“So that makes it about four hundred years old in our day, doesn’t it?” said Godmother. “But it’s still the same school. Then over there, is Charter House, where the boys are lodged in a monastery once belonging to certain monks called the _Carthusians_. They remained there till _my_ day. But now, like the Blue Coat boys, they have moved into the country—to Godalming. They still call themselves Carthusians, though, in memory of the old monastery from which they came. We’ll go and see all that is left of Charter House when we slip back into our own age. It’s still very interesting and beautiful. Just now we must move on, for there’s so much in Elizabethan London to look at, that we can’t spend too long over the schools. We’ll go back to London Bridge, because it’s on the way to something I particularly want to show you.” In a moment as it seemed, they were there, for one of the convenient things about these magic visits, as Betty had of course noticed, was that they were able to whisk from one place to another in a few seconds, instead of having to walk a long way to reach different parts of London. “Are we going over to Southwark?” she asked, when they were half-way across the Bridge. “Yes, but before we get there I must explain what we are going to see, and find out how much you know about the great men who are living now in this sixteenth century with Elizabeth reigning. We’ll sit down in the porch of the Chapel of St. Thomas.” “This is where we sat before, two hundred years ago, when Richard the Second was king,” murmured Betty. “And there are the English people still coming and going over London Bridge as almost in the same place they come and go in our own century to-day! People of the same character,—the descendants of those men and women we saw in the fourteenth century, and of these we see now in their doublets and hose, their ruffs and hoops. It’s only their dress that changes after all,” said Godmother, as though speaking to herself. “The Great War has proved that.... But I mustn’t forget we are in the sixteenth century now, and not the twentieth,” she added, smiling, “and you shall tell me, Betty, the names of some of the great men who are either living in London now, or at least often come to it.” “Well, Sir Francis Drake, and Sir John Hawkins, and Sir Walter Raleigh,” began Betty, thinking hard. “Yes, those are three of the great sailors. Now let us have some of the great writers.” “Shakespeare, and Kit Marlowe, and——” Betty hesitated. “Oh yes, Edmund Spenser and Ben Jonson, and——”