Up they went, over the worn stairs; and, finding the door locked, solemnly touched the brass knob, read the name 'Ed Peck' on the plate, and wiped their feet on a very dirty mat. It was ridiculous, of course; but hero-worship is not the worst of modern follies, and when one's hero has won from the world some of its heartiest smiles and tears, one may be forgiven for a little sentiment in a dark entry.
Next they went to the Saracen's Head, where Mr. Squeers stopped when in London. The odd old place looked as if it hadn't changed a particle. There was the wooden gallery outside, where the chamber-maids stood to see the coach off; the archway under which poor Nicholas drove that cold morning; the office, or bar, where the miserable little boys shivered while they took alternate sips out of one mug, and bolted hunches of bread and butter as Squeers 'nagged' them in private and talked to them like a father in public. Livy was tempted to bring away a little porter-pot hanging outside the door, as a trophy; but fearing Squeers's squint eye was upon her, she refrained, and took a muddy pebble instead.
They took a peep at the Temple and its garden. The fountain was not playing, but it looked very pleasant, nevertheless; and as they stood there the sun came out, as if anxious that they should see it at its best. It was all very well to know that Shakespeare's 'Twelfth Night' was played in Middle Temple Hall, that the York and Lancaster roses grew here, that Dr. Johnson lived No. 1 Inner Temple Lane, and that Goldsmith died No. 2 Brick Court, Middle Temple; these actual events and people seemed far less real than the scenes between Pendennis and Fanny, John Westlock and little Ruth Pinch. For their sakes Livy went to see the place; and for their sakes she still remembers that green spot in the heart of London, with the June sunshine falling on it as it fell that day.
The pilgrimage ended with a breathless climb up the Monument, whence they got a fine view of London, and better still of Todgerses. Livy found the house by instinct; and saw Cherry Pecksniff, now a sharp-nosed old woman, sitting at the back window. A gaunt, anxious-looking lady, in a massive bonnet, crossed the yard, with a basket in her hand; and the Professor said at once, 'That's Mrs. Todgers, and the amount of gravy single gentlemen eat is still weighing heavy on her mind.' As if to make the thing quite perfect, they discovered fitful glimpses of a tousled-looking boy, cleaning knives or boots, in a cellar-kitchen; and all the lawyers in London couldn't have argued them out of their firm belief that it was young Bailey, undergoing his daily torment in company with the black beetles and the mouldy bottles.
That nothing might be wanting to finish off the rainy-day ramble in an appropriate manner, when Livy's companion asked what she'd have for lunch, she boldly replied,—
'Weal pie and a pot of porter.'
As she was not fond of either, it was a sure proof of the sincerity of her regard for the persons who have made them immortal. They went into an eating-house, and ordered the lunch, finding themselves objects of interest to the other guests. But, though a walking doormat in point of mud, and somewhat flushed and excited by the hustling, climbing, and adoring, it is certain there wasn't a happier spinster in this 'Piljin Projess of a wale,' than the one who partook of 'weal pie' in memory of Sam Weller, and drank 'a modest quencher' to the health of Dick Swiveller at the end of that delightful Dickens day.
Much might be written about the domestic pleasures of English people, but as the compiler of this interesting work believes in the sacredness of private life, and has a holy horror of the dreadful people who outrage hospitality by basely reporting all they have seen and heard, she will practise what she preaches, and firmly resist the temptation to describe the delights of country strolls with poets, cosey five-o'clock teas in famous drawing-rooms, and interviews with persons whose names are household words.
This virtuous reticence leaves the best untold, and brings the story of two of our travellers to a speedy end. Matilda decided to remain and study art, spending her days copying Turner at the National Gallery, and her evenings in the society of the eight agreeable gentlemen who adorned the house where she abode.
Amanda hurried home with friends to enjoy a festive summer among the verdant plains of Cape Cod. With deep regret did her mates bid her adieu, and nothing but the certainty of soon embracing her again would have reconciled Livy to the parting; for in Amanda she had found that rare and precious treasure, a friend.