“Shee first deceased, Hee for a little Tryd,
To live without her, likd it not, and dyd.”
This adorns the tomb of John and Margaret Whiting, in the north transept.
Some time was passed in this wonderful church,—climbing the tiny, spiral stairs up to the clerestory, and going cautiously along the bit of a walk at this dizzy height above the floor of the church.
It needs time and much study to appreciate this sad old church, which, in spite of its broken pieces of marble, and ruined splendor and perfection of form, still bravely stands,—a lonely and pathetic relic of its grand past. A young person can scarcely understand it at all; it needs a grown man or woman whose experience enables him to read in the crumbling pillars and walls, stories of the times when England was young, the Church was the great glory and power, and there still lived men who were “fair and fortunate.”
In the vicinity of Smithfield are a number of quaint nooks and corners of old London. Many consider that the very best idea of the ancient city may now be had in Cloth Fair and Bartholomew Close, both of which are in this neighborhood. Here are still standing genuine Sixteenth Century houses amid much darkness and dirt.
“Here in Bartholomew Close,” stated Mrs. Pitt, “Benjamin Franklin learned his trade of printing, and Washington Irving, John Milton, and the painter Hogarth, all lived.”
From Smithfield they hastily betook themselves, by means of hansoms, to Crosby Hall, there to have luncheon. Mrs. Pitt laughed heartily when John said how glad he was to be able to eat amid ancient surroundings. He declared that he had been spending the entire morning so very far back in the Middle Ages, that it would have been too great a shock had he been taken immediately to a vulgar, modern restaurant.
When they had finished their luncheon and were waiting on a street corner for the arrival of a certain bus, suddenly a thrill of excitement went through the crowd, all traffic was quickly drawn up at the sides of the street where it halted, and a weird cry of “Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi” was heard in the distance.
“It’s the fire-brigade,” cried Philip, whereupon he and John were tense with anticipation.
Down the cleared street came the galloping horses with the fire-engines, the men clinging to them wearing dark-blue uniforms with red bindings, big brass helmets, which gleamed in the sunshine, and hatchets in their belts.