of two streets close by, and also, a
moment later, to a curious sign hanging from a house. The first street
was called Gresham Street, and the sign not far from it was a large
gilded grasshopper over a door in Lombard Street.
“I want you to remember these,” she said. “Now we’ll go into the
courtyard of the Exchange and look at the pictures.”
Betty followed her up a flight of steps in front of the great building,
and found that the walls of a corridor running on all four sides of the
courtyard within the entrance, had large pictures painted upon them.
She soon discovered that much of the history not only of London, but of
England, was shown by these pictures.
Before two or three of them she lingered with special interest.
“Oh, Godmother, look! Here’s the market-place of London in Roman times.
The market-place we _saw_.” And again, as another scene with which
she had memories caught her eye, “Godmother, there’s dear old Dick
Whittington giving alms to the people. He was dressed just like that
when we saw him last Saturday, and so were the boys and girls in the
_Chepe_!”
She would like to have stayed much longer before the painted scenes
(some of them represented things that had happened only a year or
two ago, such, for instance, as the fight at Zeebrugge, and the
Thanksgiving Service after the War)—but Godmother hurried her away.
“We’ll come again when we’ve seen a little more of London in the Past,”
she said. “I want you now, only just to remember that you’ve seen the
Royal Exchange of to-day.”
[Illustration]
They drove back through Cheapside, Fleet Street and the Strand into
Whitehall, where Betty looked up at that statue of King Charles the
First on horseback, which stands with its back to Trafalgar Square.