en manners. Then under
Charles II. it was set up again. And here, once, four thousand children
were gathered and sang a hymn, on some public occasion of triumph in
Queen Anne's reign.'

'It is not there now?'

'Oh, no! It was given to Sir Isaac Newton, and made to subserve the
uses of a telescope.'

'How do you know all these things, Mr. Pitt.'

'Every London antiquary knows them, I suppose. And I told you, I have
an old uncle who is a great antiquary; London is his particular hobby.'

'He must have had an apt scholar, though.'

'Much liking makes good learning, I suppose,' said the young man. 'A
little further on is the church of St. Clement Danes, where Dr. Johnson
used to attend divine service. About _here_ stands Temple Bar.'

'Temple Bar!' said Miss Frere. 'I have heard of Temple Bar all my life,
and never connected any clear idea with the name. What _is_ Temple Bar?'

'It is not very much of a building. It is the barrier which marks the
bound of the city of London.'

'Isn't it London on both sides of Temple Bar?'

'London, but not the City. The City proper begins here. On the west of
this limit is Westminster.'

'There are ugly associations with Temple Bar, I know,' said Miss Frere.

'There are ugly associations with everything. Down here stood Essex
House, where Essex defended himself, and from which he was carried off
to the Tower. _There_, in Lincoln's Inn fields, Thomas Babington and
his party died for high treason, and there Russell died. And just up
here is Smithfield. It is all over, the record of violence,
intolerance, and brutality. It meets you at every turn.'

'It is only what would be in any other place as old as London,' said
Mrs. Dallas. 'In old times people were rough, of course, but they were
rough everywhere.'

'I was thinking'-- said Miss Frere. 'Mr. Dallas gives a somewhat
singular justification of his liking for London.'

'Is it?' said Pitt. 'It would be singular if the violence were there
now; but to read the record and look on the scene is interesting, and
for me fascinating. The record is of other things too. See,--in this
place Milton lived and wrote; here Franklin abode; here Charles Lamb;
from an inn in this street Bishop Hooper went away to die. And so I
might go on and on. At every step there is the memorial of some great
man's life, or some noted man's death. And with all that, there are
also the most exquisite bits of material antiquity. Old picturesque
houses; old