Old London as it looked from Highgate Hill—The travelers put up at “Ye Swanne” near New Gate—The start for White Hall to see Sir Francis Walsingham and the Queen—Their wonderment at the strange house signs—The saucy apprentices arouse their anger—Old Paule’s Cathedral and some celebrated mansions—The Royal Palace and a state procession—They go to the Globe, Will Shakespeare’s theatre—The boys see their first play in company with Doctor Hollister—Old London Bridge, its curious houses and its grizzly ornaments.

When our travelers reached the top of Highgate Hill, from which an extensive view could be had in every direction, they halted to survey the scene. London lay below, stretched along the banks of the Thames, and still several miles distant. In Queen Elizabeth’s reign it was a small place compared with what it is today. Its greatest distance across was then less than two miles, whereas, now it is nearly thirty. Nevertheless, London was by far the greatest city in England and amongst the largest in the world.

Jack and his companions looked down upon a closely packed collection of buildings within a wall whose moat, no longer needed for defence, had become half choked with refuse and rank vegetation. The streets were so narrow that, with the exception of Cheapside, which traversed the city from end to end, they were not discernible at that distance. The mass of red-tiled roofs was broken here and there by a market place or a churchyard and agreeably relieved by the gardens which lay at the backs of most of the houses. One hundred and more spires of parish churches shot up in relief against the background of the silvery river, for in those days the Thames was a clear and pure stream upon which swans disported even below London Bridge.

Scattering suburbs extended from the walls of the city in several directions. In Elizabeth’s time, the noblemen and wealthier citizens had deserted their old-time palaces and mansions in the filthy and crowded metropolis for healthier residences among the adjacent fields. Perhaps, Baynard Castle, mentioned in the opening scene of Shakespeare’s Richard the Third, was the only one of the old homes of the nobility occupied by its owner at that time. Most of the others had been given over to tenements in which the poorer people crowded. A large part of the London that the boys gazed upon in wonder and admiration was destroyed by the Great Fire in the year 1666.

It must be remembered that, despite the comparison we have made of the London of Shakespeare’s time and the city of today, the former was relatively of greater importance than the latter and exercised a greater influence on the affairs of the nation. It was the residence of the monarch and of all the important members of the government. Every person of note in the kingdom had a town house. By far the greater part of the business of the country was transacted at the capital. It set the fashion and furnished the news for the whole island. London was, in short, the heart and brains of England at this period.

It was late in the evening when the travelers, tired and hungry, passed through New Gate which, like Lud Gate and some others of the many entrances to the city, was used as a prison. A little later and they must have remained at one of the inns outside the walls for the night, or have left their horses and entered by the postern, for the portcullis was closed at sundown. They put up at “Ye Swanne” on Cheapside and hardly one hundred yards from the gate. It was a hostelry much frequented by north-country gentlemen. Master Marner, the host, gave them the best accommodations his house afforded for the sake of Lord Willoughby, who had often been his guest and, in fact, always lodged with him when in London. That nobleman, long accustomed to the freedom and frank comradeship of the camp, found himself much more at ease in one of Master Marner’s cosy rooms than in a chamber at Whitehall.

Neither of the lads had ever been in London, and after they had supped in the common room—which corresponded to the cafÉ of a modern hotel—they were eager to go out and see the great sights of which they had heard so much. But to this Doctor Hollister, the tutor, would not consent, for in those days the capital was infested by footpads and brawlers after nightfall and the patrols of the watch afforded scant protection to wayfarers in the unlighted streets. The explanation of all this only whetted the desire of the lads to go abroad on the chance of witnessing some duel or fracas but Peregrine, at least, was under the authority of the Doctor and Jack by accepting his friend’s hospitality had placed himself in a similar position. So they restrained their impatience and went early to bed as all honest folk did at that period.

The following morning Doctor Hollister, accompanied by his young charges, set out for Whitehall carrying a letter from Lady Willoughby to Sir Francis Walsingham. The royal palace was at the extreme western end of London, whilst the Swan Inn stood hard by New Gate, at the eastern extremity, so that in order to reach their destination the travelers had to traverse the full extent of the city. A citizen of London at that time, having such a distance to cover, would most likely have taken a wherry at one of the many water stairs, where numbers of such boats were in waiting at all hours of the day and night. Jack and Peregrine, eager as they were to see the sights of the metropolis, would not hear of anything but walking and so the party set out at an early hour, taking their way along Cheapside, or the Cheap as it was then called.

Everything they saw was novel to the boys, neither of whom had ever been in a town larger than Lynn. The gable roofs and projecting upper stories of the houses were much like what they were accustomed to at home, but they had seldom seen one of three stories and here were many rising to four and five. In the narrow side streets which they passed, the dwellings approached so closely that persons sitting at their upper windows might easily converse with their neighbors across the way, or even shake hands with them by leaning out.

Before almost every house hung a painted board suspended from an iron bracket, similar to the sign of the “D’Eresby Arms” displayed by the village tavern at Willoughby. For a moment the boys thought that they must be in a town full of inns and Doctor Hollister was mightily amused by the puzzled expression with which they looked from one to another of the crude and curious pictures. The explanation was simple enough when the tutor made it. In the reign of Elizabeth the simple device of numbers to distinguish the different houses of a street had not yet been thought of and so one saw all manner of things pictured and hung over the entrances. There were angels, dragons, castles, mountains, Turks, bears, foxes, birds, books, suns, mitres, ships, and in fact every conceivable kind of object. So, a man wishing to indicate his place of abode might say: “I lodge with the widow Toy, at the sign of the Bell in Paule’s Churchyard” and, since there was at the time a veritable widow Toy, living in a house on the east side of the churchyard and distinguished by the sign of a Bell, who doubtless took in lodgers when favorable opportunity offered, it is not impossible that one or another of the acquaintances made by our party during their stay in London uttered precisely such a remark to them.

As our friends passed along the street, apprentices standing in front of their master’s shops invited their patronage or made saucy comments upon their appearance for, although they were dressed in their best clothes, it was easy to see that a country tailor had fashioned their garments.

“Ho Richard! Dick Hopple!” cried one of these prentices to an acquaintance across the street. “Cast thy gaze upon his worship and the little worshipfuls going to Paule’s to buy a sixtieth.” This was an allusion to the lottery under royal patronage which was conducted in a booth set up in the churchyard of the cathedral. It attracted many countrymen to the capital, who could generally afford to purchase no more than a fractional share, perhaps one-tenth, of a ticket.

“Peace boy!” said Doctor Hollister, sternly.

“Honorificabilitudinitatibus!” glibly replied the lad with a mock obeisance. This extraordinary word, which Shakespeare had put into the mouth of one of his characters, caught the fancy of the London populace as a similar verbal monstrosity—Cryptoconcodycyphernostamata—did about twenty-five years ago.

Doctor Hollister had the greatest difficulty in restraining the boys from replying to these gibes with their fists and Jack, in particular, begged earnestly to be permitted to “lay just one of them by the heels.” But the Doctor had been a chorister of Paule’s in his boyhood and he knew the formidable character of the London apprentices and how, at the cry of “Clubs! Clubs!” they would swarm with their staves to the aid of one of their number.

Presently they came to the great cathedral, and were surprised to find that the holy edifice was used as a public thoroughfare, even animals being driven across its nave, whilst hawkers displayed their wares around the columns and gallants and gossips lounged about on the seats—all this, too, during the celebration of divine service. The lads who had been brought up in reverence of their country church were shocked at the sights around them and little disposed to linger in the building.

Leaving the churchyard of the cathedral, Doctor Hollister led the way down Dowgate Hill to the water front, wishing to afford the boys sight of two unusually interesting buildings. One of these was Baynard Castle, of which mention has already been made, but the other had the greater attraction for Jack on account of being the residence of his hero, Sir Francis Drake. It had formerly been known as Eber House, when it was the palace of Warwick, the “Kingmaker,” whom you will remember as the titular character of “The Last of the Barons.” Later the place was occupied by that “false, fleeting, perjured Clarence” whose dream is one of the most impressive passages in Shakespeare’s tragedy, Richard the Third.

Passing Westminster and the little village of Charing Cross, our travelers came upon the Palace of Whitehall fronting upon the Thames and with Saint James’s Park at its back. In Elizabeth’s time this royal residence was the scene of such splendid entertainments as marked its occupancy by her father, Henry the Eighth. At this period it stood outside of London on the outskirts of what was the distinct city of Westminster.

Sir Francis Walsingham received Doctor Hollister kindly and promised to facilitate the journey of the party to France. The Queen was about to go to the royal chapel in state and the minister secured a favorable position from which the country visitors had a good view of Elizabeth and her attendants. In the meanwhile a secretary was instructed to write the passports and letters to be delivered to the Doctor before his departure.

The royal procession appeared to the sound of trumpets blown by six heralds who walked in advance. First, after them, came gentlemen of the court and noblemen, richly dressed and bareheaded; next the Chancellor, bearing the state seal in a red silk purse, on one side of him an official carrying the royal scepter, on the other one bearing the sword of state in a red velvet scabbard, studded with golden fleur de lis. Then followed the Queen with majestic mien, her oval face fair but wrinkled; her black eyes small but pleasing. Her nose was somewhat aquiline and her lips thin and straight. She wore false hair of bright red topped by a small crown.

As she moved slowly along between lines of courtiers and representatives of foreign nations, she spoke graciously to one and another and, when occasion needed, with fluency in French or Italian. When one spoke to her, he did so kneeling, and whenever she turned toward a group, all fell upon their knees. It was these ceremonies that made the Court such an irksome place to bluff soldiers such as Lord Willoughby.

The Queen was guarded on each side by the gentlemen pensioners, fifty in number, with gilt battle axes. Following her came the ladies of the Court, for the most part dressed in handsome gowns of white taffeta or some other rich stuff.

In the antechamber a number of petitions were presented to Her Majesty, who received them graciously amid acclamations of “Long live our Queen!” to which she replied, smiling, “I thank you, my good people!”

Upon the return of the royal party from the chapel, Sir Francis Walsingham ordered a meal, of which the principal features were roast beef and ale, to be set before Doctor Hollister and his charges. They were hungry and did ample justice to the minister’s hospitality. Sir Francis then handed the Doctor his papers and wished the travelers godspeed and a safe return.

It was high noon and the sight-seers still had a good half of the day before them. The boys had never been to a theatre—indeed, there were none outside of London—and the Doctor determined to take them to the Globe which, under the management of William Shakespeare, was fast becoming famous. The playhouse stood on the Surrey side of the river a short distance above the bridge. The party took boat at the palace stairs and were quickly rowed down and across the stream. They landed near a circular tower-like building, topped by a flag-staff and ensign, which the Doctor informed them was their destination. At that period plays were performed only in the daytime and the party was just in time for a performance. The enclosure—for it could hardly be called a building—was open to the sky. Around the sides were tiers of seats which accommodated the better class of spectators whilst the “groundlings” stood in the central space before the booth-like erection which contained the stage. There was no scenery, though the costumes were rich and various, and the back and sides of the stage were occupied by young gallants seated upon stools, for which privilege they paid sixpence extra. The audience commented freely and loudly upon the play and the acting and not infrequently the actors replied. Boys took the female parts and bouquets had not come into use to express favor, but an unpopular actor was sometimes subjected to a shower of ancient eggs and rotten vegetables from the pit.

No doubt the play, crude as we should consider it, was a source of wonder and delight to Jack and Peregrine who had never seen acting more pretentious than the antics of the village mummers at the New Year festival.

On the return home the party walked over London Bridge. At the entrance tower they were startled to see the heads of some eight or ten criminals stuck on the ends of spears. Two of these were quite fresh and had a peculiarly ghastly appearance with their eyes staring open and hair blowing in the breeze. But their attention was soon distracted from this gruesome sight to the bridge itself which was one of the most extraordinary structures in the country. It was entirely built over by houses two and three stories in height. Through the centre ran an arcade like a tunnel lined with shops. This strange viaduct, therefore, was at once a bridge and a street as well as a roadway for heavy wagons. In the stories above the shops, lived the owners of the latter. They were also occupied by offices and in a few instances as private lodgings.

Tired as the boys were when they reached their beds that night, they lay talking for hours of the wonderful sights they had seen. At length their remarks came in snatches and with mumbled speech as sleep overtook them against their will.

“Jack,” said Peregrine, drowsily, “if you were Lord Mayor of London, what would you do?”

“Give myself leave to fight a prentice,” muttered our hero, with closed eyes.