skulls above it, swinging to the wind on the pikes, were rebel heads.
Bare and bleached now, and exposed to a cruel view, but once caressed by
loving hands, was the last of those whose devotion to the house of Stuart
had brought from their homes to Temple Bar.

I halted by the Fleet Market, nor could I resist the desire to go into
St. Paul's, to feel like a pebble in a bell under its mighty dome; and it
lacked but half an hour of noon when I had come out at the Poultry and
finished gaping at the Mansion House. I missed Threadneedle Street and
went down Cornhill, in my ignorance mistaking the Royal Exchange, with
its long piazza and high tower, for the coffeehouse I sought: in the
great hall I begged a gentleman to direct me to Mr. Dix, if he knew such
a person. He shrugged his shoulders, which mystified me somewhat, but
answered with a ready good-nature that he was likely to be found at that
time at Tom's Coffee House, in Birchin Lane near by, whither I went with
him. He climbed the stairs ahead of me and directed me, puffing, to the
news room, which I found filled with men, some writing, some talking
eagerly, and others turning over newspapers. The servant there looked me
over with no great favour, but on telling him my business he went off,
and returned with a young man of a pink and white complexion, in a green
riding-frock, leather breeches, and top boots, who said:

"Well, my man, I am Mr. Dix."

There was a look about him, added to his tone and manner, set me strong
against him. I knew his father had not been of this stamp.

"And I am Mr. Richard Carvel, grandson to Mr. Lionel Carvel, of Carvel
Hall, in Maryland," I replied, much in the same way.