13H.P. Blavatsky & M. Collins, editors - Lucifer Vol. III, No. 13 September, 1888

noses. Sic transit gloria. It was a motley crowd, passed away long centuries ago, and pretty well forgotten by this time.

It so happened that with all our incessant ramblings we had not yet visited the Tower. Nor was it quite unintentional— not on my part, at any rate. O f late I had indulged in the pleasant occupation of refreshing my memory every night by reading about the places we intended to visit on the next day. I was in search of a book which I had read and very much enjoyed years ago— Dixon’s “ Story of the Tower,” its inmates and their acts and deeds. But, as fate would have it, I could not lay my hand on it. The days, however, that my companion, the Russian gentleman could spare for sight-seeing were drawing to an end, and so we had no time to lose.

O f this fact I was assured by himself on one bright August morning, when, owing to some wandering whim of his, we found ourselves standing on a very uninteresting spot on the right bank of the Thames. It was quite near the old St. Olave’s Street, corrupted of late into the meaning­ less Tooley Street. Just in front of us, on the opposite bank of the river, arose the massive and gloomy walls of that ancient structure, which had been once a palace, then a state-prison full of dark dungeons, a fortress, and had now become an arsenal and a treasury ward of the old relics and emblems of royalty— the venerable old Tower, in short. “ Would you mind going there straight and by the shortest cut ? ” asked my companion. “ I have no objection to it,” I replied, “ But how about the means of transit ? The nearest bridge is still a good way o ff; and this does not seem a favourite place of resort for either ’bus, cab or hansom. . . . This is an out-of-the-way corner, I fear. . . . Unfortunately, I already feel sufficiently tired, as it i s ; and. you know, one should not feel quite exhausted if one would visit the Tower. What can we do, do you think ? ” “ A very simple thing, indeed,” laughed my friend. “ We must pro­ ceed right to the Tower as the bee flies, and without stopping to look out for bridges, or waiting for cabs.” “ What can you mean, with this river before us ? . . . Surely you are not St. Peter, to attempt walking on the waters ? I am n o t! ” “ V ery likely you are not. But follow me, and if you do, I promise to lead you straight under the walls of the Tower.” . . . And, without waiting for an answer, my obstinate companion moved on.

I had no choice, it seemed, and did the same, though greatly perplexed as to what he was going to do.

The lane we had entered was narrow, dirty, and very muddy. I had to move on with the greatest caution and care, lest I should carry away on my skirts some very undesirable memorial of my passage through it.

Thus, picking up my dress the best way I could, I was slowly m oving in a true labyrinth of garbage, while my cicerone was hurrying a w a y at