n' jeers
of the populace, and it made me feel bad and sorry for Helen, his last
wife, she that wuz Helen Mar. But Sir Thomas More's head wuz nailed up
in the same place, and the Bishop of Rochester's and lots of others.

It wuzn't right.

And then I thought of the gay seens that had took place there, the
tournaments and triumphal marches and grand processions and sad ones,
and the great multitude who have passed over it, prince and beggar,
velvet and rags, a countless throng constantly passing, constantly
changing, no more to be counted than the drops of water in the silent
stream below, all the time, all the time sweepin' on to the sea. I had
sights of emotions.

And all the while I wuz in London, in the gay streets and quiet ones,
in palace or park, the shade of Dickens walked by my side or a little
in advance, seemin' to pint out to me the places where he had walked
when he see visions and dreamed dreams. And I almost expected to meet
Little Nell leading her grandpa, or David Copperfield, or Peggoty
searching for Em'ly, or some of our Mutual Friends.

And so with Thackeray. As I looked up at the gloomy houses on some
quiet street I almost expected to see the funeral hatchment of old Sir
Pitt Crawley's wife and Becky Sharp's little pale face peering out, or
sweet Ethel Newcomb and her cousin Clive, and the dear old General and
Henry Esmond, and etc., etc. And so with Alfred Tennyson. In some
beautiful place of drooping foliage and placid water I almost felt
that I should see the mystic barge drawin' nigh and I too should float
off into some Lotus land. And so with all the other beloved poets and
authors who seem nigher to us than our next door neighbors in the
flesh.

Dorothy havin' never been there, felt that she must see Shakespeare's
home, which is a journey of only three hours by rail, so we made a
visit there one day, passing through some of England's most beautiful
seenery on our way, grand old parks with stately houses rising up in
their midst, gray stun churches in charming little villages,
thatched-roof cottages, picturesque water-mills; it wuz all a lovely
picture of rural England.

It being a little too long a journey for one day, we stayed all night
at Shakespeare's Inn, where the great poet went daily for his glass
of stimulant--so they say. But I am glad I don't believe everything
that I hear.

Arvilly mourned to think that she couldn't have sold him America's
twin crimes: "Intemperance and Gre