Rollo in London. Jacob Abbott

have the best time.”

      “Yes,” said Mr. George.

      “And see the most to amuse us,” said Rollo.

      “I think,” said Mr. George, “on the whole, that the West End will be the best for us. There are a few great things in the city to be seen; but the every-day walks, and little excursions, and street sights are altogether more interesting at the West End. So we had better take our lodgings there, and go to the city when we wish to by the omnibuses that go down the Strand.”

      “Or by these boats on the river,” said Rollo.

      “Yes,” said Mr. George, “or by these boats.”

      Not long after this, the steamboat came to Hungerford Bridge. Rollo knew the bridge at once, as soon as it came into view, it was of so light and slender a construction. Instead of being supported, like the other bridges, upon arches built up from below, it was suspended from immense chains that were stretched across the river above. The ends of these chains passed over the tops of lofty piers, which were built for the purpose of supporting them, one on each side, near the shore. The steamer glided swiftly under this bridge, and immediately afterwards the Westminster Bridge came into view.

      “Now,” said Rollo, “we are coming to our landing.”

      When the steamer at length made the landing, Rollo and Mr. George got out and went up to the shore. They came out in a street called Bridge Street, which led them up to another street called Whitehall.

      “Whitehall,” said Mr. George, reading the name on the corner. “This must be the street where King Charles I. was beheaded. Let me stop and see.”

      So Mr. George stopped on the sidewalk, and, taking a little London guide book out of his pocket, he looked at the index to find Whitehall. Then he turned to the part of the book referred to, and there he found a long statement in respect to King Charles’s execution, which ended by saying, “There cannot be a doubt, therefore, that he was executed in front of the building which stands opposite the Horse Guards.”

      “I’ll inquire where the Horse Guards is,” said Mr. George.

      “Where the horse guards are,” said Rollo, correcting what he supposed must be an error in his uncle’s grammar.

      “No,” rejoined Mr. George, “The Horse Guards is the name of a building.”

      “Then this must be it,” said Rollo, pointing to a building not far before them; “for here are two horse guards standing sentry at the doors of it.”

      Mr. George looked and saw a very splendid edifice, having a fine architectural front that extended for a considerable distance along the street, though a little way back from it. There was a great gateway in the centre; and near the two ends of the building there were two porches on the street, with a splendidly-dressed horseman, completely armed, and mounted on an elegant black charger, in each of them. The horse of each of these sentries was caparisoned with the most magnificent military trappings; and, as the horseman sat silent and motionless in the saddle, with his sword by his side, his pistols at the holster, and his bright steel helmet, surmounted with a white plume, on his head, Rollo thought that he was the finest-looking soldier he had ever seen.

      “I should like to see a whole troop of such soldiers as that,” said he.

      “That building must be the Horse Guards,” said Mr. George; “but I will be sure. I will ask this policeman.”