"If not their characters, at least something of what is in their heads--what they know--and don"t know; what they can talk about, in short."
"I do not know anything--to talk about."
"Oh, fie, Mr. Dallas! you who have been to Oxford and London. Tell me, what is London like? An overgrown New York, I suppose."
"No, neither. "Overgrown" means grown beyond strength or usefulness.
London is large, but not overgrown, in any sense."
"Well, like New York, only larger?"
"No more than a mushroom is like a great old oak. London is like that; an old oak, gnarled and twisted and weather-worn, with plenty of hale life and young vigour springing out of its rugged old roots."
"That sounds--poetical."
"If you mean, not true, you are under a mistake."
"Then it seems you know London?"
"I suppose I do; better than many of those who live in it. When I am there, Miss Frere, I am with an old uncle, who is an antiquary and an enthusiast on the subject of his native city. From the first it has been his pleasure to go with me all over London, and tell me the secrets of its old streets, and show me what was worth looking at.
London was my picture-book, my theatre, where I saw tragedy and comedy together; my museum of antiquities. I never tire of it, and my Uncle Strahan is never tired of showing it to me."
"Why, what is it to see?" asked Miss Frere, with some real curiosity.
"For one thing, it is an epitome of English history, strikingly ill.u.s.trated."
"Oh, you mean Westminster Abbey! Yes, I have heard of that, of course.
But I should think _that_ was not interminable."
"I do not mean Westminster Abbey."
"What then, please?"
"I cannot tell you here," said Pitt smiling, as the horses, having found firm ground, set off again at a gay trot. "Wait till we get home, and I will show you a map of London."
The young lady, satisfied with having gained her object, waited very patiently, and told Mrs. Dallas on reaching home that the drive had been delightful.
Next day Pitt was as good as his word. He brought his map of London into the cool matted room where the ladies were sitting, rolled up a table, and spread the map out before Miss Frere. The young lady dropped her embroidery and gave her attention.
"What have you there, Pitt?" his mother inquired.
"London, mamma."
"London?" Mrs. Dallas drew up her chair too, where she could look on; while Pitt briefly gave an explanation of the map; showed where was the "City" and where the fashionable quarter.
"I suppose," said Miss Frere, studying the map, "the parts of London that delight you are over here?" indicating the West End.
"No," returned Pitt, "by no means. The City and the Strand are infinitely more interesting."
"My dear," said his mother, "I do not see how that can be."
"It is true, though, mother. All this," drawing his finger round a certain portion of the map, "is crowded with the witnesses of human life and history; full of remains that tell of the men of the past, and their doings, and their sufferings."
Miss Frere"s fine eyes were lifted to him in inquiry; meeting them, he smiled, and went on.
"I must explain. Where shall I begin? Suppose, for instance, we take our stand here at Whitehall. We are looking at the Banqueting House of the Palace, built by Inigo Jones for James I. The other buildings of the palace, wide and splendid as they were, have mostly perished. This stands yet. I need not tell you the thoughts that come up as we look at it."
"Charles I was executed there, I know. What else?"
"There is a whole swarm of memories, and a whole crowd of images, belonging to the palace of which this was a part. Before the time you speak of, there was Cardinal Wolsey"--
"Oh, Wolsey! I remember."
"His outrageous luxury and pomp of living, and his disgrace. Then comes Henry VIII., and Anne Boleyn, and their marriage; Henry"s splendours, and his death. All that was here. In those days the buildings of Whitehall were very extensive, and they were further enlarged afterwards. Here Elizabeth held her court, and here she lay in state after death. James I comes next; he built the Banqueting House. And in his son"s time, the royal magnificence displayed at Whitehall was incomparable. All the gaieties and splendours and luxury of living that then were possible, were known here. And here was the scaffold where he died. The next figure is Cromwell"s."
"Leave him out!" said Mrs. Dallas, with a sort of groan of impatience.
"What shall I do with the next following, mamma? That is Charles II."
"He had a right there at least."
"He abused it."
"At least he was a king, and a gentleman."
"If I could show you Whitehall as it was in his day, mother, I think you would not want to look long. But I shall not try. We will go on to Charing Cross. The old palace extended once nearly so far. Here is the place." He pointed to a certain spot on the map.
"What is there now?" asked Betty.
"Not the old Cross. That is gone; but, of course, I cannot stand there without in thought going back to Edward I. and his queen. In its place is a brazen statue of Charles I. And in fact, when I stand there the winds seem to sweep down upon me from many a mountain peak of history.
Edward and his rugged greatness, and Charles and his weak folly; and the Protectorate, and the Restoration. For here, where the statue stands, stood once the gallows where Harrison and his companions were executed, when "the king had his own again." Sometimes I can hardly see the present, when I am there, for looking at the past."
"You are enthusiastic," said Miss Frere. "But I understand it. Yes, that is not like New York; not much!"
"What became of the Cross, Pitt?"
"Pulled down, mother--like everything else in its day."
"Who pulled it down?"
"The Republicans."
"The Republicans! Yes, it was like them!" said Mrs. Dallas. "Rebellion, dissent, and a want of feeling for whatever is n.o.ble and refined, all go together. That was the Puritans!"
"Pretty strong!" said Pitt. "And not quite fair either, is it? How much feeling for what is n.o.ble and refined was there in the court of the second Charles?--and how much of either, if you look below the surface, was in the policy or the character of the first Charles?"
"He did not destroy pictures and pull down statues," said Mrs. Dallas.
"He was at least a gentleman. But the Puritans were a low set, always.
I cannot forgive them for the work they did in England."