The great world of London has grown older, and little by little it is vanishing, that London of a dim past. As I write, the Old Bell Tavern in Holborn is put up for sale. The heavy wooden gates have swung on their hinges, since the Old Bell was built on the site of a tavern that flourished there 300 years ago. You pass these gates, and peep in at the left on an odd old kitchen next to the trim private parlour of the host and hostess, with a waiter bobbing in and out looking out on arriving guests. Then there is the row of above the coffee room, from which we see in the back, in a small niche above the gateway, a tiny figure of Napoleon. It has always been look. ed upon as something to revere. In terrainments before London was replete the old Inn Yard player folk gave en-with grand theatres. What eloquent processions of history one can conjure up in mental panorama, standing to-day in the yard of this famous starting-point fur coaches, discontinued only a few years ago
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.