the valiant Mr. Giles and Mr. Brittles in pursuit. Or, at least,
the more devout of Dickens students are thus privileged; I have been
less fortunate. Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, I believe, has identified the
house to the satisfaction of many with Pyrcroft, a dwelling north-west
of the station. But I have gone burgling after Bill Sikes and followed
the road precisely as Dickens describes it, and Pyrcroft I never came
near.

Chertsey still keeps up some fascinating customs. She has two quaintly
named fairs, "Black Cherry Fair" on August 6, and "Goose and Onion Fair"
on September 26, when she presides over the selling of horses and
poultry. But the oldest and best custom is the ringing of the curfew
bell, which still peals out to St. Anne's Hill and over Chertsey Mead
from September 29 to March 25. The Chertsey bells are some of the finest
in the country. The original curfew bell, which is supposed to have hung
in the Abbey, tolled for the funeral of Henry VI, murdered a few hours
before in the Tower of London, and hurried to Chertsey to be buried
"without priest, clerk, torch or taper, singing or saying." According to
the safer chronicles, the dead king's body was ferried to the Abbey by
water. But Shakespeare in _Richard III_ sends the corpse through London
streets "borne in an open coffin; gentlemen bearing halberds to guard
it; and Lady Anne as mourner." It is when Lady Anne, widow of the
murdered king's son, tells the bearers to go "toward Chertsey with your
holy load," that the coffin is stopped by the murderer Gloucester, and
then follows that strange duel of hearts and words between the murderer
and the prince's widow:

GLOSTER. Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,
Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;
Which, if thou please to hide in this true breast,
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,
I lay it open to the deadly stroke,
And humbly beg the death upon my knee.

[_He lays his breast open. She offers at it with his sword._

Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry,--
But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me.
Nay, now despatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward,--

[_She again offers at his breast._

But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on.

[_She lets fall the sword._

Take up the sword again or take up me.

ANNE. Arise, dissembler: though I w