London

"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.

I looked with curiosity at this historical edifice, which was smaller, as all historical things are, than one expected. It was made of timber, mounted upon steps of stone, and covered with lead. There was room in it for three or four persons; a low wall was built round it. A venerable man was preaching to a small congregation, who sat on wooden benches to listen.

"What things have not been heard," said Stow, "at Paul's Cross? Here were the folk motes of old, when the people were called by the great bell to attend their parliament, and take counsel together. No Common Council then, my masters, but every man his freedom of speech, and his vote. Paul's Cross it was which made the Reformation. Here have I heard Latimer, Ridley, Coverdale, Lever, and I know not whom besides. Here I saw with my own eyes the Bexley Rood shown, with all the tricks whereby it was made to open its eyes and lips and seem to speak. All the Reformation was accomplished from this Cross. For a king may set up a bishop, and proclaim a doctrine, but the people's hearts must be moved before their minds are changed. Think what a change was made in their minds in a few short years! Masses for the dead, purgatory, intercession of saints, good works, submission to the Church, all gone – all swept away. And to think that I survive, who was brought up in the ancient faith, and have witnessed this great revolution in the minds of men. For now they no longer even remember their ancient faith, save as the creed of those who lit the accursed flame of Smithfield, and still light the flames of Madrid. Let us go into the church," he said. "But first remember, when you look round, that in the old days the chapels in the aisles were always bright with the burning of wax candles – a superstition, because the burning of a candle is a fond thing to save a man's soul withal. Also, in every chapel, all day long, there was the saying of masses for the dead – another fond superstition – as if a man's soul is to be saved by the repetition of Latin prayers by another man. Yet, with these things the Church fulfilled its purpose. Now there are no more masses; and the chapels are empty and silent, their altars are removed, the paintings are defaced, and the Church is given over for worldly things. Come in."

We entered by the north transept.

There was much that astonished me in this walk through London of the year 1603, but nothing so surprising and unexpected as St. Paul's Cathedral. I had pictured a church narrow, long, somewhat low and dark. I found, on the other hand, that it was in every respect a most noble church, longer than any other cathedral I had ever seen, loftier, also, and well lighted in every part, the style grand and simple. Consider, therefore, my astonishment at finding the church desecrated and abandoned like the common streets for the general uses of the people. The choir alone, where the old screen still stood, was reserved for purposes of worship, for there was a public thoroughfare through the transepts and across the church. Men tramped through, carrying baskets of meat or of bread, sacks of coal, bundles, bags, and parcels of all kinds, walking as in the streets, turning neither to right nor left. Hucksters and peddlers not only walked through, but lingered on their way to sell their wares. Servants stood and sat about a certain pillar to be hired; scriveners sat about another pillar writing letters for those who required their services; clergymen in quest of a curacy or vicarage gathered at another pillar. "Remember the verses," said Stow:

"'Who wants a churchman that can service say,Read first and faire his monthlie homilie,And wed and bury and make Christian soules?Come to the left side alley of St. Paul's.'

"The poor clergymen," he went on, "have fallen upon evil times; there is not preferment enough for all of them, and many of the country parishes are too poor to keep a man, even though he live more hardly than a yeoman.

"This," he added, "is an exchange where almost as much business is done as at Sir Thomas Gresham's Burse, but of another kind. Here are houses bought and sold; here is money lent on usury; here are conspiracies hatched, villanies resolved upon; here is the honor of women bought and sold; here, if a man wants a handful of desperadoes for the Spanish Main, he may buy them cheap – look at those men standing by the tomb that they call Duke Humphrey's."

They were three tall, lean fellows, each with a long rapier and a worn doublet and a hungry face. Only to look upon them made one think of John Oxenham and his companions.

"These men should be taking of Panama or Guayaquil," said Stow. "The time grows too peaceful for such as those. But see, this is Paul's Walk; this is the Mediterranean."

The long middle aisle was crowded with a throng of men walking to and fro, some alone, some two or three together. Some of them were merchants or retailers, some were countrymen looking about them and crying out for the loftiness of the roof and grandeur of the church. But many were young gallants, and those were evidently come to show the splendor of their dress and to mark and follow the newest fashions, which, like women, they learned from each other.

"These lads," said Stow, again echoing my thoughts, "were also better on board a stout ship bound for the West Indies than at home spending their fortunes on their backs, and their time in pranking before the other gallants. Yet they are young. Folly sits well on the young. In youth we love a brave show, if only to please the maidens. Let us not, like the sour preacher, cry out upon a young man because he glorifies his body by fine raiment. To such a jagg'd and embroidered sleeve is as bad as the sound of pipe and tabor or the sight of a playhouse. Let them preach. For all their preaching our gallants will still be fine. It is so long since I was young that I have well-nigh forgotten the feeling of youth. It is now their time. For them the fine fashions; for them the feasting; for them the love-making; for us to look on and to remember. At the mutability of the fashion we may laugh, for there is no sense in it, but only folly. To-day the high Alman fashion; to-morrow the Spanish guise; the day after, the French. See with what an air they walk; head thrown back, hand on hip, leg advanced. Saw one ever gallants braver or more splendid? No two alike, but each arrayed in his own fashion as seemeth him best, though each would have the highest ruff and the longest rapier. And look at their heads – as many fashions with their hair as with their cloak and doublet. One is polled short; one has curls; another, long locks down to his shoulders. And some shave their chins; some have long beards, and some short beards. Some wear ear-rings, and have love-locks. Why not, good sir? Bones a' me! Plenty of time to save and hoard when we grow old. The world and the play of the world belong to the young. Let them enjoy the good things while they can."

While we were talking in this manner the clock struck the hour of eleven. Instantly there was a general movement towards the doors, and before the last stroke had finished ringing and echoing in the roof the church was empty, save for a few who still lingered and looked at each other disconsolately.

"It is the dinner-hour," said Stow.

"Then," said I, "lead me to some tavern where we may dine at our ease."

"There are many such taverns close to Paul's," he replied. "The Three Tuns in Newgate, the Boar's Head by London Stone, the Ship at the Exchange, the Mermaid in Cornhill, or the Mitre of Chepe. But of late my dinners have been small things, and I know not, what any town gallant could tell you, where to go for the best burnt sack or for sound Rhenish."

"The Mitre, then, on the chance."

This tavern, a gabled house, stood at the end of a passage leading from Cheapside, near the corner of Bread Street. The long room spread for dinner was two steps lower than the street, and not too well lighted. A narrow table ran down the middle; upon it was spread a fair white cloth; a clean napkin lay for every guest, and a knife. The table was already filled. Loaves of bread were placed at intervals; they were of various shapes, round and square; salt was also placed at regular intervals. When we entered, the company stood up politely till we had found seats. Then all sat down again.

We took our seats in a corner, whence we could observe the company. Stow whispered in my ear that this was a shilling ordinary, and one of the best in London, as was proved by the number of guests. "Your city gallant," he said, "scents his dinner like a hound, and is never at fault. We shall dine well."

We did dine well; the boys brought us first roast beef with peas and buttered beans. "This," said the old man, "is well – everything in season. At midsummer, beef and beans; at Michaelmas, fresh herrings; at All Saints, pork and souse, sprats and spurlings; in Lent, parsnips and leeks, to soften the saltness of the fish; at Easter, veal and bacon, or at least gammon of bacon, and tansy cake with stained eggs; at Martinmas, salt beef. Let old customs be still maintained. Methinks we are back in the days of bluff King Hal. Well, London was ever a city of plenty. Even the craftsman sits down to his brown-bread and bacon and his ale. Harry, bring me a tankard of March beer – and another dish of beef, tell the carver."

After the beef, we were served with roast capons and ducks. The absence of forks was partly made up by the use of bread, and no one scrupled to take the bones and suck them or even crunch them. But there was so much politeness and so many compliments passing from one to the other, that those small points passed almost unnoticed, even by my unaccustomed eyes. One quickly learns to think more of the people than of their ways in little things. Apart from their bravery in dress and their habit of compliment, I was struck with the cheerfulness and confidence, even the extravagance, of their talk. Their manner was that of the soldier, sanguine, confident, and rather loud. Some there were who looked ready to ruffle and to swagger.

The capon was followed by a course of cakes and fruit. Especially, the confection known as march-pane, in which the explorer lights upon filberts, almonds, and pistachio nuts, buried in sugared cake, hath left a pleasing memory in my mind.

Dinner over, the old man, my guide, offered no opposition to a flask of wine, which was brought in a glass measure with sugar thrown in.

"For choice," he said, "give me malmsey full and fine, sweetened with sugar. Your French wines are too thin for my old blood. Boy, bring a clean pipe and tobacco."

By this time almost every man in the room was smoking, though some contented themselves with their snuff-boxes. The tables were cleared, the boys ran about setting before every man his cup of wine and taking the reckoning.

Tobacco, the old man said, though introduced so recently, had already spread over the whole country, so that most men and many women took their pipe of tobacco every day with as much regularity as their cup of wine or tankard of ale. So widespread was now the practice that many hundreds made a livelihood in London alone by the retailing of this herb.

"And now," he said, when his pipe was reduced to ashes, "let us across the river and see the play at the Globe. The time serves; we shall be in the house before the second flourish."

There was a theatre, he told me on the way, easier of access among the ruins of the Dominicans', or Black Friars', Abbey, but that was closed for the moment. "We shall learn," he added, "the piece that is to be played from the posts of Queenhithe, where we take oars." In fact, we found the posts at that port placarded with small bills, announcing the performance of "Troilus and Cressida."

Bank Side consisted, I found, of a single row of houses, built on a dike, or levee, higher both than the river at high tide and the ground behind the bank. Before the building of the bank this must have been a swamp covered with water at every tide; it was now laid out in fields, meadows, and gardens. At one end of Bank Side stood the Clink Prison, Winchester House, and St. Mary Overies Church. At the other end was the Falcon Tavern, with its stairs, and behind it was the Paris Gardens.

The fields were planted with many noble trees, and in every one there was a pond or stagnant ditch which showed the nature of the ground. A little to the west of the Clink and behind the houses stood the Globe Theatre, and close beside it the "Bull-baiting." The theatre, erected in the year 1593, was hexagonal externally. It was open in the middle, but the stage and the galleries within were covered over with a thatched roof. Over the door was the sign of the house – Hercules supporting the globe, with the legend, "Totus mundus agit histrionem."

The interior of the theatre was circular in shape. It contained three galleries, one above the other; the lowest called the "rooms," for seats in which we paid a shilling each, contained the better sorts. At each side of the stage there were boxes, one of which contained the music. The stage itself, a stout construction of timber, projected far into the pit, or, as Stow called it, the "yarde." At the back was another stage, supported on two columns, and giving the players a gallery about ten or twelve feet high, the purpose of which we were very soon to find out. On each side of the stage were seats for those who paid an additional sixpence. Here were a dozen or twenty gallants, either with pipes of tobacco, or playing cards or dice before the play began. One of them would get up quickly with a pretence of impatience, and push back his cloak so as to show the richness of his doublet below. The young men, whether at the theatre, or in Paul's Walk, or in Chepe, seemed all intent upon showing their bravery of attire; no girls of our day could be more vain of their dress, or more critical of the dress worn by others. Some of them, however, I perceived among the groundlings – that is, the people in the "yarde" – gazing about the house upon the women in the galleries. Here there were many dressed very finely, like ladies of quality, in satin gowns, lawn aprons, taffeta petticoats, and gold threads in their hair. They seemed to rejoice in being thus observed and gazed upon. When a young man had found a girl to his taste, he went into the gallery, sat beside her, and treated her to pippins, nuts, or wine.

It was already one o'clock when we arrived. As we took our seats the music played its first sounding or flourish. There was a great hubbub in the place: hucksters went about with baskets crying pippins, nuts, and ale; in the "rooms" book-sellers' boys hawked about new books; everybody was talking together; everywhere the people were smoking tobacco, playing cards, throwing dice, cheapening books, cracking nuts, and calling for ale. The music played a second sounding. The hubbub continued unabated. Then it played the third and last. Suddenly the tumult ceased. The piece was about to begin.

The stage was decorated with blue hangings of silk between the columns, showing that the piece was to be – in part, at least – a comedy. Across the raised gallery at the back was stretched a painted canvas representing a royal palace. When the scene was changed this canvas became the wall of a city, and the actors would walk on the top of the wall; or a street with houses; or a tavern with its red lattice and its sign; or a tented field. When night was intended, the blue hangings were drawn up and exchanged for black.

The hawkers retired and were quiet; the house settled down to listen, and the Prologue began. Prologue appeared dressed in a long black velvet cloak; he assumed a diffident and most respectful manner; he bowed to the ground.

"In Troy there lies the scene. From isles of Greece,The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf'd,Have to the port of Athens sent their ships."

In this way the mind of the audience was prepared for what was to follow. We needed no play-bill. The palace before us could be no other than Priam's Palace. If there was a field with tents, it must be the battle-field and the camp of the Greeks; if there was a wall, it must be the wall of Troy. And though the scenery was rough, it was enough. One wants no more than the unmistakable suggestion; the poet and the actor find the rest. Therefore, though the intrusive gallants lay on the stage; though Troilus was dressed in the armor of Tudor-time, and Pandarus wore just such a doublet as old Stow himself, we were actually at Troy. The boy who played Cressida was a lovely maiden. The narrow stage was large enough for the Council of Kings, the wooing of lovers, and the battle-field of heroes. Women unfaithful and perjured, lovers trustful, warriors fierce, the alarms of war, fighting and slaying, the sweet whispers of love drowned by the blare of trumpets; the loss of lover forgotten in the loss of a great captain; and among the warriors and the kings and the lovers, the creeping creatures who live upon the weaknesses and the sins of their betters, played their parts upon these narrow boards before a silent and enraptured house. For three hours we were kept out of our senses. There was no need, I say, of better scenery; a quick shifting of the canvas showed a battle-field and turned the stage into a vast plain covered with armies of Greeks and Romans. Soldiers innumerable, as thick as motes in the sun, crossed the stage fighting, shouting, challenging each other. While they fought, the trumpets blew and the drums beat, the wounded fell, and the fight continued over these prostrate bodies till they were carried off by their friends. The chiefs rushed to the front, crossed swords, and rushed off again. "Come, both you cogging Greeks!" said Troilus, while our cheeks flushed and our lips parted. If the stage had been four times as broad, if the number of men in action had been multiplied by ten, we could not have felt more vividly the rage, the joy, the madness of the battle.