LITMIR.BIZ

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light could now be seen coming in through the little windows, high up near the roof—the clerestory windows, they are called. Betty could see the massive roof, the long aisles crowded with marble monuments, and the pillars. The canon’s voice was heard intoning in a deep, monotonous key; reading followed, and then some one sang, in a high, clear voice, which seemed to come from far away, and yet to fill all the space of the great building. Betty could not have spoken a word; she was filled with a kind of wondering awe such as she had never known before.

      John, more matter-of-fact, was examining the statues nearest to him.

      He touched Betty’s arm to attract her attention, and said, “See, there are lots of statues here, Betty, but I only know the names of William Pitt and Benjamin Disraeli, ‘Twice Prime-Minister.’ Do you remember him? Wonder if William Pitt was an ancestor of our Mrs. Pitt!” he rambled on, not seeing that his sister took no notice of him.

      As for Betty, she scarcely knew that any one had spoken to her. She seemed to be back in the Middle Ages, and the present had vanished away.

      When the service was ended, they walked about, examining the monuments as they went.

       “There’s the Abbey right ahead of us.”—Page 25.

      “This long, broad aisle extending from the main entrance to the choir is called the nave,” explained Mrs. Pitt. “The shorter aisles which form the crossing are the transepts, and the choir is always the eastern end of the building, containing the altar. These are facts which you will want to learn and remember.”

      “The kings and queens are all buried here, aren’t they, Mrs. Pitt?” questioned John. “Will they put King Edward here, too, when he dies?”

      “A great many kings and queens are buried here, though not all,” Mrs. Pitt told them. “The Royal Tombs are there, behind those gates, in the chapels which surround the choir. We can’t go in there unless we take a guide, and I thought we would wait for another day to visit the lovely chapel of Henry VII and all the famous tombs. I don’t want you to see too much at one time. No, John, King Edward probably will not be buried here. Queen Victoria, his mother, lies at a place called Frogmore, near Windsor, and it is likely that her son will choose that spot, also. Here’s the Poets’ Corner, and there is at least one face which I’m sure you will be glad to see. This is it.”

      As she spoke, the party stopped in front of the well-known bust of our poet, Longfellow, which I suppose every American is proud to see.

      “So they read ‘Hiawatha,’ even in England,” Betty remarked.

      “There are tablets all over the floor, under our feet! Look, I’m standing on Dickens’ grave this very minute! And there’s ‘Oh, Rare Ben Jonson,’ right there on the wall; I’ve always heard of that. And here’s Spenser, and Chaucer, and Browning, and Tennyson, very close together. Oh! It’s dreadful! I don’t want to step on them! Why, everybody who ever was anybody seems to be here!” gasped John, forgetting his grammar in his interest.

      “Here are busts of Scott (there’s the man for me!), and Burns, Goldsmith, and Coleridge; I know all these names. Here’s a statue of Shakespeare, though of course he isn’t buried here. There’s a tablet to Jenny Lind. Wasn’t she a singer? Seems to me I’ve heard my grandpa speak of her. And, if here isn’t Thackeray’s grave—there in the floor again! Well! Well!”

      “Come over here, John, and see this,” called Philip, pointing to a tomb on which was this inscription:

      Thomas Parr of ye county of Salop, born A.D. 1483. He lived in the reignes of ten princes, viz.—King Edward IV, King Edward V, King Richard III, King Henry VII, King Henry VIII, King Edward VI, Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King Charles; aged 152 years, and was buryed here, 1635.

      “Well, that beats them all!” laughed John, who was greatly pleased.

      Mrs. Pitt now led the rest into the little chapel of St. Faith, off the south transept, where they sat down to rest.

      “It’s the most wonderful place I ever dreamed of!” said Betty quietly, as though she were talking to herself. “This little chapel is the quaintest, oldest thing I ever saw! The walls are so dark; that tiny window up so high, hardly lets in any light at all; and the altar, with the faded picture, is so strange! I can’t believe it is the twentieth century; the people in the Abbey now don’t seem real to me at all. They look so small and shadowy beside the huge statues of people of other days! Surely the people the statues represent belong here, and not we! Why, I feel so far back in history that I shouldn’t be in the least surprised to see Raleigh, or Chaucer, or Queen Elizabeth, walk into this chapel, right now! I should probably go up and say ‘How do you do?’ ” she added laughingly.

      Betty did not know that any one had heard her talking, but Mrs. Pitt had been listening, and when Betty was silent, she said:

      “Come, let’s go out into the sunshine of the cloisters now. I am really afraid to have Betty stay in here any longer! The first thing we know, she’ll be disappearing into the Middle Ages! She’s almost there now!”

      As they went through the low door into the cloisters, she continued, “I want to explain to you children, that in connection with this Abbey, as with all, there was for centuries a great monastery; and that the buildings which we shall see, as well as the cloisters, had to do with the monks. Henry VIII dissolved all the monasteries in England, you remember.”

      The ancient cloisters of Westminster Abbey are deeply interesting and impressive. They are four arcades built around the square grass-plot, which was the monks’ burial-ground. The fine tracery of the windows is now much broken, and is crumbling away with age, but its exquisite carving is still plainly seen. The original pavement yet remains; it is much worn by the feet of the monks, and is almost covered by tablets which mark the resting-places of the abbots, as well as of others. The members of our party were touched, as are all, by the pathetic simplicity of the epitaph: “Jane Lister, Dear Childe, 1688.” Those four short words suggest a sad story about which one would like to learn more.

      “You must know,” said Mrs. Pitt, “that the cloisters were something besides burial-places. Here the monks spent most of their time, for this was the center of the life of the monastery. The southern cloister, over opposite, was the lavatory, and there the monks were forced to have their heads shaved—every two weeks in summer, and every three in winter. These walls were then painted with frescoes, the floor and benches were covered with rushes or straw, the windows were partly glazed, and lamps hung from the ceiling. In one of the cloisters was held a class of novices, taught by a master, and this was the beginning of Westminster School. I believe the pupils were allowed to speak only French. How would you like that?”

      Adjoining the cloisters are numerous little passageways, with low arches, which lead into tiny courts dotted with flowers and little fountains. In the houses about, live the canons of the Abbey and others connected with the church. Lovely glimpses of sunlight and the bright colors of flowers are seen at the ends of these dark, ancient passages.

      Westminster School may also be reached from the cloisters. Our party stood a moment in the doorway of the schoolroom to see the splendid old hall, with its fine oaken roof. This was once the dormitory of the monks, but is now taken up with the boys’ “forms,” or desks, piled with books. The walls above the wainscoting, and the window-recesses, are covered with signatures of the scholars—some of them famous, for the school was begun as long ago as the time of Henry VIII, who was the founder. The visitor may see the name of the poet, Dryden, on one of the desks; he was a pupil there, as were also Sir Christopher Wren, the architect; Ben Jonson; Southey, the poet; and John and Charles Wesley.

      “What is that iron bar for?” questioned the curious John, pointing to a long bar which stretches from wall to wall, across the middle of the room.

      “That

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