"Man wishes to be loved--expects to be so:
And yet how few live so as to be loved!"
Rev Horatius Bonar, D.D.
It was a warm afternoon in the beginning of July--warm everywhere; and
particularly so in the house of Master Robert Altham, the patty-maker,
who lived at the corner of Saint Martin's Lane, where it runs down into
the Strand. Shall we look along the Strand? for the time is 1372, five
hundred years ago, and the Strand was then a very different place from
the street as we know it now.
In the first place, Trafalgar Square had no being. Below where it was
to be in the far future, stood Charing Cross--the real Eleanor Cross of
Charing, a fine Gothic structure--and four streets converged upon it.
That to the north-west parted almost directly into the Hay Market and
Hedge Lane, genuine country roads, in which both the hay and the hedge
had a real existence. Southwards ran King Street down to Westminster;
and northwards stood the large building of the King's Mews, where his
Majesty's hawks were kept. Two hundred years later, bluff King Hal
would turn out the hawks to make room for his horses; but as yet the
word mews had its proper signification of a place where hawks were mewed
or confined. At the corner of the Mews, between it and the
patty-maker's, ran up Saint Martin's Lane; its western boundary being
the long blank wall of the Mews, and its eastern a few houses, and then
Saint Martin's Church. Along the Strand, eastwards, were stately
private houses on the right hand, and shops upon the left. Just below
the cross, further to the south, was Scotland Yard, the site of the
ancient Palace of King David of Scotland, and still bearing traces of
its former grandeur; then came the Priory of Saint Mary Rouncival, the
town houses of six Bishops, the superb mansion of the Earl of Arundel,
and the house of the Bishops of Exeter, interspersed with smaller
dwellings here and there. A long row of these stretched between Durham
Place and Worcester Place, behind which, with its face to the river,
stood the magnificent Palace of the Savoy, the city habitation of John
of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, eldest surviving son of the reigning King.
The Strand was far narrower than now, and the two churches, instead of
being in the middle, broke the monotony of the rows of houses on the
north side. Let us look more especially at the long row which ran
unbroken from the corner of Saint Martin's Lane to the first church,
that of "our Lady and the holy Innocents atte Stronde."
What would first strike the eye was the signboards, gaily painted, and
swinging in the summer breeze. Every house had one, for there were no
numbers, and these served the purpose; consequently no two similar ones
must be near each other. People directed letters to Master Robert
Altham, "at the Katherine Wheel, by Saint Martin's Church, nigh the
King's Mews," when they had any to write; but letters, except to people
in high life or in official positions, were very rare articles, and
Master Altham had not received a full dozen in all the seven-and-twenty
years that he had lived in the Strand and made patties. Next door to
him was John Arnold, the bookbinder, who displayed a Saracen's head upon
his signboard; then came in regular order Julian Walton, the mercer,
with a wheelbarrow; Stephen Fronsard, the girdler, with a cardinal's
hat; John Silverton, the pelter or furrier, with a star; Peter Swan, the
Court broiderer, with cross-keys; John Morstowe, the luminer, or
illuminator of books, with a rose; Lionel de Ferre, the French baker,
with a vine; Herman Goldsmith, the Court goldsmith, who bore a dolphin;
William Alberton, the forcermonger, who kept what we should call a fancy
shop for little boxes, baskets, etcetera, and exhibited a
_fleur-de-lis_; Michael Ladychapman, who sported a unicorn, and sold
goloshes; Joel Garlickmonger, at the White Horse, who dealt in the
fragrant vegetable whence he derived his name; and Theobald atte Home,
the hatter, who being of a poetical disposition, displayed a landscape
entitled, as was well understood, the Hart's Bourne. Beyond these
stretched far away to the east other shops--those of a mealman, a
lapidary, a cordwainer--namely, a shoemaker; a lindraper, for they had
not yet added the syllable which makes it linen; a lorimer, who dealt in
bits and bridles; a pouchmonger, who sold bags and pockets; a
parchment-maker; a treaclemonger, a spicer, a chandler, and a pepperer,
all four the representatives of our modern grocer; an apothecary; a
scrivener, who wrote for the numerous persons who could not write; a
fuller, who cleaned clothes; a tapiser, who sold tapestry, universally
used for hangings of rooms; a barber, an armourer, a spurrier, a
scourer, a dyer, a glover, a turner, a goldbeater, an upholdester or
upholsterer, a toothdrawer, a buckler-maker, a fletcher (who feathered
arrows), a poulter or poulterer, a vinter or wine-merchant, a pewterer,
a haberdasher, a pinner or pin-maker, a skinner, a hamper-maker, and a
hosier. The list might be prolonged through fifty other trades, but we
have reached Temple Bar. So few houses between Saint Martin's Lane and
Temple Bar! Yes, so few. Ground was cheap, and houses were low, and it
cost less to cover much ground than to build high. Only very exalted
mansions had three floors, and more than three were unknown even to
imagination. Moreover, the citizens of London had decided ideas of the
garden order. They did not crush their houses tight together, as if to
squeeze out another inch, if possible. Though their streets were
exceedingly narrow, yet nearly every house had its little garden; and
behind that row to which we are paying particular attention, ran "le
Covent Garden," the Abbot of Westminster's private pleasure ground, and
on its south-east was Auntrous' Garden, bordered by "the King's highway,
leading from the town of Seint Gylys to Stronde Crosse." The town of
Seint Gylys was quite a country place, and as to such remote villages as
Blumond's Bury or Iseldon, which we call Bloomsbury and Islington,
nobody thought of them in connection with London, any more than with
Nottingham or Durham.
The houses were much more picturesque than those of modern build. There
was no attempt at uniformity. Each man set his house down as it suited
him, and some thatches turned to the east and west, while others fronted
north and south. There were few chimneys, except in the larger houses,
and no shop windows; a large wooden shutter fixed below the window
covered it at night, and in the day it was let down to hang, tablewise,
as a counter whereon the goods sold by the owner were displayed.
The Strand was one of the few chief streets where various trades
congregated together. Usually every street had its special calling, and
every trade its own particular street. Some of the latter retain their
significant names even yet--Hosier Lane, Cordwainer Street, Bread
Street, Soper's Lane, the Poultry, Silver Street, Ironmonger's Lane, and
Paternoster Row, in which last lived the text-writers and rosary-makers.
The mercers lived mainly in Cheapside, the drapers in Lombard Street
(they were mostly Italians, as the name shows), the furriers in Saint
Mary Axe, the fishmongers in Knightriders' Street, the brewers by the
Thames, the butchers in Eastcheap, and the goldsmiths in Guthrum's (now
Gutter) Lane.
But it is time to inquire what kind of patties were inviting the
passer-by on Mr Altham's counter. They were a very large variety:
oyster, crab, lobster, anchovy, and all kinds of fish; sausage-rolls,
jelly, liver, galantine, and every sort of meat; ginger, honey, cream,
fruit; cheese-cakes, almond and lemon; little open tarts called bry
tarts, made of literal cheese, with a multitude of other articles--eggs,
honey or sugar, and spices; and many another compound of multifarious
and indigestible edibles; for what number of incongruities, palatable or
sanitary, did our forefathers _not_ put together in a pie! For one
description of dainty, however, Mr Altham would have been asked on this
July afternoon in vain. He would have deemed it next door to sacrilege
to heat his oven for a mince pie, outside the charmed period between
Christmas Eve and Twelfth Day.
On the afternoon in question, Mr Altham stepped out of his door to
speak with his neighbour the girdler, and no sooner was he well out of
the way than another person walked into it. This was a youth of some
eighteen years, dressed in a very curious costume. Men did not affect
black clothes then, except in mourning; and the taste of few led them to
the sombre browns and decorous greys worn by most now. This young
gentleman had on a tunic of dark red, in shape not unlike a butcher's
blue frock, which was fastened round the hips by a girdle of black
leather, studded with brass spangles. His head was covered by a loose
hood of bright blue, and his hose or stockings--for stockings and
trousers were in one--were a light, bright shade of apple-green. Low
black shoes completed this showy costume, but it was not more showy than
that of every other man passing along the street. Our young man seemed
rather anxious not to be seen, for he cast sundry suspicious glances in
the direction of the girdler's, and having at length apparently
satisfied himself that the patty-maker was not likely to return at once,
he darted across the street, and presented himself at the window of the
corner shop. Two girls were sitting behind it, whose ages were twenty
and seventeen. These young ladies were scarcely so smart as the
gentleman. The elder wore a grey dress striped with black, over which
was a crimson kirtle or pelisse, with wide sleeves and tight grey ones
under them; a little green cap sat on her light hair, which was braided
in two thick masses, one on each side of the face. The younger wore a
dress of the same light green as the youth's hose, with a silvery
girdle, and a blue cap.
"Mistress Alexandra!" said the youth in a loud whisper.
The elder girl took no notice of him. The younger answered as if she
had just discovered his existence, though in truth she had seen him
coming all the time.
"O Clement Winkfield, is that you? We've no raffyolys [Sausage-rolls]
left, if that be your lack."
"I thank you, Mistress Ricarda; but I lack nought o' the sort. Mistress
Alexandra knoweth full well that I come but to beg a kind word from
her."
"I've none to spare this even," said the elder, with a toss of her head.
"But you will, sweet heart, when you hear my tidings."
"What now? Has your mother bought a new kerchief, or the cat catched a
mouse?"
"Nay, sweet heart, mock me not! Here be grand doings, whereof my Lord
talked this morrow at dinner, I being awaiting. What say you to a
goodly tournament at the Palace of the Savoy?"
"I dare reckon you fell asleep and dreamed thereof."
"Mistress Alexandra, you'd make a saint for to swear! Howbeit, if you
reck not thereof,--I had meant for to practise with my cousin at Arundel
House, for to get you standing room with the maids yonder; but seeing
you have no mind thereto--I dare warrant Mistress Joan Silverton shall
not say me nay, and may be Mistress Argenta--"
"Come within, Clement, and eat a flaune," said Ricarda in a very
different tone, taking up a dish of cheese-cakes from the counter.
"When shall the jousting be?"
"Oh, it makes no bones, Mistress Ricarda. Your sister hath no mind
thereto, 'tis plain."
However, Clement suffered himself to be persuaded to do what he liked,
and Ricarda going close to her sister to fetch a plate, whispered to her
a few words of warning as to what she might lose by too much coldness,
whereupon the fair Alexandra thawed somewhat, and condescended to seem
slightly interested in the coming event. Ricarda, however, continued to
do most of the talking.
Clement Winkfield was scullion in the Bishop of Durham's kitchen, and
would have been considered in that day rather a good match for a
tradesman's daughter; for anything in the form of manufacture or barter
was then in a very mean social position. Domestic service stood much
higher than it does now; and though Mr Altham's daughters were
heiresses in a small way, they could not afford to despise Clement
Winkfield, except as a political stratagem.
"And what like shall the jousting be, Clement?" asked Ricarda, when that
young gentleman had been satisfactorily settled on a form inside the
shop, with a substantial cheese-cake before him--not a mere mouthful,
but a large oval tart from which two or three people might be helped.
"It shall be the richest and rarest show was seen this many a day, my
mistress," replied Clement, having disposed of his first bite. "In good
sooth, Mistress, but you wot how to make flaunes! My Lord hath none
such on his table."
"That was Saundrina's making," observed Ricarda with apparent
carelessness.
"Dear heart! That's wherefore it's so sweet, trow," responded Clement
gallantly.
Alexandra laughed languidly. "Come now, Clem, tell us all about the
jousting, like a good lad as thou art, and win us good places to see the
same, and I will make thee a chowet-pie [liver-pie] of the best," said
she, laying aside her affected indifference.
"By my troth, I'll talk till my tongue droppeth on the floor," answered
the delighted Clement; "and I have heard all of Will Pierpoint, that is
in my Lord of Arundel his stable, and is thick as incle-weaving with one
of my Lord of Lancaster his palfreymen. The knights be each one in a
doublet of white linen, spangled of silver, having around the sleeves
and down the face thereof a border of green cloth, whereon is broidered
the device chosen, wrought about with clouds and vines of golden work.
The ladies and damsels be likewise in green and white. For the knights,
moreover, there be masking visors, fourteen of peacocks' heads, and
fourteen of maidens' heads, the one sort to tilt against the other. My
Lord Duke of Lancaster, that is lord of the revels, beareth a costume of
white velvet paled with cramoisie [striped with crimson velvet], whereon
be wrought garters of blue, and the Lady of Cambridge, that is lady of
the jousts, and shall give the prizes, shall be in Inde-colour [blue],
all wrought with roses of silver. There be at this present forty women
broiderers a-working in the Palace, in such haste they be paid mighty
high wage--fourpence halfpenny each one by the day."
In order to understand the value of these payments, we must multiply
them by about sixteen. The wages of a broideress, according to the
present worth of money, were, when high, six shillings a day.
"And the device, what is it?"
"Well, I counsel not any man to gainsay it. `It is as it is'--there you
have it."
"Truly, a merry saying. And when shall it be, Clem?"
Mistress Alexandra was quite gracious now.
"Thursday shall be a fortnight, being Saint Maudlin's Day, at ten o' the
clock in the forenoon. Will hath passed word to me to get me in, and
two other with me. You'll come, my mistresses? There'll not be room
for Mistress Amphillis; I'm sorry."
Alexandra tossed her head very contemptuously.
"What does Amphillis want of jousts?" said she. "She's fit for nought
save to sift flour and cleanse vessels when we have a-done with them.
And she hasn't a decent kirtle, never name a hood. I wouldn't be seen
in her company for forty shillings."
"Saundrina's been at Father to put her forth," added Ricarda, "if he
could but hear of some service in the country, where little plenishing
were asked. There's no good laying no money out on the like of her."
A soft little sound at the door made them look round. A girl was
standing there, of about Clement's age--a pale, quiet-looking girl, who
seemed nervously afraid of making her presence known, apparently lest
she should be blamed for being there or anywhere. Alexandra spoke
sharply.
"Come within and shut the door, Amphillis, and stare not thus like a
goose! What wouldst?"
Amphillis neither came in nor shut the door. She held it in her hand,
while she said in a shy way, "The patties are ready to come forth, if
one of you will come," and then she disappeared, as if frightened of
staying a minute longer than she could help.
"`Ready to come forth!'" echoed Ricarda. "Cannot the stupid thing take
them forth by herself?"
"I bade her not do so," explained her sister, "but call one of us--she
is so unhandy. Go thou, Ricarda, or she'll be setting every one wrong
side up."
Ricarda, with a martyr-like expression--which usually means an
expression very unlike a martyr's--rose and followed Amphillis.
Alexandra, thus left alone with Clement, became so extra amiable as to
set that not over-wise youth on a pinnacle of ecstasy, until she heard
her father's step, when she dismissed him hastily.
She did not need to have been in a hurry, for the patty-maker was
stopped before he reached the threshold, by a rather pompous individual
in white and blue livery. Liveries were then worn far more commonly
than now--not by servants only, but by officials of all kinds, and by
gentlemen retainers of the nobles--sometimes even by nobles themselves.
To wear a friend's livery was one of the highest compliments that could
be paid. Mr Altham knew by a glance at his costume that the man who
had stopped him bore some office in the household of the Duke of
Lancaster, since he not only wore that Prince's livery, but bore his
badge, the ostrich feather ermine, affixed to his left sleeve.
"Master Altham the patty-maker, I take it?"
"He, good my master, and your servant."
"A certain lady would fain wit of you, Master, if you have at this
present dwelling with you a daughter named Amphillis?"
"I have no daughter of that name. I have two daughters, whose names be
Alexandra and Ricarda, that dwell with me; likewise one wedded, named
Isabel. I have a niece named Amphillis."
"That dwelleth with you?"
"Ay, she doth at this present, sithence my sister, her mother, is
departed [dead]; but--"
"You have had some thought of putting her forth, maybe?"
Mr Altham looked doubtful.
"Well! we have talked thereof, I and my maids; but no certain end was
come to thereabout."
"That is it which the lady has heard. Mistress Walton the silkwoman, at
the Wheelbarrow, spake with this lady, saying such a maid there was, for
whom you sought service; and the lady wotteth [knows] of a gentlewoman
with whom she might be placed an' she should serve, and the service
suited your desires for her."
"Pray you, come within, and let us talk thereon at our leisure. I am
beholden to Mistress Walton; she knew I had some thoughts thereanent
[about it], and she hath done me a good turn to name it."
The varlet, as he was then called, followed Mr Altham into the shop.
Aralet is a contraction of this word. But varlet, at that date, was a
term of wide signification, including any type of personal attendant.
The varlet of a duke would be a gentleman by birth and education, for
gentlemen were not above serving nobles even in very menial positions.
People had then, in some respects, "less nonsense about them" than now,
and could not see that it was any degradation for one man to hand a
plate to another.
Alexandra rose when the varlet made his appearance. She did not keep a
heart, and she did keep a large stock of vanity. She was consequently
quite ready to throw over Clement Winkfield as soon as ever a more
eligible suitor should present himself; and her idea of mankind ranged
them in two classes--such as were, and such as were not, eligible
suitors for Alexandra Altham.
Mr Altham, however, led his guest straight through the shop and
upstairs, thus cutting short Miss Altham's wiles and graces. He took
him into what we should call his study, a very little room close to his
bedchamber, and motioned him to the only chair it contained; for chairs
were rare and choice things, the form or bench being the usual piece of
furniture. Before shutting the door, however, he called--"Phyllis!"
Somebody unseen to the varlet answered the call, and received directions
in a low voice. Mr Altham then came in and shut the door.
"I have bidden the maid bring us hypocras and spice," said he; "so you
shall have a look at her."
Hypocras was a very light wine, served as tea now is in the afternoon,
and spice was a word which covered all manner of good things--not only
pepper, sugar, cinnamon, and nutmegs, but rice, almonds, ginger, and
even gingerbread.
Mr Tynneslowe--for so the varlet was named--sat down in the chair, and
awaited the tray and Amphillis.