Part 20

In the streets of London they separate and practise each in the quarter most likely to catch the gull. For instance, observe this well-dressed young gentleman, with the simple manner and the honest face, strolling along the middle-walk of Paul's. Simple as he looks, his eye glances here and there among the throng. Presently he sees a young countryman, whom he knows by the unfailing signs; he approaches the countryman; he speaks to him; in a few minutes they leave the Cathedral together and betake them to a tavern, where they dine, each paying for himself, in amity and friendship, though strangers but an hour since. Then comes into the tavern an ancient person, somewhat decayed in appearance, who sits down and calls for a stoup of ale. "Now," says the first young man, "you shall see a jest, sir." Whereupon he accosts the old gentleman, and presently proposes to throw the dice for another pot. The old man accepts, being a very simple and childlike old man, and loses--both his money and his temper. Then the countryman joins in.... After the young countryman gets home, he learns that the old man was a "fingerer" by profession, and that the young man was his confidant.

The courtesy man works where the sailors and sea-captains congregate; he accosts one who looks credulous and new; he tells him that he is one of a company, tall, proper men, all like himself--he is well-mannered; they are disbanded soldiers, masterless and moneyless; for himself he would not beg, but for his dear comrades he would do anything. When he receives a shilling he puts it up with an air of contempt, but accepts the donor's good-will, and thanks him for so much. A plausible villain, this.

Outside Aldgate, where the Essex farmers are found, the "ring faller" loves to practise his artless game. Have we not still with us the man who picks up the ring which he is willing to let us have for the tenth of its value? The Elizabethan mariner, who has been shipwrecked and lost his all, has vanished. The Tudor disbanded soldier has vanished, but the army reserve man sells his matches in the street when he cannot find the work he looks for so earnestly; the counterfeit cranker who stood at the corner of the street covered with mud, and his face besmeared with blood, as one who has just had an attack of the falling sickness, is gone, because that kind of sickness is known no longer; the "frater" who carried a forged license to beg for a hospital, is also gone; the abraham man, who pretended to be mad, is gone; the "palliard" or "clapper dodger;" the angler, who stuck a hook in a long pole and helped himself out of the open shops; the "prigger of prancers," a horse thief; the ruffler, the swigman and prigman, are also gone, but their descendants remain with us, zealous in the pursuit of kindred callings, and watched over paternally by a force 38,000 strong--about one policeman for every habitual criminal--so that, since every policeman costs £100 a year, and every criminal steals, eats, or destroys property to the same amount at least, every criminal costs the country, first, the things which he steals--say £100 a year; next, his policeman, another £100; thirdly, the loss of his own industry; and fourthly, the loss of the policeman's industry--making in all about £500 a year. It would be cheaper to lock him up.

In the matter of punishments, we have entered upon a time of greater cruelty than prevailed under the Plantagenets. Men are boiled, and women are burned for poisoning; heretics are still burned--in 1585 one thus suffered for denying the divinity of Christ; ears are nailed to the pillory and sliced off for defamation and seditious words; long and cruel whippings are inflicted--in one case through Westminster and London for forgery; an immense number are hanged every year; the chronicler Macheyn continually sets down such a fact as that on this day twelve were hanged at Tyburn, seven men and five women; mariners were hanged at low water at Wapping, for offences committed at sea; the good old custom of pillory was maintained with zeal; and the parading of backsliders in carts or on horseback was kept up. Thus, one woman for selling fry of fish, unlawful, rode triumphantly through the town with garlands of fish decorating her head and shoulders and the tail of the horse, while one went before beating a brass basin. Another woman was carried round, a distaff in her hand and a blue hood on her head, for a common scold. A man was similarly honored for selling measly pork; and another, riding with his head to the animal's tail, for doing something sinful connected with lamb and veal.

The cruelty of punishments only shows that the administration of the law was weak. In fact, the machinery for enforcing law and repressing crime was growing more and more unequal to the task, as the City grew in numbers and in population. The magistrates sought to deter by the spectacle of suffering. This is a deterrent which only acts beneficially when punishment is certain, or nearly certain. The knowledge that nine criminals will escape for one who is whipped all the way from Charing Cross to Newgate encourages the whole ten to continue. Men are like children: if they are to be kept in the paths of virtue, it is better to watch and prevent them continually than to leave them free and to punish them if they fall. But this great law was not as yet understood.

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.

[Illustration: SIGN OF THE THREE KINGS, BUCKLESBURY]

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.

[Illustration: THE MANNER OF BURNING ANNE ASKEW, JOHN LACELS, JOHN ADAMS, AND NICOLAS BELENIAN, WITH CERTANE OF YE COUNSELL SITTING IN SMITHFIELD]

"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.

[Illustration: OLD FOUNTAIN INN IN THE MINORIES

_Taken down in 1793_]

"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."