In the white parlour, an hour or two later, she sat full of expectation, watching Godmother as she took a volume from the enchanted cabinet.
A SEDAN CHAIR
“Here is the book that will take us back to-day,” she said. “It’s called Boswell’s Life of Johnson, and it’s almost as good for news of the eighteenth century, as Pepys’ Diary is, for news of the seventeenth. Shut your eyes, hold the book in the magic way, and say, as Johnson used to say to his friend Boswell, ‘Sir, let us walk down Fleet Street.’”
In a flash they were there, and at first sight Betty could scarcely believe it was the same Fleet Street she had left only a few hours previously. In a minute or two, however, she recognized it, in spite of the changes, for she stood close to the entrance to the Temple, and not far from it rose the church of St. Clement Danes. But the great pile of the new Law Courts had vanished, and so had the monument with the Griffin upon it in the middle of the road. Where that had stood an hour or two previously there stretched a fine stone gateway, and a line of little shops took the place of the Law Courts.
“That’s Temple Bar,” said Godmother, pointing to the gate. “If you had lived forty years ago, you would have seen it without the help of magic, for it had not then been pulled down.”
“What are those long spikes for on the top?” asked Betty, gazing up at the gate.
“For a horrible purpose. On them were fixed the heads of men who had been executed as traitors. Johnson and Goldsmith saw the heads of certain rebels on those spikes, only a hundred and seventy years ago.”
“I’m glad they’re not there now,” said Betty, shuddering. “Does Temple Bar belong to the time before the Fire?”