to test the "Whispering Gallery," on the way. It seemed an endless
climb up the spiral stairs, and Mrs. Pitt, Barbara, and Betty lagged
behind. When they finally came out into the great round gallery, the
two boys were over on the opposite side. Betty, after waving to them,
sat down on a bench against the wall, and suddenly she heard John's
voice, saying "Glad to see you at last!" She put her lips to the wall
and whispering an answer, found that John could hear her, too. They
were having quite a lengthy conversation, holding first their lips to
the wall to speak, and then their ears to listen, when Mrs. Pitt
interrupted them.
"That's great fun, but we have still a hard climb before us," she
reminded them. "I think we had better go on."
The remainder of the way was much more difficult, as the steps were
steeper and narrower than ever, but they at last emerged on the little
platform, running around the top of the dome.
"My, what a view!" they cried.
"Yes, you're the first visitors in many a day who could see so far,"
the man in charge told them.
If the terrible black smoke which comes from the hundreds of chimneys,
and the fog permit one to see it all, the view is truly fine. It is
especially interesting to trace the river in its various curves, and
to pick out the many bridges which span it. Another striking feature
is the immense number of spires. The guide pointed out the churches to
them, and also the different parts of the city.
"If you thought it was windy on the bus, Betty, I wonder what you call
this," exclaimed Barbara, grasping her hat with both hands. "I'm going
down now."
The others were quite ready to follow, and they wound their way down,
down, down, until they stood again on the main floor, under the dome.
"This is called St. Paul's Church-yard," said Mrs. Pitt, leading the
way around back of the cathedral. "This used to be a very busy place.
St. Paul's School was here, within the yard, as well as many shops.
The first printer who produced books for children had his shop in this
corner. In the days when the interior of the building was put to such
dreadful uses, the outside was treated quite as badly. Shops of all
kinds were built up against the cathedral, and sometimes the noise
which the carpenters made greatly disturbed those at the service
within. It must have been shocking indeed! It is said that for a very
small sum, the sexton would allow boys to climb up and ring the bells
as much as they liked; and, on the day of Queen Mary's coronation, she
saw a Dutchman standing on the weather-vane, waving a flag."
"My! I'd like to have seen that!" cried John, to whom such gymnastic
feats appealed.
While they walked back to the Cheshire Cheese, Mrs. Pitt explained to
them what St. Paul's Cathedral once comprised.
"In the London of the Middle Ages, the Church ruled supreme," she told
them. "At least one-fourth of the entire city was owned by the
churches and the religious houses. To carry on the monasteries and
churches, a tremendous number of people were necessary. At St. Paul's,
in 1450, there were:
The bishop,
Four archdeacons,
The treasurer,
The precentor,
The chancellor,
Thirty greater canons,
Twelve lesser canons,
Fifty chaplains, and
Thirty vicars.
These were of the higher rank; there were innumerable others of lower
rank, such as the master of the singing-school, the binder, and the
translator. The brewer, in 1286, brewed 67,814 gallons, and the baker
baked about 40,000 loaves. This gives one a little idea of what it
meant to conduct a cathedral in those days of the all-powerful
Church."
Between the poor shops of Fleet Street, open many little passages, and
these lead into tiny courts and winding alleys. The entrance to one of
them is marked with the sign, "Wine Office Court." Directly off from
this narrow, dark alley stands the famous Cheshire Cheese, the only
genuine old-time tavern or "coffee-house" which still exists
unchanged. It is a little, low building, with quaint bow-window of
square panes.
"Why, we can't all get in there, can we?" laughed John, as Mrs. Pitt
stepped inside. The door is very small, and the hallway was so crowded
by curious visitors, and by jostling, pushing waiters, that it did not
seem possible for another person to enter. They managed, however, to
elbow their way through the crowd into the celebrated "coffee-room"
itself.
That "coffee-room" is splendid! The ceiling is very low, and the walls
are wainscoted in dark wood. Although the room is so small, there are
numerous long tables, and old-fashioned, high-backed settles. One
seat, in the corner farthest from the door, is marked with a little
tablet, telling us that there was Dr. Johnson's chosen place. Several
pictures of that noted gentleman adorn the walls. It always seems
very much out of keeping with the quaintness of the room, to find it
full of laughing, chattering Americans. A few quiet English clerks
come there for their noon meal, but the majority of the patrons of the
Cheshire Cheese are the tourists.
"There's nothing to do but to wait here until we can get seats," said
Mrs. Pitt; so they all remained standing in the middle of the floor,
directly in the path of the waiters, until finally some seats were
free, and they slid into one of the long benches which extend down
each side of the tables, placed endwise to the wall.
"Are you sorry you proposed coming here?" Mrs. Pitt asked Betty,
watching with amusement her crest-fallen face as she saw the soiled
linen, and untidy look of the entire table.
"Oh, no," Betty answered doubtfully, "only I guess people come here
more because Dr. Johnson did, than because they like it."
Mrs. Pitt laughed. "That's very true," she said. "The service isn't
exactly prompt, either. We've already waited quite fifteen minutes, I
am sure. I ordered lark pie and Cheshire cheese for you, of course.
Every one takes them on his first visit here."
The lark pie was Dr. Johnson's favorite dish, but that fact does not
suffice to make it very enjoyable. Betty frankly confessed that she
could not manage to eat hers, but John pretended to be very
industrious over his, although he did a good deal of looking about the
room and commenting upon things he saw.
"There's even sawdust on the floor," he announced jubilantly. "Did you
ever! My! How hot and stuffy it is here! Were all old inns just like
this, Mrs. Pitt?"
"Yes, pretty much so, I think," was the response. "There were ever so
many of them, you know, and each was frequented by a certain class of
men. For instance, there was the 'British Coffee-house,' where all the
Scotch visitors went; there was 'Robin's,' which was noted for its
foreign bankers and ambassadors; and there was 'Dolly's Chophouse,'
where the wits congregated. Most of the famous clubs held their
meetings at one or another of the 'coffee-houses,' too. The 'Spectator
Club' met at 'Button's Coffee-house,' and there the 'Spectator Papers'
had their beginnings. There Addison, Steele, Pope, and others, spent
their leisure hours. Some of the London clubs of the eighteenth
century had very queer names!" she continued. "There was the 'Ugly
Club,' the 'Quack Club,' the 'Beefsteak Club,' the 'Split-Farthing
Club,' and the 'Small Coalmen's Music Club,' for example. Here, at the
Cheshire Cheese, Goldsmith often came with Dr. Johnson. Can't you
imagine the two sitting over at that table, with Boswell not far away,
patiently listening, quill in hand? Dr. Johnson was very careless and
untidy, you know, and invariably spilled his soup. It was he who used
to walk up and down Fleet Street touching every post he passed!"
All this time they had been waiting for their cheese. When it finally
came, it proved to be much better than the lark pie. The cheese is
served in little three-cornered tins, and is poured hot over crisp
pieces of toast.
When they had finished, they went up the winding stairs to see the
room where the famous "Literary Club" used to meet. Dr. Johnson's
chair is preserved there.
"Didn't Dr. Johnson live near here, too, Mother?" asked Barbara, as
they came out again into the court.
"Yes, I believe he lived in both Johnson and Bolt Courts," Mrs. Pitt
told them. "His haunts were all about here. In number six, over there,
Goldsmith is said to have written 'The Vicar of Wakefield.'"
From there, they walked up Fleet Street, discussing their unusual
lunch as they went. They had all enjoyed it,--even Betty.
She made them all laugh, however, by announcing seriously, "I'm glad I
went, but I think it is just about as nice to read about lunching
there, as to really do it. And then, you wouldn't be quite so hungry
afterwards!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
A SUNDAY NIGHT CHAT
It was Sunday afternoon, and the time for John and Betty to send their
weekly letters home. The day was a beautiful one in early spring, the
grass and trees in the garden behind the house were very green, birds
were singing outside, people were continually walking by, and the
letters progressed but slowly. Every few moments Betty stole a glance
out-of-doors, and John sat leaning his elbow on the desk chewing the
end of his penholder, while he gazed steadily out of the window.
"Well, what do you think of it all, John?" asked Betty thoughtfully.
"Aren't we glad we came, and aren't Mrs. Pitt and Barbara and Philip
good to us?"
"Just splendid!" exclaimed John most emphatically. He had turned away
from the window now, and was entering earnestly into the conversation.
"I just tell you what, Betty, it's a different thing to peg away at
an old, torn history-book at school, and to come over here and see
things and places, while Mrs. Pitt tells you about them! Why, I
honestly like English history the way we're learning it now!"
Betty smiled in an elder-sisterly fashion. "Well, I always did like to
study history, but it surely makes it nicer and easier to do it this
way. But besides that, John, don't you think it's queer and very
interesting to see the way the English do things--all their customs, I
mean. They're so different from ours! Why, when I first saw Barbara
that day at the train, I thought it was the funniest thing that her
hair was all hanging loose down her back. I wouldn't think of being so
babyish! I thought perhaps she'd lost off her ribbon maybe, but she's
worn it that way ever since. And her little sailor-hat looks so
countrified as she has it,--'way down over her ears!"
[Illustration: "I'D FEEL LIKE 'LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY' GOING AROUND
WITH THOSE CLOTHES ON!"--_Page 84._]
"I know it; it seemed mighty funny to me to see Philip's black suit
with the long trousers, his broad collar, and skimpy short coat! It's
what all the boys at the Eton School wear, he says. They must feel
like fools! Why, I'd feel like--like--'Little Lord Fauntleroy' going
around with those clothes on all the time!" John's voice was full of
scorn, yet his eyes twinkled with fun. "But, the high hat, just like
father's opera-hat, which Philip wears, beats it all!" he continued.
"I'm so used to it now, though, that I don't think of it any more.
It's queer how soon you get used to things! It's just like riding
along the streets, and keeping to the left instead of to the right.
The first time I rode in a hansom (you weren't there that day, Betty)
and we suddenly turned a corner, keeping close to the left curb, I
poked open the little door in the roof and shouted, 'Hey there!
Mister! You'll bump into something if you don't look out!' The driver
just stared; he didn't seem to know what I was talking about."
"Yes," went on Betty in her turn, "keeping to the left did seem queer
at first. You know, John, how often we have wished that Dan and the
automobile were over here. Honestly, I think Dan would surely have an
accident! He never could remember to keep to the left! Now, we simply
must go on with our letters! Begin when I say three! One--two--(hurry,
John, you haven't dipped your pen!), three!" and both commenced to
write industriously.
The letters were finally finished just as the tea-bell rang. Betty ran
to wash her hands, and then they went down to the library, where tea
was served every afternoon that they were at home.
"Why! I quite like tea over here!" Betty remarked. "I never drink it
at home! Mother would be so surprised if she saw me! Do all English
people drink it every afternoon as you do, Mrs. Pitt?"
"Yes, it seems to go with the English people, somehow. We'd quite as
soon think of doing without our breakfast or dinner as our
four-o'clock-tea. You've noticed, my dear, how I always manage to get
my tea at some little shop when we are on one of our sight-seeing
tours. Really, I am quite lost without it! Oh! it's just a habit, of
course." As she spoke, Mrs. Pitt poured herself another cup.
When the tea things had been removed, and a fire was lighted, stories
were called for.
"Tell us some of the stories you know about different places and old
customs, Mother," urged Barbara.
"Very well," said Mrs. Pitt willingly. "Let--me--see! You remember,
don't you, having the guide point out London Bridge to you, from the
top of St. Paul's, day before yesterday? That's the oldest bridge, you
know, for it seems to have existed as long ago as we know anything of
London itself. But legend has it that before there was any bridge over
the Thames, people crossed in a ferry which was run by a certain John
Overs. This man naturally became rich, as very many people were always
paying him for taking them across the river, but he was a great miser.
The ferryman had one fair daughter about whom he was as miserly as he
was with his money,--keeping her shut up out of reach of her lover.
One day, John Overs thought he would like to save the cost of
providing food for his household, so he pretended to be dead. He
expected that his servants would fast in consequence, as was the
ancient custom; but so great was their joy when they thought their
master dead, that they all began to dance, to make merry together, and
to feast upon all they found in the house. The old miser stood this
just as long as he could, and then he sprang up to lay hands upon
them. The servants fled, believing that it was something
supernatural--all except one, who, more daring than the rest, killed
his master with his weapon. So old John did die after all, but in an
unexpected way.
"Part the second of my story tells of how the monks of a neighboring
abbey finally consented to bury the body; when the abbot returned,
however, he was very angry at what they had done, and gave the friars
some orders. They dug up the body of the poor old boatman, tied it to
the back of an ass, and turned the animal loose. The body was finally
thrown off at the place of public execution (directly under the
gallows), and there it was buried and remained. Meanwhile the
daughter, Mary, was having more trouble. Immediately upon the death of
her father, she had sent for her lover, but in coming to her, he had
been thrown off his horse and killed. This was too much for the
unfortunate girl, who decided to retire to a nunnery, leaving her
entire fortune to found the church of 'St. Mary Overy.' That is the
real name of the church now known as Southwark Cathedral, which stands
just across London Bridge. Now, how do you like that story?"
[Illustration: "YOU REMEMBER, DON'T YOU, HAVING THE GUIDE POINT OUT
LONDON BRIDGE?"--_Page 86._]
"Great!" exclaimed John. "Whoever thought that up had a vivid
imagination, all right!"
"Why, don't you believe it, John?" said Betty, who always took
everything most seriously.
When they were quiet again, Mrs. Pitt talked on.
"London Bridge, up to the time of the Great Fire, was crowded with
houses, you know, and there was even a chapel there. Over the gate at
the Southwark end of the bridge, the heads of traitors were exhibited
on the ends of long poles. Here Margaret Roper, whom you met at the
Tower, came, bargained for, and at last secured the head of her
father, Sir Thomas More. But, to go back to the houses! Hans Holbein,
the painter, and John Bunyan, the poet, are both said to have resided
on London Bridge. I also like the story which tells of a famous wine
merchant, named Master Abel, who had his shop there. Before his door,
he set up a sign on which was the picture of a bell, and under it were
written the words, 'Thank God I am Abel.' Here's a picture of old
London Bridge. Imagine how quaint it must have looked crowded by these
picturesque old houses, and with its streets filled with travelers.
All those entering London from the south came across that bridge,
which was consequently a great thoroughfare. Near the Southwark side
of the bridge is where the Tabard Inn stood--the inn from which the
Canterbury Pilgrims set out; and near the bank, known as Bankside in
those days, was the celebrated Globe Theatre, connected with
Shakespeare and his associates. The popular Paris Gardens were there,
too, where the sport of bear-baiting was seen in Queen Elizabeth's
time. If we went over there, we could see the former sites of these
historic places, but they are now covered by unattractive, modern
buildings or great breweries. It's hard to conjure up the Globe
Theatre out of present-day Southwark," she added with a sigh, as if
she were speaking to herself. "Not far from the site of the Tabard
Inn, a picturesque, gabled house once stood, in which John Harvard was
born. Yes, John, that was the man who founded Harvard College, at your
American Cambridge."
"Yes, and I mean to go there myself some day!" announced John,
immediately fired by the familiar name of our oldest university. "My
father went, you know."
Mrs. Pitt and the two girls spent the remainder of the evening in
talking over plans for the next day, but John's thoughts had been
turned to college, and so he and Philip had a lively time comparing
notes about English and American colleges.
"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."
[Illustration: THE MOSS-GROWN SAXON PORCH.--_Page 97._]