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DECORATING THE PAVEMENT ON VICTORIA EMBANKMENT

The men who make pastel drawings on paving stones are known as "screevers." Some of them do really excellent work and make a very decent living from the pennies and sixpences that admiring passers-by throw to them. Victoria Embankment, where this man is at work, extends about a mile and a quarter along the west bank of the Thames, from Westminster Bridge to Blackfriars Bridge.

gloomy recesses may be here and there Once they were the haunt of London's most desperate characters.

sighted.

WHERE THE BLACK PRINCE HELD A KING
OF FRANCE PRISONER

Samuel Pepys once lived at the foot of Buckingham Street, and just across the way Tsar Peter of Russia had his lodgings as a ship carpenter. A very rough lot was Peter. London tradition still tells of

the mess he made of the house, what with beef bones and broken bread on the floor and drunken Muscovites under foot everywhere.

Time has almost come to take the bus, but on the way back to the roaring Strand one must stop at the Savoy Chapel, rebuilt in 1505, sunk in a valley between great buildings and shaded by old trees. All that is left of what was once "the fayrest manor in England." The Black

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THE CONQUEROR'S NORMAN KEEP NO LONGER AWES LONDON CITIZENS: TOWER

OF LONDON

The White Tower, built in 1078, is the central and oldest portion of the fortress; its walls are 15 feet thick at the base. This time-honored building of history and gloom has served as fortress, palace, and prison, its most pathetic memory probably being the murder of the Little Princes. It covers 13 acres.

Prince held King John of France a prisoner here until his death, for no one paid his ransom. Since Henry IV's time it has always belonged to the reigning house. Geoffrey Chaucer was one of John of Gaunt's retinue here.

To Americans on the watch for survivals from the olden days, however, the gemlike little chapel is not of so much interest, perhaps, as the fact that here sits

annually the Court Leet, dating back to Saxon times. Once a year the jury of the court, headed by the beadle with his silvertopped staff, makes the rounds of the boundary of the manor. One mark is on the stage of the Lyceum, another in Child's Bank, one by Cleopatra's Needle, on the Embankment (see page 573), and a fourth on the lawn of the Middle Temple.

On the Strand we take Bus 15 A for

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This picturesquely uniformed body originally formed part of the Yeomen of the Guard of Henry VII. Their popular name of "Beefeater" should properly be reserved for the military corps of the royal household, which was so dubbed in 1669 by Count Cosimo because of the large rations of beef which its members consumed. Some features of the dress of the Yeomen warders date from the time of Henry VIII, who, according to a familiar anecdote, wished them to look as fat as he.

The City-capitalized, please that square mile of money contained in the still traceable remnant of the Roman walls. Yet before mounting it is worth while to walk a few steps down a twisting, narrow lane, at No. 163a Strand, to the Roman bath. One might, if permitted, bathe in the stream of cold water that has gurgled through it for perhaps 1,700 years. The bricks, set in place by the Romans, are still to be found under the surfacing of marble taken from the bath of the Earl of Essex, once upon a time the unlucky favorite of Queen Elizabeth. The Queen herself may have taken a morning dip between these stones, when they were in place in the Essex manor near by. Few know of this bath, somehow, and fewer visit it. One would like to know why. SOMERSET HOUSE, WHOSE OWNER'S HEAD WAS CHOPPED OFF

As the bus rumbles and sways eastward, one sees two churches isolated in

the center of the Strand-St. Clement Danes (page 571) and St. Mary-le-Strand. Their beauty leaps to the eye in the midst of the turmoil. And here is Somerset House, of which the tourist rarely hears, although to my mind this huge, grayblack 18th-century quadrangle is one of the most majestic structures in Britain. The Lord Protector Somerset began its predecessor in 1547, and one is not sorry to know that he did not live to finish it, for his arrogant lordship pulled down the cloisters of Old St. Paul's for building material.

Again we note that history is a living thing to its warders. Here wills are recorded and death duties paid and marriages registered, but to the old soldier at the gate the more important thing is that the Commons brought Somerset low. He positively smacked his lips:

"They chopped h'off 'is 'ead," he said.

He told us the vaults beneath are three stories deep, and men sometimes get lost

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in them for days. Because he wore a medal telling of gallantry in action- - and was lame-I gave him an indefensible shilling. He immediately justified it:

"Sometimes," he said, "they do not get h'out for a fortnight."

WHERE FALSTAFF AND

SHALLOW ROAMED

On past the Law Courts, which suggest a de luxe version of Coney Island. Here

Temple Bar Bar once stood, decked at intervals for centuries with the heads of patriots and traitors. Even now the King of England must ask permission of the Mayor of the City of London before he can pass Temple Bar. One may query what would happen if he did not ask, but the question is fruitless. He always will (see, also, pages 588 and 591).

Humphrey Joel

THE DOMESDAY BOOK AND THE CHEST IN WHICH IT WAS FORMERLY KEPT

These two parchment volumes in the Public Record Office Museum contain the results of a statistical survey of England made in 1086 by order of William the Conqueror.

In the rear of the cheesecakery Law Courts once stood Clement's Inn, where Falstaff and Shallow "heard the chimes by midnight." One is disposed to abandon the bus here for a moment, only to find his steps drawn, as by a magnet, from one historic spot to another.

THE CHIEF SIGHT IN LONDON-THE DOMESDAY BOOK

Lincoln's Inn Fields, which one reaches through a maze of little streets behind the Law Courts, will be a surprise to me each time I see them, if that be ten times a day, for in the clattering center of the city they are as quiet as a country churchyard. In the 12 acres of the Fields duelists used to meet, but now peaceful old

sters dream away the days on the benches beneath the great plane trees.

Across the Fields lies the thirteenthcentury Lincoln's Inn, where each night curfew is rung upon a bell brought from Cadiz in 1596 by the Earl of Essex. One walks down Chancery Lane to the Tudor Building, in which is the Public Record Office. It was in a previous incarnation the House of Converts, intended as a place of worship for apostates from the Jewish faith.

According to the materially minded exsergeant who acted as our cicerone, when the church authorities ceased to pay boun

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This picturesquely uniformed body originally formed part of the Yeomen of the Guard of Henry VII. Their popular name of "Beefeater" should properly be reserved for the military corps of the royal household, which was so dubbed in 1669 by Count Cosimo because of the large rations of beef which its members consumed. Some features of the dress of the Yeomen warders date from the time of Henry VIII, who, according to a familiar anecdote, wished them to look as fat as he.

The City-capitalized, please-that square mile of money contained in the still traceable remnant of the Roman walls. Yet before mounting it is worth while to walk a few steps down a twisting, narrow lane, at No. 163a Strand, to the Roman bath. One might, if permitted, bathe in the stream of cold water that has gurgled through it for perhaps 1,700 years. The bricks, set in place by the Romans, are still to be found under the surfacing of marble taken from the bath of the Earl of Essex, once upon a time the unlucky favorite of Queen Elizabeth. The Queen herself may have taken a morning dip between these stones, when they were in place in the Essex manor near by. Few know of this bath, somehow, and fewer visit it. One would like to know why. SOMERSET HOUSE, WHOSE OWNER'S HEAD WAS CHOPPED OFF

As the bus rumbles and sways eastward, one sees two churches isolated in

the center of the Strand-St. Clement Danes (page 571) and St. Mary-le-Strand. Their beauty leaps to the eye in the midst of the turmoil. And here is Somerset House, of which the tourist rarely hears, although to my mind this huge, grayblack 18th-century quadrangle is one of the most majestic structures in Britain. The Lord Protector Somerset began its predecessor in 1547, and one is not sorry to know that he did not live to finish it, for his arrogant lordship pulled down the cloisters of Old St. Paul's for building material.

Again we note that history is a living thing to its warders. Here wills are recorded and death duties paid and marriages registered, but to the old soldier at the gate the more important thing is that the Commons brought Somerset low. He positively smacked his lips:

"They chopped h'off 'is 'ead," he said. He told us the vaults beneath are three stories deep, and men sometimes get lost

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