HOW CRISPIN, THE SHOEMAKER'S SON, MADE A SHOE FOR A LITTLE DAMSEL, AND
NEW STREETS IN LONDON
"Rip-rap--tip-tap--
Tick-a-tack--too!
Scarlet leather sewed together--
Thus we make a shoe!"
--WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
London was a busy town when the long Venetian galleys and the tall ships
of Spain anchored in the Pool of the Thames. Leather and silk and linen
and velvet and broadcloth came to the London wharves, and London people
were busy buying, selling, making and decorating every sort of apparel,
from the girdle to hold a sword to the silken hood and veil of a lady.
And nobody was busier than the men who worked in leather.
Nowadays we go into a shop and try on shoes made perhaps a thousand
miles away, until we find a pair that will fit. But when Crispin Eyre's
father sold a pair of shoes he had seen those shoes made in his own
shop, under his own eye, and chosen the leather. It might be calfskin
from the yard of a tanner, who bought his hides from the man who had
raised the calf on his farm, or it might be fine soft goatskin out of
a bale from the galleons of Spain. In either case he had to know all
about leather, or he would not succeed in the shoe business. The man
who aspired to be a master shoemaker had to know how to make the whole
shoe. More different kinds of shoes were made in Thomas Eyre's shop
than most shops sell to-day, and as he had begun to use the hammer and
the awl when he was not yet ten years old, he knew how every kind
should be made.
Early in the morning, before a modern family would be awake, hammers
were going in the shoe-shops--tap-tap--tick-a-tack--tack! Sometimes by
the light of a betty lamp in the early winter evenings the journeymen
would be still at work, drawing the waxed thread carefully and quickly
through the leather. Hand-sewn and made of well-tanned hide, such a shoe
could be mended again and again before it was outworn. Riding-boots,
leather shoes, slippers, sandals, clogs, pattens, shoes of cloth, silk,
morocco, cloth-of-gold, velvet, with soles made of wood, leather, cork
and sometimes even iron, went to and fro in the shadow of St. Paul's
Cathedral, and sooner or later every kind crossed the threshold of
Thomas Eyre's shop. The well-to-do came to order shoes for themselves,
and the wooden-shod and barefoot came to get the shoes others would
wear.
Each trade kept to its own street, even in those early days. When the
Guilds had multiplied so that each part of each trade had its own
workers, who were not supposed to do anything outside their trade,
the man who made a shoe never mended one, and the cobbler never made
anything. Each trade had its Guild Hall, where the members met for
business councils or holidays, and some of them had their favorite
churches. It was like a very exclusive club. Men and women belonged to
these societies, they made rules about the length of time a man must
work before he could be a master workman, and they took care of their
own poor folk out of a common fund. Each Guild had its patron saint,
connected in some way with the craft it represented. The especial saint
of the shoemakers was St. Crispin, and his day was the twenty-fifth of
October.
The leather workers were among the most important artisans of London,
and in course of time each branch of the trade had its own Guild Hall.
The cordwainers or leather workers took their name from Cordova in
Spain, famous for its beautiful dyed, stamped, gilded and decorated
leather. The saddlers had their hall, and the lorimers or harness-makers
theirs, and the skinners and leather sellers and tanners had theirs.
London was rather behind some of the cities on the Continent, however,
both in the number and the power of her guilds. King Henry II. was not
over-inclined to favor guilds, especially in London, for London was too
independent, as it was, to please him. He had observed that when cities
grew so strong that they governed themselves they were quite likely to
make trouble for Kings, and not unnaturally, he felt that he had trouble
enough on his hands as things were without inviting more. If he had
allowed it London would have had a "Commune," as the organization of a
self-governing city was called, long ago.
Crispin heard this discussed more or less, for all sorts of chattering
and story-telling went on in the shop, and he heard also many stories
which tended to make him think. The popular tales and songs of the
Middle Ages were not by any means always respectful to Kings. The
people understood very well that there were good monarchs and bad ones,
and they were not blind to the reasons for the difference.
The story that Crispin liked best was the one about his own name, and on
this October day, seated on his low bench beside Simon, the oldest of
his shoemakers, he asked for it again.
"Aye, I'll warrant," grunted Simon, "an Eyre would be a born shoemaker,
and name him Crispin---- Eh, lad, what be you after with that leather?"
Crispin's fingers were strong, if small, and he was busy with hammer and
awl and waxed thread, making a little shoe.
"Just a shoe, Simon--go on with the story," said the boy, with a little,
shut-mouthed grin. Simon fitted the sole to the boot he was making and
picked up his hammer.
"It was a long time ago--(tap-tap) when the emperor of Rome was
a-hunting down the blessed martyrs, that there were two brothers,
Crispin and Crispian their names were, who lived in Rome and did nothing
but kindness to every one. But there be rascals--(trip-trip-trap!)--who
do not understand kindness, and ever repay it with evil. One of such a
sort lived in the same street as the two brothers, and secretly ran
to tell the Emperor that they were plotting against his life. Then
privately the wife of this evil-doer came and warned them, for that they
had given her shoes to her feet. So they fled out of the city by night
and came to France and dwelt in Soissons, where the cathedral now is.
"This England was a heathen country then, they say, and France not much
better. Before long the king of that kingdom heard of the strangers and
sent for them to know what their business was. When they said that their
business was to teach the people the story of our Lord, he asked who
this lord might be, and whether he was mightier than the king, or not.
"Then when the heathen king heard that the Lord of Crispin and Crispian
was more powerful than either King or emperor he had a mind to kill
them, but he was afraid. He asked if they had ever seen a palace finer
than his own, that was made of wood and hung with painted leather, and
they said that there were finer ones in Rome. Then said the king, 'Give
me a sign of the greatness of your Lord.' And they asked him what it
should be. And the king said, 'Cover the streets of my city with leather
and you shall go forth unharmed.' Only the rich had any leather in those
parts.
"That night Crispin and Crispian took the leather hide of their girdles
and made a pair of shoes for the king. And when they came before him in
the morning, they put the shoes upon his feet, the first shoes he had
ever seen, and told him to walk abroad and he would find all the streets
covered with leather."
The apprentices had been listening, and a laugh went round the shop, as
it always did at that part of the tale.
"Thus it came to pass," concluded Simon, "that the two brothers lived at
court and taught the king's leather workers how to make shoes, and that
is why Saint Crispin is the friend of shoemakers."
"What was the name of him who told you the tale, Simon?" Crispin asked
thoughtfully.
"Oh, he is dead these many years, but his name was Benet, and he came
from Soissons, and had been to Rome and seen the street where the
brothers lived. He had a nail out of one of the shoes they made for the
king. People came to our house while he was with us, only to see that
nail and hear the story. I heard it so many times that I learned it by
heart."
Old Simon drove in the last nail with a vicious stroke that sent it well
into the leather. "I'll warrant," he said, "the blessed Saint Crispin
made none o' them shoes we make here, with pointed toes and rose windows
on the leather, fitten for a lady." He held up the shoe with great
disfavor. It was for a courtier, and the toe was two feet long and
turned up, with a chain to fasten it to the knee. The front of the shoe
was cut into open work in a wheel shape to show the gay silken hose
underneath, and the shoe itself was of soft fine leather. With a parting
sniff, Simon tossed it to a slim, grinning youth who would finish it by
putting on gilding.
The shoe that Crispin was making was of a different sort. It was a
little round-toed sturdy thing, about the right size for a child of ten.
The mate to it was on the bench at his side, and he put them together
and looked at them rather ruefully. The shoe he had made was plain, and
the other was trimmed daintily with red morocco and cut in a quaint
round pattern on the toe--the decoration that was known as "a Paul's
window," because the geometric cut-work with the colored lining looked
like stained glass. Crispin frowned and shook his head.
"What's ailin' ye, lad?" Old Simon peered at the shoes in the boy's
hands. "Bless ye, those ben't mates!"
"I know that, but I haven't any colored leather for this one even if I
knew how to finish it," Crispin said with a sigh.
"Um-m-m!" Simon looked more closely at the little gay shoe. "That never
came from these parts. That's Turkey leather." He gave Crispin a sharp
glance. The great bell of Bow was ringing and the apprentices were
quitting work. "Where did this shoe come from, now?"
Crispin hesitated. "Don't you tell, now, Simon. I found a little maid
crying in Candlewick street--standing on one foot like a duck because
she had lost her other shoe. She was so light I could lift her up, and
I set her on a wall while I looked for the shoe, but it wasn't any good,
for a horse had stepped on it. She cried so about the shoe that I--I
said I would make her another. And then her father came back for her and
took her away."
"Who might she be?" inquired Simon dryly.
"I don't know. I didn't tell father. She said she would send for the
shoes though."
Simon had been rummaging in a leather bag behind his bench. "If she
don't there's plenty of other little wenches that wear shoes. If the
leather should be blue in place o' red, would that matter?"
"I shouldn't think so; one shoe is no good alone." Crispin began to be
hopeful.
Old Simon pulled out some pieces of soft fine leather the color of a
harebell and began to cut them quickly and deftly into fine scalloped
borders. "This ben't Turkey leather, but it is a piece from Spain, and
they learnt the trade of the paynim, so I reckon 'twill do. Stitch this
on the other shoe in place o' the red, and I'll cut the pattern."
Nobody would have believed that Simon's old, crooked fingers could
handle a knife so cleverly. In no time the pattern on the old shoe had
been copied exactly on the new one. When Crispin had stitched the blue
cut-work border on both, and Simon had rubbed the new leather on some
old scraps and cleaned the old a bit, the two little shoes looked like
twins.
"Is there a boy here named Crispin Eyre?" inquired a man's voice from
the doorway. Almost at the same time came the sweet lilting speech of
a little girl, "Oh, father, that is the boy who was so kind to me!"
Crispin and old Simon stood up and bowed, for the man who spoke was a
dignified person in the furred cloak and cap of a well-to-do merchant.
The little girl held fast to her father's hand and gazed into the shop
with bright interest. "Look at the shoes, father, aren't they pretty?"
The merchant balanced the little shoes in his broad hand. "Which did you
lose, Genevieve, child?"
"I--I don't know, father," the child said, pursing her soft lips.
"Cannot you tell?"
"By my faith," said the merchant thoughtfully, "if a London shoemaker's
boy does work like this I doubt Edrupt may be right when he says our ten
fingers are as good as any. This shoe is one of a pair from Cordova.
Who's your father, lad?"
"My father is Thomas Eyre, so please you, master," said the boy proudly,
"and I am Crispin."
"A good craft and a good name and a good workman," said the merchant,
and dropped a coin into the litter of leather scraps. It was the full
price of a new pair of shoes.
Crispin certainly could not have dreamed that his kindness to little
Genevieve Gay would be the occasion of new streets in London, but it
happened so. Master Gay, the merchant, came later to talk with Thomas
Eyre about the shoe trade. Then, instead of sending a cargo of Irish
hides abroad he gave Eyre the choice of them. Other shoemakers took the
rest, the shoe trade of London grew, and so did the tanneries. The
tanners presently needed more room by running water, and sought new
quarters outside London Wall. The business of London kept on growing
until the Leatherworkers' Guild had presently to send abroad for their
own raw material. England became more and more a manufacturing country
and less a farming country. In one or another trade almost every farming
product was of use. Hides were made into leather, beef went to the
cook-shops; horn was made into drinking-cups and lantern-lights, bones
were ground or burnt for various purposes, tallow made candles. What the
farmer had been used to do for himself on his farm, the Guilds began to
do in companies, and their farm was England.