Part 7

“Yes, he turned them out, and gave their dwelling to the City of London. Then his son, the young Protestant King Edward VI, came to the throne. Now only a few days before he died, Edward listened to a very touching sermon from one of the new Protestant bishops, about the need for looking after poor children who were fatherless. He was so impressed, that he set apart this Grey Friars’ monastery to be a school for orphan boys for ever, and called it _Christ’s Hospital_.”

“And it’s still a school for them, isn’t it?” Betty exclaimed eagerly. “Why, my cousin Dick goes to it. But it’s not in London now. Dick goes to school somewhere in the country.”

“It’s only about twenty years ago that Christ’s Hospital, or, as we generally call it now, _the Blue Coat School_, was moved to Horsham in Sussex. Up to that time it stood here. At first, as you see, the boys were lodged and taught in the monastery that once belonged to the Grey Friars. Long years afterwards, the monastery part was pulled down and new houses built. But the school still stood on the old ground, and forty years ago, boys played over the place where hundreds of Grey Friars were buried. Now they play in green fields in the country, and live in red-brick newly-built houses, and have a new red-brick chapel instead of this ancient church.”

“Isn’t there _any_ of it left in our time?” asked Betty.

Godmother shook her head. “Another and quite a different church stands on its site, and instead of the old Courts of Christ’s Hospital, you will see when you come to this place in our day, a huge modern building—the London Post Office.”

Betty sighed. “What a pity! But even though the school is moved, I’m glad the boys still wear the same dress as they did in Edward the Sixth’s time. That makes even the new school still interesting, doesn’t it?”

“There go some of them,” said Godmother, pointing to where in the distance two or three yellow-stockinged boys were running across a courtyard surrounded by walls that even in the reign of Elizabeth were ancient. “I saw their descendants playing football when I passed near Horsham in the train the other day. And from the look of them, they might have been the very same lads.”

“That is what’s so interesting about London,” Betty remarked. “Though it’s so changed now—in the time to which _we_ belong, I mean—things that belong to the Past go on. In a different way, of course. But there’s always something about them to show what they had to do with the Past, isn’t there?”

“Yes, if it’s only the name of a street,” Godmother agreed. “Nearly every name in London is a magic key unlocking a door into some part or other of the Past. I’m glad you’re beginning to find London not quite so dull,” she added in a teasing voice.

“It’s simply wonderful—when you see it by magic,” Betty returned.

“Every one can see it by magic if they take a little trouble,” was Godmother’s reply.

“Are there any more big schools we can see?” Betty asked, as they turned away from the great monastery that once held the Grey Friars, and was now peopled by boys.

“Several. The century we are in, the sixteenth, is the great time for the starting of schools, many of which, like Christ’s Hospital, are great schools to this day. For instance, close to St. Paul’s, whose spire you can see from here, is the famous school of St. Paul’s, begun, or _founded_, as we say, by Dean Colet, when Elizabeth’s father, Henry the Eighth, was reigning. It’s been more than fifty years in existence already.”

“And now it’s at Hammersmith. Why, my brother Harry goes there!”

“So that makes it about four hundred years old in our day, doesn’t it?” said Godmother. “But it’s still the same school. Then over there, is Charter House, where the boys are lodged in a monastery once belonging to certain monks called the _Carthusians_. They remained there till _my_ day. But now, like the Blue Coat boys, they have moved into the country—to Godalming. They still call themselves Carthusians, though, in memory of the old monastery from which they came. We’ll go and see all that is left of Charter House when we slip back into our own age. It’s still very interesting and beautiful. Just now we must move on, for there’s so much in Elizabethan London to look at, that we can’t spend too long over the schools. We’ll go back to London Bridge, because it’s on the way to something I particularly want to show you.”

In a moment as it seemed, they were there, for one of the convenient things about these magic visits, as Betty had of course noticed, was that they were able to whisk from one place to another in a few seconds, instead of having to walk a long way to reach different parts of London.

“Are we going over to Southwark?” she asked, when they were half-way across the Bridge.

“Yes, but before we get there I must explain what we are going to see, and find out how much you know about the great men who are living now in this sixteenth century with Elizabeth reigning. We’ll sit down in the porch of the Chapel of St. Thomas.”

“This is where we sat before, two hundred years ago, when Richard the Second was king,” murmured Betty.

“And there are the English people still coming and going over London Bridge as almost in the same place they come and go in our own century to-day! People of the same character,—the descendants of those men and women we saw in the fourteenth century, and of these we see now in their doublets and hose, their ruffs and hoops. It’s only their dress that changes after all,” said Godmother, as though speaking to herself. “The Great War has proved that.... But I mustn’t forget we are in the sixteenth century now, and not the twentieth,” she added, smiling, “and you shall tell me, Betty, the names of some of the great men who are either living in London now, or at least often come to it.”

“Well, Sir Francis Drake, and Sir John Hawkins, and Sir Walter Raleigh,” began Betty, thinking hard.

“Yes, those are three of the great sailors. Now let us have some of the great writers.”

“Shakespeare, and Kit Marlowe, and——” Betty hesitated. “Oh yes, Edmund Spenser and Ben Jonson, and——”

Godmother nodded. “There are many more, but let us keep to the four men you’ve mentioned. Out of those four, three of them are play-writers, Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Ben Jonson. When you see a Shakespeare play now, you go to a big theatre, don’t you, where according to what you can afford, you sit either in the stalls or dress circle, or upper circle, or pit, or gallery? Facing you, is a large stage, with scenery arranged to represent the different scenes of the play as they pass, and sometimes this scenery is very beautiful. Curtains go up and down to hide, or to reveal the stage at the right moments, and the audience sits in comfort in what is often a fine building.”

“Yes,” said Betty, nodding her head.

“Now, remembering our modern theatres, come and see the places in which Shakespeare’s plays are acted in this sixteenth century in which we find ourselves!”

They went on over the bridge to that part of Southwark lying along the shore of the river, which is now called Bankside. But instead of the modern warehouses and breweries lining the river, with the streets of South London stretching away and away beyond, Betty saw only a single row of small gabled houses along the top of a mound.

“Before that bank was thrown up, all the ground on this south side of the river was under water at high tide,” explained Godmother. “Now, as you see, meadows and gardens stretch behind these houses and it is all fertile land.”

“What are those funny-looking buildings dotted about in the fields?” Betty asked. “I don’t mean the inns, because I remember them, from the time of Richard the Second. There’s the _Tabard_, where we saw the pilgrims. But there are two or three buildings sticking up like towers. Do you see?”

“Those are the theatres. Come and see one of them. We’ll go into one that has just been built—_The Globe_, as it is called.”

Betty followed the old lady wonderingly as she led the way to the right, along a path by the river till they came close to a curious, tall, six-sided building. Over its door was an inscription in Latin.

“What does it mean?” Betty asked, as she gazed at this strange “theatre.”

“Well, we may translate it ‘_All the world’s a stage_.’”

“Why, that’s in ‘Shakespeare!’”

“Yes, and no doubt Shakespeare had that very inscription in mind when he wrote the line a few years ago—remember we are in Elizabeth’s reign!—in _As you Like It_.”

“Are they acting now? The play can’t have begun yet. There’s such a noise going on inside.”

Betty glanced about her at the crowd entering the theatre. Every now and then a boat rowed across from the opposite shore, would land a company of richly-dressed young men who, laughing and swaggering, pushed their way through the throng and went into the building.

“We’ll go too,” said Godmother.

In a moment Betty found herself in a round wooden place, part of which was open to the sky, though the stage facing her, was protected by an overhanging thatched roof. Three galleries, one above the other, ran round the theatre, and these were thronged with people. On the stage, which jutted out into the open-air part of the building, another smaller stage was set with a gallery above it, filled with musicians in funny tall hats trimmed with ribbons. Some young men were sitting actually on the stage itself, while the poorer people stood in the open space in front of it, with nothing but the sky above their heads. There was a perfect babel of noise, for hawkers were moving about calling nuts and ale and apples to sell, the young gallants on the stage were playing at dice and quarrelling, and the whole place seemed in confusion. Then there was a flourish of trumpets from the musicians’ gallery and suddenly everything was quiet.

“There have been two trumpet sounds before we came in,” Godmother explained. “This third one means that the play is going to begin.”

“I know what it is,” whispered Betty. “I saw some funny little play-bills on the door outside. It’s _Richard the Second_—and that’s all about the very reign we were in when we came to old London last time!”

Her eyes were now fixed on the stage, which was hung round with curtains, and strewn with green rushes. There was no scenery except one roughly-painted canvas stretched across the back of the smaller stage, above which, on a board, was written _King Richard’s Palace_.

“That was _Westminster_, wasn’t it?” whispered Betty, just as King Richard himself, John of Gaunt and a train of nobles walked on to the stage, and the King began his first speech.

“_Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured, Lancaster_——”

“But they’re none of them dressed a bit like the people they’re meant to be,” she objected. “They’re wearing the same sort of clothes as the people in the audience have on!”

“Yes, the Elizabethans don’t trouble about that,” Godmother replied, “and neither right costume nor proper scenery makes good acting, you know. If we had time to stay and listen, we should hear this play very well acted. Do you notice how breathlessly quiet the audience is?”

Betty followed her guide reluctantly out of this strange theatre, looking back at the curtain-hung stage, with the young men in their short velvet cloaks, seated on stools close to the players, at the crowd standing in the open space under the blue sky, and at the circular galleries thronged with people.

“So that’s how the theatres we go to now, began, I suppose?” she asked.

“Not quite. Even that rough, simple sort of building we’ve just left is an advance upon what the grandfathers of these people saw in the way of stage performances. Till the Globe, and one or two other theatres (which I’ll show you in a minute) were built, a few years ago, the plays were acted in the courtyards of inns. Let us come into the yard of this one, and I’ll explain.”

They went under an archway, and found themselves outside the Falcon Inn.

“There,” said Godmother, pointing to the wooden galleries into which the rooms of the tavern opened. “Inns like this one, were the first theatres. The stage was a number of boards laid upon trestles, and placed at the end of the courtyard. The poorer people stood here where we are standing, in the middle of the yard, and from the galleries, the richer people looked on. You see how the same sort of arrangement goes on in the new Globe theatre, only it is built in a _circle_, instead of in a square, and the stage at least, is protected from the weather by a roof. If you think of any theatre in our own day, you will see that there’s more than a memory in it, of these inns, and that rough building from which we’ve just come. The _pit_ is the yard, or open space. The Dress Circle and ‘Gallery’ correspond to the galleries round the inn, or round a building like the _Globe_. So the most modern up-to-date play-house in _our_ century is really only the great-great-grandchild of the play-house in Elizabeth’s day!”

“And even before _her_ time there were the miracle plays, where at least there was a stage and actors,” said Betty. “Do they still act miracle plays, now, in this sixteenth century?”

Godmother shook her head. “Not often. The people, you see, are better educated now, and have grown out of them—especially as they have splendid stirring plays written by great men who are alive amongst them, like Shakespeare and Marlowe and Ben Jonson. We may have learnt how to make fine scenery and luxurious theatres in our day, but we can’t write plays like William Shakespeare’s. By the way,” she added, “he lives over here in Southwark, not far from the great church of St. Saviour’s. He hasn’t yet left London to go back to his old home in Stratford-on-Avon.”

“I do hope we shall see him!” Betty exclaimed.... “What are these other buildings along the river, Godmother?”

“Some of them are theatres, more or less like the Globe, with pretty names such as the _Rose_ and the _Swan_. That place some way farther up, where you see a crowd of people and a few roofs, is the famous Paris-Gardens, where poor wretched bears are kept, and baited for the people’s amusement. A horrible so-called sport! But the rich young noblemen enjoy the sight quite as much as the roughs do, and Paris-Gardens is a very fashionable place of amusement.”

“But they have to come over the river to it every time,” Betty observed. “I wonder why all the theatres and amusements were put here, and not close to where the rich people live?”

“There’s a reason for that. In London there’s a very strong party, growing every year stronger, called the Puritan party. These men hate the theatre, and think all amusement ‘godless,’ and as many of them are men who manage city affairs, they won’t allow theatres in London itself. But here in Southwark, they have no power, so that’s why the theatres are over on this south side of the river, where the Puritans can’t prevent them from being built.”

“Queen Elizabeth isn’t like that, though, is she? Like the Puritans, I mean?”

“Not a bit,” laughed Godmother. “She loves every kind of amusement, acting and dancing especially. She dances herself, though she’s getting quite old. You remind me that now we’ve seen something of the life of the people in their business and pleasure, we must also take a glimpse of the Court and of the men and women surrounding the Queen. Not that she shuts herself away from her subjects. Far from it. Never was there a queen so popular as ‘Good Queen Bess!’ Every time she moves from one place to another there is a triumphal procession. To-day, for instance, she is coming back from her palace at Greenwich, which is down the river there, and she will ride in state through the Chepe.”

“Oh! can’t we see her?” Betty implored.

“Certainly we will.”

They hastened over the bridge, and much more quickly than they could have made the journey in what Betty called _un_-magic time, found themselves somehow or other seated at a window overlooking the Chepe. The market-place below was gaily decorated and crowded by eager people. Soon cheers announced that the Queen was in sight, and in a moment or two she passed the window from which they were leaning, riding on a white horse covered with splendid trappings. A very handsome young man dressed in white and silver, with a blue velvet cloak flung back from his shoulder, led the horse by the bridle.

“That’s the Earl of Essex,” Godmother said. “The Queen’s present favourite.”

Betty glanced at him admiringly, and then at the Queen, who was gorgeous in velvet and jewels, her long cloak falling in heavy folds about her. She wore a red frizzled wig, and her face was lined and old. Evidently the people loved her, for they cheered themselves hoarse, and as she passed, fell on their knees in the road. Every now and then, in answer to their shouts of welcome, she bowed and exclaimed in a clear voice, “Thank ye, my good people!” Following her came a crowd of pretty ladies, some in litters, others on horseback, and all beautifully dressed in white.

“Those are the Maids of Honour,” Godmother explained, “and these”—as a train of gallant noblemen rode by—“are the courtiers who always travel about with the Queen.”

“She’s going to the palace of Westminster, I suppose?” Betty inquired.

“No. Don’t you remember I told you that the kings and queens of England no longer live there? Since we last saw London, a great new palace has risen—the Palace of Whitehall.”

“We drove down Whitehall this morning!”

“We did. And if you remember, I told you to imagine all the houses on the left of it swept away so that the river could be seen. Well, the Whitehall Palace in which Queen Elizabeth lives part of the year, covers all the ground between St. James’s Park and the Thames, as you will see in a moment. The Queen will ride down to the river now, and finish the journey by water, so let us follow her.”

The procession was out of sight by this time, but when Betty reached the river, she saw the Queen just stepping into a huge painted and gilded boat, drawn up against one of the landing stages.

“That’s the royal barge,” Godmother told her. “It’s been waiting there for her. We’ll get into this little boat and follow it up to Whitehall. Little does our waterman know that he will have two invisible passengers to row!”

Betty laughed as she sprang into the boat. It was the first time to-day that she had been on the river, and she could scarcely contain her delight at the beauty of the scene. On the surface of the clear sparkling water, floated numberless barges following the splendid one in which the Queen, her Maids of Honour, and several courtiers were seated. The barges were painted with bright colours and had gilded prows, and brilliant canopies of silk were stretched above them. Swans with snowy wings circled round the barges, from many of which came the sound of music and singing.

Looking back, she saw London Bridge with its quaint houses clinging to it like limpets, and the throngs of people leaning from the windows watching the crowded procession of boats moving towards Whitehall.

“Oh, Godmother, if only the river looked like this _now_—in our time, I mean! All bright and clear, with no smoke about, and with all these beautiful barges on it!”

“Yes, as you see, in Queen Elizabeth’s day people use the river as the means of getting from one part of London to another. It is the great water road of the city, and in this age, one takes a boat, or enters a barge—instead of a taxi or an omnibus.”

“There are ever so many more great houses on the banks than there were in Richard the Second’s time,” Betty exclaimed, looking at the splendid mansions, each one standing in its own garden, stretching in a line along the Strand. The Strand, however, she noticed was still more or less of a country road, with fields and orchards at the back of it.

“The Savoy Palace still stands, you see,” Godmother said, “though it has been rebuilt. That great pile not far from it with the round towers, is Durham House, where Lady Jane Grey was born. Elizabeth has lately given it to Sir Walter Raleigh, the famous sailor and writer. He has a little study up in that turret.”

“He’s one of Elizabeth’s favourites, isn’t he? Oh yes, it was Walter Raleigh who once put down his cloak for the Queen to walk on. What a lovely view over the river he must have from his study.”

“That’s York House,” Godmother went on, pointing to the next mansion, “and there lives another famous man of Elizabeth’s day, Sir Francis Bacon. Later on, in the next reign, it will be the home of the great Duke of Buckingham, and there’s still a tiny bit left of it in our own day, which you can see when you turn down out of the Strand to go to Charing Cross Underground Station.”

“I know! A big stone gate?”

Godmother nodded. “Which of course at that time stood at the edge of the water. It was the Water Gate to the Duke of Buckingham’s palace. But to-day of course we shall not see it, for it isn’t yet built. We’ve passed Somerset House, but——”

“Somerset House?” interrupted Betty. “_That’s_ still standing anyway! The front of it is in the Strand, and the back looks over the river, doesn’t it? Why, King’s College is part of Somerset House, and people I know, go there for examinations!”

“Yes. Somerset House still stands, and is a fine place, but it has all been rebuilt in quite a different style from the house we’ve just passed.” There was a moment’s silence before Godmother said: “Here is the royal landing-place for Whitehall! The Queen and her train of attendants have gone up the steps into the palace, which, by the way, you mustn’t think of as one big house, but rather as a number of separate buildings, scattered over the ground where now stand all the big Government offices like the Foreign Office, the Home Office, the Colonial Office, where, in our day, the business of governing our country is done. Elizabeth’s father, Henry the Eighth, has not long ago added to, and rebuilt much of the palace which he took from his famous minister, Cardinal Wolsey. Whitehall belonged to Wolsey before he fell into disgrace, and King Henry was only too glad to get such a splendid palace. You can see from here, the line of a great hall he added to it. It’s there that some of the masques of which his daughter Elizabeth is so fond, are often acted.”

“Masques? What are they?” Betty inquired. “Aren’t we going to see the palace?” she went on in the same breath.

“I think we’ll leave the palace till the next of our magic visits to London, when we shall see it at the height of its glory. We can land here though, and sit in this part of the royal garden while I tell you something about the Court Masques.”

Betty followed her godmother up some steps from the landing-stage, and sat down beside her on a marble bench behind which ran a yew hedge, shutting off the view of the palace beyond.

“Let me see if I can guess where we are now, if we were back in our own time, I mean,” she began. “I suppose this shady walk would be the part of the Victoria Embankment near Westminster Bridge?”

“That’s about right,” agreed Godmother approvingly. “Right and left of us we should see bridges crossing the river where now we see none at all. For London Bridge is out of sight, and that’s the only one that yet exists.