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WHITEHALL TO SOMERSET HOUSE

How little do we Londoners know of London!-as little, or perhaps a good deal less than many foreigners. Such an assertion may seem paradoxical, but it is nevertheless true; and the reason is plain enough. Those who wish to learn something of foreign countries and foreign cities have to begin from the beginning, have to dive into books, digest histories, refer to manuscripts written in a strange language in a word, have to work hard for the desired information; a labour that necessarily implants all they acquire firmly in the memory. But it is far otherwise when we come to consider the history of the country in which we ourselves live. The most of us are content with that smattering of knowledge which we get in early youth drilled into our reluctant heads at school, or, what is worse still, that confused conglomeration of facts which we obtain in after-years from hearsay evidence. This evil-for no doubt it is

an evil is happily growing less every day. The number of interesting works that are now written, the able papers that continually appear in our periodical publications, the facilities for reading offered to the lowest class amongst us, and last, but not least, the universal spread of education, are all tending to lessen this great anomaly. But more especially should we be ashamed of such ignorance, we who live in old London, the great metropolis of the greatest nation in the world, whose early history stretches far back into the past, and is so inseparably bound up with the gradual rise and expansion of our country's greatness. What stores of interest and knowledge lie hid under the stones we daily tread on! What stories of romance and chivalry, of sensation and horror, of self-devotion and piety, should not the old names we see so often before our unconscious eyes recall to our memories! Nor is it only pleasure that we thus lose. History can teach us many a lesson that we should do well to lay to heart, and paints in faithful colours many a character we should do well to imitate or shun.

Such being the case, let us see how much historical interest can be gleaned from a short half-mile walk from Downing-street to Somerset House. We are passing Whitehall on our right, and for a moment we will escape from the eternal whirl of omnibuses, carts, and carriages that are surging down Parliament-street, and, standing in the courtyard behind the hall, try to rebuild in our imagination the ruins of the past. What a history is here! If the soil on which we tread could but speak, what scenes could it not tell of!

Scenes of splendour and magnificence, of vice and crime, royal banquets and masquerades, court intrigue, secret marriages, public executions, the rise of prosperity and the downfall of adversity. Here stood, 700 years ago, the palace of Hubert de Burgh, the persecuted justiciary of Henry the Third's reign. In 1248 it passed into the hands of Walter de Grey, archbishop of York, and from that year until Wolsey's fall it bore the name of York House. Here lived in princely grandeur successive prelates, and here reigned in royal state the mighty cardinal himself. On these stones was reared the stately hall where bluff King Harry honoured his favourite at many a banquet, and, as Shakespeare tells us, took part himself in the masquerade. Through these courts thronged lords and ladies, high dignitaries, foreign ambassadors, the poet, the author, and the statesman, all anxious to catch but for a moment the approving smile of the great king's greater subject. And here too, with impatient step, entered the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk, the ready bearers of the great man's doom. Down here, a little to our left, on the morrow of all his splendour, passed Wolsey to his barge on the river, and looking back for a moment on the well-known scene, bade "Farewell-a long farewell-to all his greatness."

If we step into the late Lord Malmesbury's house, that now shuts us out from the Thames, we may still see the remains of what was once York House.

When Wolsey fell, King Henry seized the palace for his own use, and rechristened it Whitehall; as Shakespeare again reminds us in the following dialogue between two gentlemen, when Anne Boleyn was crowned at Westminster :

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Again, other historic phantoms crowd upon the scene. see up yonder staircase Ann Boleyn led in secret to the altar. We behold the great Hans Holbein from his silent studio, astonishing by his pencil an admiring world; and here stands once more, rebuilt in our imagination, the great artist's entrance gateway, that towers in stately grandeur above the surrounding buildings. We wander through long corridors of rare paintings, the costly productions of living masters. We pass down the Boarded Gallery, the Shield Gallery, the Matted Gallery, and linger for a moment to gaze and wonder at Holbein's resplendent ceiling. From the pulpit in the royal chapel we hear Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, thunder forth his celebrated sermon on the real presence in the sacrament, whilst the outraged audience clamour around; a sermon that

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cost the daring prelate the king's favour and his own liberty. And from the windows that look westward on the royal park, we can see Queen Mary in regal state, on her way to be crowned at Westminster. And a little later, when her short day had ended, we sit in the tilt-yard surrounded by England's fairest dames and noblest peers, and greet our virgin queen, as, with wrinkled face, red periwig, hooked nose, skinny lips, and black teeth, yet confident in her charms, she slowly passes with stately step through the admiring crowd. A grand tourney is to be fought to-day. The Duke of Anjou has arrived from France, the accepted lover of our queen, and Whitehall once more puts on the splendour of York House, to show all honour to fortune's favourite. Next to the royal throne, "the

fortresse of perfect beautie," we behold many a well-known face; Leicester, Burleigh, and Essex, Sir Henry Lee, Sir Christopher Hatton, Sir Philip Sydney, former favourites and future aspirants, crowd thick and close around, or join in the strife below. Here on the south-west side, reared for the occasion, stands the former banquet-hall, a miracle of art, so soon to perish. And now the tourney is fought and won, the feast is over, and the guests are gone, and with them France's hope and England's fear. Elizabeth, fickle as the wind, has also passed away. Tenacious of life and power to the last, it was here, in her cabinet, she used to be found dancing, at the age of fifty-six, whenever the Scotch ambassador was announced, so anxious was she to let her successor know the little chance he had of succeeding to the crown. Here too, after her death, were found stored up 3,000 different costumes, with which she endeavoured to retain the admiration of her favourites.

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But although the tourney is over, and Queen Bess no more, we still hear the clarion trump, and still see the festive crowd, and join the ringing cheer that proclaims, from Whitehall steps, James king of United Britain. And now we stand in the council-chamber before the assembled council. James sits fidgeting, anxious, and trembling in his chair of state; every face is pale with fear, and every voice is hushed to a whisper. The guards are doubled at the entrance-gates, and messengers arrive and depart in hot haste. great conspiracy has been discovered, and Guy Fawkes is to be questioned by the king himself. Bound hand and foot, he stands before the affrighted council and calmly defends his intended crime. "Desperate diseases need desperate remedies" was the only excuse he deigned to give for consigning king, lords, and commons to wholesale perdition. The trial is soon over, and down yonder steps to the river-the same path that Wolsey trod some years before, when he too had been condemned-the bold conspirator is led on his way to the Tower. Years pass away; the old palace gives place to newer buildings, doomed, while yet unfinished, to perish in the flames-a wide-spread destruction that spared only a few ruins of old York

House to remind posterity where the great cardinal once lived. On the ruins thus created was reared this hall on which we are now gazing, a portion only of a vast pile of buildings designed by Inigo Jones as a palace for his royal master. Ill-fated monarch-how little he knew, as he saw the massive hall arise in all its grandeur, it would be in a few short years the stepping-stone to his son's scaffold!

In 1625 the unfortunate Charles was proclaimed king from Whitehall steps, as his father had been twenty-two years before. Here he brought his lovely queen, with all her French priests and maidens; and here in her private chapel was celebrated mass Sunday after Sunday, in defiance of the national prejudice. The splendid ceiling that adorned the grand banqueting-hall-the present chapelroyal-was painted by Rubens when over in England as ambassador from Holland. Here too took place, between Charles and his rebellious commons, many a stormy interview, with what end we all know too well. On the 11th January 1642 Charles left Whitehall for Hampton Court, to return once more-a prisoner.

Seven years later he entered again the palace that had been his, where once he had reigned the peerless monarch of a peerless court, and from the centre window up yonder, that overlooked then as now the surging stream of human life below, he passed to the scaffold firm and serene. "I have a good cause and a gracious God on my side," he exclaimed at the last moment, as he prepared for the fatal stroke. "You have now but one step more," Juxon replied. The stage is turbulent and troublesome, but it is a short one; it will soon carry you a very great way-it will convey you from earth to heaven." The king answered: "I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown, where no disturbance can be." He then gave his George to Juxon, and saying, "Remember," stooped to the block. So passed away the martyr king, and with him the historical interest of Whitehall. The rest is soon told. In 1653 Cromwell summoned to Whitehall the Barebones Parliament. Here, too, the crown was offered to the great protector; and here, on the 3d September 1658, he breathed his last. A few months later, and Charles II. reëntered the home of his boyhood. In the reign of George I. the banqueting-hall was converted into a royal chapel; and, curious to relate, in 1723 the grandson of Oliver Cromwell was married within its walls.

And now we are out in the noisy street once more, and passing on our right Scotland - yard. Our readers, perhaps, have never realised the meaning of the name. They have come here to find lost umbrellas that never yet were found; and the only idea they have of the place is embodied in the late Sir Richard Mayne. But other visitors used to resort here in old days, who knew not Sir Richard Mayne, and never thought of policeman A 102. On this site formerly stood a palace, erected by one of our ancient kings

for the use of the Scotch kings when they came up to London to do homage to the English crown; and hence the name Scotlandyard. King Edgar gave it to Kenneth III. for this humiliating purpose; and here Margaret, widow of James V. of Scotland and sister to Henry VIII., resided after her husband's death.

We struggle on up Charing Cross, and see before us, to our left, King Charles's statue-the finest statue in London, art-critics will tell you. It has a curious history. Cast during the reign of the ill-fated monarch, it was never put up until long after his death. The Parliament, when Charles fell at Whitehall, seized it, and having naturally a strong objection to its existence, gave orders to a certain brazier, John Rivet, to have it destroyed. The man, with more taste than honesty, promised obedience, but omitted the performance of the promise. He hid the statue, and produced some old pieces of metal in proof of his having fulfilled the directions of the Parliament. Nor was this all: the wily craftsman reaped a rich harvest from his dishonesty, for he made from the pretended remains of the demolished statue bushels of knife-handles, that he sold at good prices to both Roundheads and Royalists. Both parties valued them highly-the former as tokens of their saving victories; the latter as mementos of one whose memory they worshipped. In 1674 the statue, having been found underground, was set up where we now see it. It was originally designed by Hubert le Sœur, a Frenchman. The sword no longer hangs at the king's side: it was stolen when Queen Victoria was on her way to open the Royal Exchange.

Somewhere hereabouts, nearly 600 years ago, the funeral procession of Queen Eleanor deposited its sad burden, previous to its interment in Westminster Abbey; and to commemorate that event a cross of stone was raised in her honour; and hence the name Charing Cross. Some old writers affirm-with more poetry than truth-that the name Charing is derived from the French chère reine-the cross of the dear queen :

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What a different scene the mourners looked upon that day, as they laid their royal burden on the green turf by the roadside, to what we gaze on now! Hardly a house was to be seen near. The winding road, as it descended to Westminster, was surrounded by fields and shaded by trees, through which arose, in all its splendour, the old abbey. To the left the river, old Father Thames, then as now, was hastening to the German Ocean, and over the windings of the flowing stream might be seen in the distance London as it then existed, the old spire of St. Paul's glittering in the sun, and the white Tower

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