JUDGE
who waited upon us in a dining-room about three squares away:
“I suppose you go often to Westminster.”
“Do you mean the Habbey?”
“Yes.”
“I 'ave never been in the Habbey in my life. I don't often get away from 'ere and when I do I 'ave other places to go to beside the Habbey.”
On one slab is only the name “Charles Dickens.” No more is needed. We went through Windsor Castle, saw the Burnham Beeches and the yew of Gray's Elegy at Stoke Pogis.
At the Tower the room in which the jewels were kept was closed. The tall flunkey with a big hat and a most gorgeous covering for clothes refused to open it. A brilliant thought occurred to me and I produced the letter from Blaine, the American Secretary of State. The scheme worked beautifully and he opened the door. The consequential piece of red tape egotism assumed, however, that the letter was written to him personally and he deliberately proceeded to put it in his pocket. Then I was in trouble. However, by the use of persuasion and even threat I finally recovered my credentials.
We went to Hyde Park in a cab and were refused admittance unless we should get out and walk. Only the equipages of gentlemen were permitted in the Park.
From London we went to Coventry, where we found the Craven Arms, a real old-fashioned inland English inn. Intending to remain but a few days, I sent my trunk through to Liverpool, where we intended to take the City of New York for our return home. I said to the official:
“Have you no system of checking baggage?”
“No.”
“How do you identify the owners?” I inquired.
“We never have any trouble.”
I gave him some money. He tore off a slip of newspaper,
