VII
TUDOR LONDON
II. A PERAMBULATION
It was on the morning of June 23, in the year of grace 1603, that I was privileged to behold John Stow himself in the flesh, and to converse with him, and to walk with him through the streets of the city whose history and origin he knew better than any man of his own age or of any time that has followed him. It is common enough for a man to live among posterity, to speak to them and counsel them and comfort them; but for a man to visit his forefathers is a thing of rarer occurrence. At another time the way and manner of slipping backward up the ringing grooves of change may be explained for the benefit of others. For the moment, the important thing is the actual fact.
I found the venerable antiquary in his lodging. He lived – it was the year before he died – with his old wife, a childless pair, in a house over against the Church of St. Andrew Undershaft, in the street called St. Mary Axe. The house itself was modest, containing two rooms on the ground-floor, and one large room, or solar, as it would have been called in olden time, above. There was a garden at the back, and behind the garden stood the ruins of St. Helen's Nunnery, with the grounds and gardens of that once famous house, which had passed into the possession of the Leathersellers' Company. This open space afforded freedom and sweetness for the air, which doubtless conduced to the antiquary's length of days. Outside the door I found, sitting in an arm-chair, Mistress Stow, an ancient dame. She had knitting in her lap, and she was fast asleep, the day being fine and warm, with a hot sun in the heavens, and a soft wind from the south. Without asking her leave, therefore, I passed within, and mounting a steep, narrow stair, found myself in the library and in the presence of John Stow himself. The place was a long room, lofty in the middle, but with sloping sides. It was lit by two dormer windows; neither carpet nor arras, nor hangings of any kind, adorned the room, which was filled, so that it was difficult to turn about in it, with books, papers, parchments, and rolls. They lay piled on the floor; they stood in lines and columns against the walls; they were heaped upon the table; they lay at the right hand of the chair ready for use; they were everywhere. I observed, too, that they were not such books as may be seen in a great man's library, bound after the Italian fashion, with costly leather, gilt letters, golden clasps, and silken strings. Not so. These books were old folios for the most part; the backs were broken; the leaves, where any lay open, were discolored; many of them were in the Gothic black letter. On the table were paper, pens, and ink, and in the straight-backed arm-chair sat the old man himself, pen in hand, laboriously bending over a huge tome from which he was making extracts. He wore a black silk cap; his long white hair fell down upon his shoulders. The casements of the windows stood wide open, and through one of them, which looked to the south, the summer sunshine poured warm and bright upon the old scholar's head, and upon the table at which he sat.
When I entered the room he looked up, rose, and bowed courteously. His figure was tall and spare; his shoulders were rounded by much bending over books; his face was scored with the lines and wrinkles of old age; his eyes were clear and keen; but his aspect was kindly; his speech was soft and gentle.
"Sir," he said, "you are welcome. I had never expected or looked to converse in the flesh, or in the spirit – I know not which this visit may be called – with one from after generations; from our children and grandchildren. May I ask to which generation – "
"I belong to the late nineteenth century."
"It is nearly three hundred years to come. Bones o' me! Ten generations! I take this visit, sir, as an encouragement; even a special mark of favor bestowed upon me by the Lord, to show His servant that his work will not be forgotten."
"Forgotten? Nay, Master Stow, there are not many men of your age whom we would not lose before you are forgotten. Believe me, the Survey by John Stow will last as long as the City itself."
"Truly, sir," the old man replied, "my sole pains and care have ever been to write the truth. It is forty years – Ah, what a man was I at forty! What labors could I then accomplish between uprising and downlying! Forty years, I say, since I wrote the lines:
Of smooth and feathering speech remember to take heed,
For truth in plain words may be told; of craft a lie hath need.
"Of craft," he repeated, "a lie hath need. If the world would consider – well, sir, I am old and my friends are mostly dead, and men, I find, care little for the past wherein was life, but still regard the present and push on towards the future, wherein are death and the grave. And for my poor services the king hath granted letters patent whereby I am licensed to beg. I complain not, though for one who is a London citizen, and the grandson of reputable citizens, to beg one's bread is to be bankrupt, and of bankrupts this city hath great scorn. Yet, I say, I complain not."
"In so long a life," I said, "you must have many memories."
"So many, sir, that they fill my mind. Often, as I sit here, whither cometh no one now to converse about the things of old, my senses are closed to the present, and my thoughts carry me back to the old days. Why" – his eyes looked back as he spoke – "I remember King Harry the Eighth himself, the like of whom for masterfulness this realm hath never seen. Who but a strong man could by his own will overthrow – yea, and tear up by the very foundations – the religion which seemed made to endure forever? Sure I am that when I was a boy there was no thought of any change. I remember when in the streets every second man was priest or monk. The latter still wore his habit – grey, white, or black. But you could not tell the priest from the layman, for the priests were so proud that they went clothed in silks and furs; yea, and of bright colors like any court gallant; their shoes spiked; their hair crisped; their girdles armed with silver; and in like manner their bridles and their spurs; their caps laced and buttoned with gold. Now our clergy go in sober attire, so that the gravity of their calling is always made manifest to their own and others' eyes by the mere color of their dress. I remember, being then a youth, how the Houses were dissolved and the monks turned out. All were swept away. There was not even left so much as an hospital for the sick; even the blind men of Elsing's were sent adrift, and the lepers from the Lazar house, and the old priests from the Papey. There was no help for the poor in those days, and folk murmured, but below breath, and would fain, but dared not say so, have seen the old religion again. The king gave the houses to his friends. Lord Cromwell got Austin Friars, where my father, citizen and tallow-chandler, had his house. Nay, so greedy of land was my lord that he set back my father's wall, and so robbed him of his garden, and there was no redress, because he was too strong."
He got up and walked about the room, talking as he paced the narrow limits. He talked garrulously, as if it pleased him to talk about the past. "When we came presently to study Holy Scripture," he said, "where there is an example or a warning for everything, we read the history of Ahab and of Naboth's vineyard; and for my own part I could never avoid comparing my Lord Cromwell with Ahab, and the vineyard with my father's garden, though Naboth had never to pay rent for the vineyard which was taken from him as my father had. The end of my Lord Cromwell was sudden and violent, like the end of King Ahab."
"You belong to an old city family, Master Stow?" I asked.
"Sir, my forefathers for five generations – at least, my memory goes not farther back – are all buried in the little green church-yard behind St. Michael's Cornhill. My grandfather, citizen and tallow-chandler, died when I was yet of tender years. This have I always regretted, because he might have told me many curious things concerning the City in the time of Edward the Fourth. The penance of Jane Shore he would surely remember. Nay, he may even have known that unfortunate lady, wife of a reputable citizen. Yet have I in my youth conversed with old men and learned much from them. My grandfather, by his last will, thought it no superstition to leave money for watching-candles. I was once taken to the church to see them burning, and there I remember I saw a poor woman who received every Sunday, for a year, one penny for saying five pater-nosters for the good of his soul. Thus she lived, poor wretch, wasting her breath in fruitless labor. I marvel to think what has become of all those who lived by the altar in the old days. The priests of the churches and the chantries, the chaplains of the fraternities, the singing-men, the petty canons, the sextons, singers, sayers of pater-nosters, sellers of crosses and beads and chaplets and wax tapers, the monks and the nuns with all their officers and servants – there were many thousands in this city alone – what became of them? How get they now a livelihood? Tell me that. As for me, I have been hauled before the courts on a charge of Papistry. Bones o' me! All my crime was the reading of old books, yet do I remember the evil days of King Edward's time, when the Reformation was new, and people's minds were troubled, and all things seemed turning to destruction, so that many welcomed back the old religion when Mary came, yet when she died there was found none to mourn for its banishment. Sir, the old are apt to praise the past, but from one who has lived through the glorious reign of Queen Elizabeth shall you hear nothing but praise of the present. Consider" – he arose and walked to the open window and looked out – "this fine town of London, like the realm itself, was devoured by the priests and monks. It is now freed from those locusts. The land that belonged to the Church could not be sold, so that those who lived upon it were always tenants and servants. That land is now free. Learning, which before was on sufferance, is now free. Nay, there hath been so great a zeal for learning – such an exemplar was Her Highness the Queen – that noble ladies, as well as gentlemen, have become skilled in Latin, Greek, Italian, and even in Hebrew. The trade of the City hath doubled and trebled. Thanks to the wisdom of our merchants and their courage, London doth now surpass Antwerp. The Spaniard, who vainly thought to rule the world, is humbled, and by us. The French, who would strike at England through Scotland, have lost their power. Our ships sail round the world; our merchants trade with India in the east and with America in the west: our trading companies cover all the seas. What does it matter that I am old and poor and licensed to beg my bread – and that in a city which hath ever scorned poverty – what does it matter, I say, so that one has lived through this most happy reign and seen this city increase, year by year, in wealth and greatness? Who am I that I should murmur? I have had my prayer. The Lord hath graciously made me the historian of the City. My work will be a monument. What more can a man want than to have the desire of his heart?" His voice trembled. He stood in the sunshine, which wrapped him as with a glory. Then he turned to me.
"Sir," said he, "you are here – whether in the flesh or the spirit I know not. Come with me. Let me show you my city and my people. In three hundred years there will be many changes and the sweeping away of many old landmarks, I doubt not. There must be many changes in customs and usages and in fashions of manners and of dress. Come with me. You shall behold my present – and your past."
He put on his cloak – a shabby cloak it was, and too short for his tall figure – and led the way down the narrow stairs into the street. He stepped out of the house, and looked up and down the street, sniffing the air with the greatest satisfaction, as if it had been laden with the perfumes of Araby the Blest instead of the smell of a glue-making shop hard by.
"Ha!" he said, "the air of London is wholesome. We have had no plague since the sweating sickness, fifty years ago." (There was to be another the year after, but this he could not know, and it was not for me to tell him.) "Yet at Iseldon, hard by, fevers are again very prevalent, and the falling sickness is reported from Westminster. This, sir, is the street of St. Mary Axe. It is not one of our great streets, yet many worshipful men live here. Opposite is the house of one who is worth £4000 – aye, £4000 at least; not a Gresham or a Staple, yet a man of substance." The house was four stories high, the front of brick and timber, the windows filled above and below with rich carvings, and having a high gable. "The wealth of private citizens hath lately much increased. In my youth there were few such houses; now there are a dozen where formerly there was but one. If you go into that house, sir, you will find the table plentiful and the wine good; you will see arras hanging in every chamber, or a painted cloth with proverbs at least; sweet herbs or flowers are strewn in every room; the house is warmed with fires; the sideboards are loaded with plate or are bright with Murano glass. There are coffers of ivory and wood to hold the good man's treasure; and in an upper chamber you shall see hanging up the cloaks and doublets, the gowns and petticoats, of this worthy and worshipful merchant and his family, in silk and velvet, precious and costly. Fifty years ago there would have been none of these things, but treen platters; of arras none; and but one poor silver mazer for all his plate. But we are not ashamed to see the tenements of the craftsmen side by side with the great houses of the rich. For we are all brothers in this city; one family are we, rich and poor together; we are united in our companies and in our work; our prentices are taught their trade; to our maids we give marriage portions; we suffer no stranger among us; our sick and aged are kept from want and suffering."
"But you have great Lords and noblemen among you. Surely they are not of your family."
"Sir, the time was when it was a happy circumstance for the City to have the nobles within her walls. That time is past. They are fast leaving our bounds. One or two alone remain, and we shall not lament their departure. There is no longer any danger that the City will be separate in feeling from the country, and it is true that the rufflers who follow in a noble lord's train are ever ready to turn a silly girl's head or to lead a prentice into dissolute ways. In this street there were once no fewer than three parish churches. Yonder ruin at the north end was St. Augustine on the Wall: here of old times was the house of the old and sick priests, called the Papey. King Henry turned them out, and who took in the poor old men I know not. 'Twas a troubled time. Yonder was the church – its church-yard yet remaining – of St. Mary Axe, dedicated not only to the Virgin whom now we have ceased to worship, yet still reverence, but also to St. Ursula, whom we regard no more, and to the Eleven Thousand Virgins, at whose pretended miracle we scoff. And opposite is the goodly church of St. Andrew Undershaft. Of churches we have fewer than of old. As for piety, truly I see no difference, for some will always be pious, and some prodigal and profligate. I remember," he went on, gazing, as was his wont, at the church as if he loved the very stones – "I remember the May-pole when it hung upon hooks along the south wall of the church. I never saw it erected, because Evil May-day, before I was born, when the prentices rose against the aliens, was the last time that it was put up. It was destroyed in King Edward's time, when one Sir Stephen, curate of Katherine Cree, preached at Paul's Cross that the May-pole was an idol. So the people brought axes and cut it up – the goodliest May-pole that the world has ever seen, and taller than the steeple of the church. The same Sir Stephen wanted to change the names of the churches, and the names of the week-days, and the time of Lent, all for the sake of idolatry. And the same Sir Stephen caused the death of the most honest man that ever lived, for alleged seditious words. Well – 'tis fifty years ago."
With this reminiscence we passed through Leadenhall, and into a broad and open place. "Now," said Stow, "we are in the very heart of the City. Here hath been, for time out of mind, a corn-market. And here are pillory and stocks, but," said Stow, "this pillory is for false dealing only. The greater pillory is in Cheapside. Here we have the Tun prison" – in shape the building somewhat resembled a tun – "for street offenders and the like. It has been a city prison for three hundred years and more. Beside it is the conduit. Here are two churches: St. Peter's, which falsely pretends to be the most ancient of any in the City, and St. Michael's. But the chief glory of Cornhill is the Royal Exchange. Let us look in."
The entrance and principal front of the Royal Exchange were on the south side. We looked in. The place was crowded with merchants, grave and sober men, walking within in pairs, or gathered in little groups. Among them were foreigners from Germany, France, Venice, Genoa, Antwerp, and even Russia, conspicuous by their dress. "Before the building of this place," said Stow, "our merchants had no place to meet, and were forced to seek out each other; nor was there any place where the latest news might be brought, however much the interest of the City might be affected. Now all is changed, and every morning our worshipful merchants meet to hear the news, and to discuss their business. Come, we must not linger, for we have much to see; else there would be many things to tell. Believe me, sir, I could discourse all day long upon the trade of London and yet not make an end."
He led me past the Royal Exchange, past two churches, one on the north side and one on the south, into a broad and open street, which I knew must be Cheapside.
"Here," said he, "is the beauty of London. This, good Sir, is Chepe."
The street was at least double the width of its modern successor. The houses, which were the fairest, taken all together, in the whole of the City, were nearly all five stories high, each story projecting above the one below, with high-pitched gable facing the street. The fronts were of brick and timber, and some of them were curiously and richly carved. In some the third story was provided with a balcony shaded from the sun. The ground-floor contained the shop, protected by a prentice. A sign hung in front of every house. In the middle was Queen Eleanor's cross, the figure of the Virgin and Holy Infant defaced by zealous Protestants. Near the cross was the conduit. The shops on the south side were of grocers, haberdashers, and upholsterers. Farther west the goldsmiths stood together, and then the mercers. The street was filled with people, some riding, some walking. There were gallants, followed by servants carrying their swords; there were grave city merchants and fine city madams; there were working-men and craftsmen; there were the prentices, too, in every shop, bawling their wares.
"When I was a prentice," said Stow, "the boys were made to wear blue cloaks in summer and blue gowns in winter, with breeches and stockings of white broadcloth, and flat caps. They attended their master at night with a lantern and clubs, and they fetched the water in the morning, unless they were mercers, who were excused. But all good manners are changed. Now they dress as they please, and except that they carry the club and break each other's pates withal, they are no longer like the old prentice. Also, formerly £10 would suffice to bind a lad and make him free of the City; now £100 is wanted. Well, sir, here you have Chepe. Rich it is with goodly houses and its ancient churches; I say not stately churches, because our forefathers loved better to beautify the religious houses than their parish churches – yet many goodly monuments are erected in them to the memories of dead worthies. Much of the carved work and the painting has been destroyed or defaced by the zeal of reformers, who have broken the painted windows so that false doctrine should no longer be preached by those dumb orators. Truly, when I think upon the churches as they were, with all their monuments and chapels and holy roods, carved and beautified by the cunning of the sculptor and limner, and look upon them as they are, hacked and hewn, I am fain to weep for sorrow. Yet, again, when I remember the swarms of monks and priests from whom we are set free, and our holy martyrs who perished in the flames, I confess that the destruction was needful." He stepped aside to make room for a gentlewoman who walked proudly along the street, followed by a servant.
"Aye," he murmured, "thy husband is a respectable merchant on 'Change; his father before him, citizen and armorer, also respected. But his profits will not long suffice to meet thine extravagance, my fine city madam."
She was of the middle height, and about thirty years of age; her hair was a bright red. "A week ago it was brown," said my guide. It was knotted and raised above her forehead; on her head she wore a hood of muslin, under which one could see gold threads in her hair, and open peascods with pearls for peas; her face was smeared all over with paint; a heavy gold chain hung round her neck; her ruff was of enormous size, and her waist was extravagantly long; her gown was of rich velvet, looped back to show her petticoat of flowered satin; she had a lovelock under her left ear, tied with a freshly-cut rose; she was so stuffed out with hoops that she covered as much space as six women; in one hand she carried a fan, and in the other a pomander-box, at which she sniffed perpetually.
"She moves like a painted galley," said Stow. "No barge on the river finer to look at. All the argosies of the East would be swallowed up by such a woman. 'Give, give,' say the daughters of the horse-leech. Sir, the Lord made the female less comely than her mate; witness the peahen and the pullet in their russet garb compared with the splendor of their male. This, I take it, is the reason why women continually seek by some new fashion or device to remove the inequality, and, if possible, to overtop their lords as well as each other. As for me, I have always loved a maid in her simplicity, her hair falling in curls about her lovely face, and her shape visible instead of hidden under ruffs and hoops. But, alas! what hath a man of eighty to do with maidens?" he sighed.
"Yonder," he went on, "is the chief pillory, the whipping-place of the City. Chepe is not only a place of trade and fine clothes. Here have I seen many things done that would be cruel but for the common weal. Once I saw a comely maiden lose her ears and have her forehead branded for trying to poison her mistress. Once I saw a school-master flogged for cruelly beating a boy. It was rare to see the boys shouting and clapping their hands as the poor wretch screamed. Some have I seen pilloried for cheating, some for seditious words, some for disorder. Pillory is a potent physician. The mere sight of these round holes and that post doth act like a medicine upon old and young. It is in Smithfield, not in Chepe, that we chiefly hold our executions. Men and women have been burned there for other things besides heresy: for poisoning, for false coining, for murdering. Many are hanged every year in that ruffians' field. But to-day we shall not see executions. Let us talk of more mirthful things. And see, here comes a wedding-train!"
The music came first, a noise of crowds and clarions playing merrily. Next came damsels bearing bride-cakes and gilded loaves. After them a young man carried the silver bride-cup, filled with hippocras and garnished with rosemary, which stands for constancy. Then came the bride herself, a very beauteous lady, dressed all in white, decorated with long chains of gold, pearls, and precious stones. On her head was a white lace cap. She was led by two boys in green and gold. After her walked her parents and other members of the family.
"Ha!" he said, "there will be rare feasting to-day, with masks and mumming and dancing. We marry but once in our lives. 'Twere pity if we could not once rejoice. Yet there are some who would turn every feast into a fast, and make even a wedding the occasion for a sermon. See! after a wedding a funeral. I am glad the bride met not this. 'Tis bad luck for a bride to meet a burying."
Then there came slowly marching down the street, while the people stepped aside and took off their hats, a funeral procession.
"Who hath died?" asked Stow. "This it is to be old and to live retired. I have not heard. Yet, considering the length of the procession, one would say a prince in Israel. Neighbor," he asked a by-stander, "whose funeral is this? Ha! So he is dead! A worthy man; a knight, once sheriff, citizen, and mercer. You will see, my friend, that we still know how to mourn our dead worthies, though we lack the singing clerks and priests who formerly went first, chanting all the way."
The procession drew nearer. "Now," he said, "I take it that you will not know the order of the march, wherefore I will interpret. First, therefore, walk the children of Christ's Hospital, two by two; he was, therefore, a benefactor or governor of the school. Then follow the yeomen conductors, two by two, in black coats, with black staves. The poor men of the parish, two by two; then the poor women in like order; the choir of the church; and the preacher – he has crape over his cassock. Then a gentleman in hood and gown bearing the standard. Next three gentlewomen in black gowns; there are the aldermen in violet. Those two grave persons are the executors of the deceased. There is the pennon borne by a gentleman in hood and gown; the helm and crest borne by a pursuivant; the coat of arms borne by a herald, Clarence, King at Arms."
After this long procession came the coffin itself, borne by six yeomen in black coats; it was covered with a black velvet pall. On either side walked two gentlemen in hoods and gowns, carrying pennons. One of them bore the arms of the deceased, a gentleman of good family; one bore the arms of the City; one those of the Mercer's Company; and one those of the Merchant Adventurers.
Then came the rest of the procession, and my guide began again: "There follows the chief mourner, the eldest son of the deceased; then four other mourners, two by two; then the Chamberlain and Town Clerk of the City; the Sword-bearer; the Lord Mayor in black; the Alderman having no blacks." I confess that I understood not the distinction, or what followed. "The estates of women having blacks; Aldermen's wives having no blacks; the city companies represented by their wardens and clerks; the masters of the hospitals having green staves." I could have asked why they chose this color, but had no time. "Lastly, the neighbors and parishioners carrying evergreens, bay, and rosemary."
So it was finished. A procession wellnigh a quarter of a mile in length.
"Since we must all die," said Master Stow, "it must be a singular comfort to the rich and those in high place to think that they will be borne to their graves in such state and pomp, with, doubtless, a goodly monument in the church to perpetuate their memory. As for me, I am poor and of no account, only a beggar licensed by grace of his Majesty the King. My parish church hath a fine pall which it will lend me to cover my coffin. Four men will carry me across the street and will lower me into my grave. And so we end."
"Not so an end, good Master Stow," I said. "This city Knight – his name I did not catch – shall be forgotten before the present generation passes away, even though they erect a monument to his memory; but thy achievements will be remembered as long as London Town shall continue. I see already the monument that shall be raised to thy memory, in addition to the book which will never die."
"Amen. So be it," he replied. "Come, you have seen the merchants in the Royal Exchange, and you have seen the shops of Chepe. We will now, before the hour of dinner, visit Paul's Church-yard and Paul's Walk."
At the western end of Cheapside was the Church of St. Michael le Quern, a small building sixty feet long, with a square tower fifty feet high, and a clock on the south face. At the back of the church was the little conduit. The houses north and south were here exactly alike, uniform in size and construction. On the south side a broad archway, with a single room above, and a gabled roof, opened into Paul's Church-yard. "There are six gates," said Stow, "round the church-yard. This is called Paul's Gate, or, by some, the Little Gate."
The area included was crowded with buildings and planted with trees. On the north side were many shops of stationers, each with its sign – the White Greyhound, the Flower de Luce, the Angel, the Spread Eagle, and others. In the middle rose the church towering high, its venerable stones black with age and the smoke of London.
"The place is much despoiled," said the antiquary, "since the days of the old religion. Many things have been taken down which formerly beautified the church-yard. For instance, on this very spot, covered now with dwelling-houses and shops, was the Charnel Chapel, as old as King Edward the First. It was a chapel of the Blessed Virgin. Sir Richard Whittington endowed it with a chaplain. There were two brotherhoods; its crypt was filled with bones; the chapel was filled with monuments. One would have thought that reverence for the bones would have sufficed to preserve the chapel. But no. It was in the reign of Edward the Sixth, when everything was destroyed. The Duke of Somerset pulled down the chapel. The bones he caused to be placed in carts – they made a thousand loads – and to be carried to Finsbury Fields, where they were thrown out and strewn around – a pitiful spectacle. Beside the Charnel Chapel was the Chapel of the Holy Ghost, served by the seven chaplains of Holme's College, on the south side of the church-yard. That, too, was destroyed. But most of all I lament the destruction of the Pardon Church-yard. Truly this was one of the wonders of London. There stands the plot of ground, a garden now for the minor canons, but formerly a cloister wherein were buried many persons of worship, and some of honor, whose monuments were of curious workmanship. Round the cloister was painted a dance of death, commonly called the Dance of Paul's, with verses by John Lydgate, done at the dispense of John Carpenter. Over the east quadrant was a fair library, given by Walter Sherrington, chancellor to Henry the Sixth; and in the cloister was a chapel, built by the father of Thomas à Becket, who lay buried there. Of such antiquity was this beautiful and venerable place. Neither its age nor its beauty could save it. Nor could the lesson concerning the presence of death, in this lively portraiture, save it. Down it must come, and now there remains but two or three old men like myself who can remember the Dance of Paul's. Well, the figure of death is gone, but death himself we cannot drive away. There is Paul's Cross." He pointed to an edifice at the north-east angle of the transept.