smith and Lamplugh. Solomon Eagle darted along the nave with lightning
swiftness, and, mounting the steps leading to the choir, disappeared
from view. Some few persons followed him, while others took their course
along the aisles. But the majority kept near the apprentice.
Snatching the lamp from the grasp of the verger, Leonard Holt ran on
with his companions till they came to the beautiful chapel built by
Thomas Kempe, bishop of London. The door was open, and the apprentice,
holding the light forward, perceived there were persons inside. He was
about to enter the chapel, when a small spaniel rushed forth, and,
barking furiously, held him in check for a moment. Alarmed by the noise,
an old man in a tattered garb, and a young female, who were slumbering
on benches in the chapel, immediately started to their feet, and
advanced towards them.
"We are mistaken," said Lamplugh; "this is only Mike Macascree, the
blind piper and his daughter Nizza. I know them well enough."
Leonard was about to proceed with his search, but a slight circumstance
detained him for a few minutes, during which time he had sufficient
leisure to note the extraordinary personal attractions of Nizza
Macascree.
In age she appeared about seventeen, and differed in the character of
her beauty, as well as in the natural gracefulness of her carriage and
demeanour, from all the persons he had seen in her humble sphere of
life. Her features were small, and of the utmost delicacy. She had a
charmingly-formed nose--slightly _retroussé_--a small mouth, garnished
with pearl-like teeth, and lips as fresh and ruddy as the dew-steeped
rose. Her skin was as dark as a gipsy's, but clear and transparent, and
far more attractive than the fairest complexion. Her eyes were luminous
as the stars, and black as midnight; while her raven tresses, gathered
beneath a spotted kerchief tied round her head, escaped in many a wanton
curl down her shoulders. Her figure was slight, but exquisitely
proportioned; and she had the smallest foot and ankle that ever fell to
the lot of woman. Her attire was far from unbecoming, though of the
coarsest material; and her fairy feet were set off by the daintiest
shoes and hose. Such was the singular and captivating creature that
attracted the apprentice's attention.
Her father, Mike Macascree, was upwards of sixty, but still in the full
vigour of life, with features which, though not ill-looking, bore no
particular resemblance to those of his daughter. He had a good-humoured,
jovial countenance, the mirthful expression of which even his sightless
orbs could not destroy. Long white locks descended upon his shoulders,
and a patriarchal beard adorned his chin. He was wrapped in a loose grey
gown, patched with different coloured cloths, and supported himself with
a staff. His pipe was suspended from his neck by a green worsted cord.
"Lie down, Bell," he cried to his dog; "what are you barking at thus?
Lie down, I say."
"Something is the matter, father," replied Nizza. "The church is full of
people."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the piper.
"We are sorry to disturb you," said Leonard; "but we are in search of a
nobleman who has run away with a citizen's daughter, and conveyed her to
the cathedral, and we thought they might have taken refuge in this
chapel."
"No one is here except myself and daughter," replied the piper. "We are
allowed this lodging by Mr. Quatremain, the minor canon."
"All dogs are ordered to be destroyed by the Lord Mayor," cried the
smith, seizing Bell by the neck. "This noisy animal must be silenced."
"Oh, no! do not hurt her!" cried Nizza. "My father loves poor Bell
almost as well as he loves me. She is necessary to his existence. You
must not--will not destroy her!"
"Won't I?" replied the smith, gruffly; "we'll see that."
"But we are not afraid of contagion, are we, father?" cried Nizza,
appealing to the piper.
"Not in the least," replied Mike, "and we will take care the poor beast
touches no one else. Do not harm her, sir--for pity's sake, do not. I
should miss her sadly."
"The Lord Mayor's commands must be obeyed," rejoined the smith,
brutally.
As if conscious of the fate awaiting her, poor Bell struggled hard to
get free, and uttered a piteous yell.
"You are not going to kill the dog?" interposed Leonard.
"Have you anything to say to the contrary?" rejoined the smith, in a
tone calculated, as he thought, to put an end to further interference.
"Only this," replied Leonard, "that I will not allow it."
"You won't--eh?" returned the smith, derisively.
"I will not," rejoined Leonard, "so put her down and come along."
"Go your own way," replied the smith, "and leave me to mine."
Leonard answered by snatching Bell suddenly from his grasp. Thus
liberated, the terrified animal instantly flew to her mistress.
"Is this the return I get for assisting you?" cried the smith, savagely.
"You are bewitched by a pair of black eyes. But you will repent your
folly."
"I shall never forget your kindness," replied Nizza, clasping Bell to
her bosom, and looking gratefully at the apprentice. "You say you are in
search of a citizen's daughter and a nobleman. About half an hour ago,
or scarcely so much, I was awakened by the opening of the door of the
southern transept, and peeping out, I saw three persons--a young man in
the dress of a watchman, but evidently disguised, and a very beautiful
young woman, conducted by Judith Malmayns, bearing a lantern,--pass
through the doorway leading to Saint Faith's. Perhaps they are the very
persons you are in search of."
"They are," returned Leonard; "and you have repaid me a hundredfold for
the slight service I have rendered you by the information. We will
instantly repair to the vaults. Come along."
Accompanied by the whole of the assemblage, except the smith, who
skulked off in the opposite direction, he passed through the low doorway
on the right of the choir, and descended to Saint Faith's. The
subterranean church was buried in profound darkness, and apparently
wholly untenanted. On reaching the charnel, they crossed it, and tried
the door of the vault formerly occupied by the sexton. It was fastened,
but Leonard knocking violently against it, it was soon opened by Judith
Malmayns, who appeared much surprised, and not a little alarmed, at the
sight of so many persons. She was not alone, and her companion was
Chowles. He was seated at a table, on which stood a flask of brandy and
a couple of glasses, and seemed a good deal confused at being caught in
such a situation, though he endeavoured to cover his embarrassment by an
air of effrontery.
"Where is the Earl of Rochester?--where is Amabel?" demanded Leonard
Holt.
"I know nothing about either of them," replied Judith. "Why do you put
these questions to me?"
"Because you admitted them to the cathedral," cried the apprentice,
furiously, "and because you have concealed them. If you do not instantly
guide me to their retreat, I will make you a terrible example to all
such evil-doers in future."
"If you think to frighten me by your violence, you are mistaken,"
returned Judith, boldly. "Mr. Chowles has been here more than two
hours--ask him whether he has seen any one."
"Certainly not," replied Chowles. "There is no Amabel--no Earl of
Rochester here. You must be dreaming, young man."
"The piper's daughter affirmed the contrary," replied Leonard. "She said
she saw this woman admit them."
"She lies," replied Judith, fiercely. But suddenly altering her tone,
she continued, "If I _had_ admitted them, you would find them here."
Leonard looked round uneasily. He was but half convinced, and yet he
scarcely knew what to think.
"If you doubt what I say to you," continued Judith, "I will take you to
every chamber in the cathedral. You will then be satisfied that I speak
the truth. But I will not have this mob with me. Your companions must
remain here."
"Ay, stop with me and make yourselves comfortable," cried Chowles. "You
are not so much used to these places as I am, I prefer a snug crypt,
like this, to the best room in a tavern--ha! ha!"
Attended by Judith, Leonard Holt searched every corner of the
subterranean church, except the vestry, the door of which was locked,
and the key removed; but without success. They then ascended to the
upper structure, and visited the choir, the transepts, and the nave, but
with no better result.
"If you still think they are here," said Judith, "we will mount to the
summit of the tower?"
"I will never quit the cathedral without them," replied Leonard.
"Come on, then," returned Judith.
So saying, she opened the door in the wall on the left of the choir,
and, ascending a winding stone staircase to a considerable height,
arrived at a small cell contrived within the thickness of the wall, and
desired Leonard to search it. The apprentice unsuspectingly obeyed. But
he had scarcely set foot inside when the door was locked behind him, and
he was made aware of the treachery practised upon him by a peal of
mocking laughter from his conductress.
VI. OLD LONDON FROM OLD SAINT PAUL'S.
After repeated, but ineffectual efforts to burst open the door, Leonard
gave up the attempt in despair, and endeavoured to make his situation
known by loud outcries. But his shouts, if heard, were unheeded, and he
was soon compelled from exhaustion to desist. Judith having carried away
the lantern, he was left in total darkness; but on searching the cell,
which was about four feet wide and six deep, he discovered a narrow
grated loophole. By dint of great exertion, and with the help of his
sword, which snapped in twain as he used it, he managed to force off one
of the rusty bars, and to squeeze himself through the aperture. All his
labour, however, was thrown away. The loophole opened on the south side
of the tower, near one of the large buttresses, which projected several
yards beyond it on the left, and was more than twenty feet above the
roof; so that it would be certain destruction to drop from so great a
height.
The night was overcast, and the moon hidden behind thick clouds. Still,
there was light enough to enable him to discern the perilous position in
which he stood. After gazing below for some time, Leonard was about to
return to the cell, when, casting his eyes upwards, he thought he
perceived the end of a rope about a foot above his head, dangling from
the upper part of the structure. No sooner was this discovery made, than
it occurred to him that he might possibly liberate himself by this
unlooked for aid; and, regardless of the risk he ran, he sprang upwards
and caught hold of the rope. It was firmly fastened above, and sustained
his weight well.
Possessed of great bodily strength and activity, and nerved by
desperation, Leonard Holt placed his feet against the buttress, and
impelled himself towards one of the tall pointed windows lighting the
interior of the tower; but though he reached the point at which he
aimed, the sway of the rope dragged him back before he could obtain a
secure grasp of the stone shaft; and, after another ineffectual effort,
fearful of exhausting his strength, he abandoned the attempt, and began
to climb up the rope with his hands and knees. Aided by the inequalities
of the roughened walls, he soon gained a range of small Saxon arches
ornamenting the tower immediately beneath the belfry, and succeeded in
planting his right foot on the moulding of one of them; he instantly
steadied himself, and with little further effort clambered through an
open window.
His first act on reaching the belfry was to drop on his knees, and
return thanks to Heaven for his deliverance. He then looked about for an
outlet; but though a winding staircase existed in each of the four
angles of the tower, all the doors, to his infinite disappointment, were
fastened on the other side. He was still, therefore, a prisoner.
Determined, however, not to yield to despair, he continued his search,
and finding a small door opening upon a staircase communicating with the
summit of the tower, he unfastened it (for the bolt was on his own
side), and hurried up the steps. Passing through another door bolted
like the first within side, he issued upon the roof. He was now on the
highest part of the cathedral, and farther from his hopes than ever; and
so agonizing were his feelings, that he almost felt tempted to fling
himself headlong downwards. Beneath him lay the body of the mighty
fabric, its vast roof, its crocketed pinnacles, its buttresses and
battlements scarcely discernible through the gloom, but looking like
some monstrous engine devised to torture him.
Wearied with gazing at it, and convinced of the futility of any further
attempt at descent, Leonard Holt returned to the belfry, and, throwing
himself on the boarded floor, sought some repose. The fatigue he had
undergone was so great, that, notwithstanding his anxiety, he soon
dropped asleep, and did not awake for several hours. On opening his
eyes, it was just getting light, and shaking himself, he again prepared
for action. All the events of the night rushed upon his mind, and he
thought with unutterable anguish of Amabel's situation. Glancing round
the room, it occurred to him that he might give the alarm by ringing the
enormous bells near him; but though he set them slightly in motion, he
could not agitate the immense clappers sufficiently to produce any
sound.
Resolved, however, to free himself at any hazard, he once more repaired
to the summit of the tower, and leaning over the balustrade, gazed
below. It was a sublime spectacle, and, in spite of his distress, filled
him with admiration and astonishment. He had stationed himself on the
south side of the tower, and immediately beneath him lay the broad roof
of the transept, stretching out to a distance of nearly two hundred
feet. On the right, surrounded by a double row of cloisters, remarkable
for the beauty of their architecture, stood the convocation, or
chapter-house. The exquisite building was octagonal in form, and
supported by large buttresses, ornamented on each gradation by crocketed
pinnacles. Each side, moreover, had a tall pointed window, filled with
stained glass, and was richly adorned with trefoils and cinquefoils.
Further on, on the same side, was the small low church dedicated to
Saint Gregory, overtopped by the south-western tower of the mightier
parent fane.
It was not, however, the cathedral itself, but the magnificent view it
commanded, that chiefly attracted the apprentice's attention. From the
elevated point on which he stood, his eye ranged over a vast tract of
country bounded by the Surrey hills, and at last settled upon the river,
which in some parts was obscured by a light haze, and in others tinged
with the ruddy beams of the newly-risen sun. Its surface was spotted,
even at this early hour, with craft, while innumerable vessels of all
shapes and sizes were moored, to its banks. On. the left, he noted the
tall houses covering London Bridge; and on the right, traced the
sweeping course of the stream as it flowed from Westminster. On this
hand, on the opposite bank, lay the flat marshes of Lambeth; while
nearer stood the old bull-baiting and bear-baiting establishments, the
flags above which could be discerned above the tops of the surrounding
habitations. A little to the left was the borough of Southwark, even
then a large and populous district--the two most prominent features in
the scene being Winchester House, and Saint Saviour's old and beautiful
church.
Filled with wonder at what he saw, Leonard looked towards the east, and
here an extraordinary prospect met his gaze. The whole of the city of
London was spread out like a map before him, and presented a dense mass
of ancient houses, with twisted chimneys, gables, and picturesque
roofs--here and there overtopped by a hall, a college, an hospital, or
some other lofty structure. This vast collection of buildings was girded
in by grey and mouldering walls, approached by seven gates, and
intersected by innumerable narrow streets. The spires and towers of the
churches shot up into the clear morning air--for, except in a few
quarters, no smoke yet issued from the chimneys. On this side, the view
of the city was terminated by the fortifications and keep of the Tower.
Little did the apprentice think, when he looked at the magnificent scene
before him, and marvelled at the countless buildings he beheld, that,
ere fifteen months had elapsed, the whole mass, together with the mighty
fabric on which he stood, would be swept away by a tremendous
conflagration. Unable to foresee this direful event, and lamenting only
that so fair a city should be a prey to an exterminating pestilence, he
turned towards the north, and suffered his gaze to wander over
Finsbury-fields, and the hilly ground beyond them--over Smithfield and
Clerkenwell, and the beautiful open country adjoining Gray's-inn-lane.
So smiling and beautiful did these districts appear, that he could
scarcely fancy they were the chief haunts of the horrible distemper. But
he could not blind himself to the fact that in Finsbury-fields, as well
as in the open country to the north of Holborn, plague-pits had been
digged and pest-houses erected; and this consideration threw such a
gloom over the prospect, that, in order to dispel the effect, he changed
the scene by looking towards the west. Here his view embraced all the
proudest mansions of the capital, and tracing the Strand to Charing
Cross, long since robbed of the beautiful structure from which it
derived its name, and noticing its numerous noble habitations, his eye
finally rested upon Whitehall: and he heaved a sigh as he thought that
the palace of the sovereign was infected by as foul a moral taint as the
hideous disease that ravaged the dwellings of his subjects.
At the time that Leonard Holt gazed upon the capital, its picturesque
beauties were nearly at their close. In a little more than a year and a
quarter afterwards, the greater part of the old city was consumed by
fire; and though it was rebuilt, and in many respects improved, its
original and picturesque character was entirely destroyed.
It seems scarcely possible to conceive a finer view than can be gained
from the dome of the modern cathedral at sunrise on a May morning, when
the prospect is not dimmed by the smoke of a hundred thousand
chimneys--when the river is just beginning to stir with its numerous
craft, or when they are sleeping on its glistening bosom--when every
individual house, court, church, square, or theatre, can be
discerned--when the eye can range over the whole city on each side, and
calculate its vast extent. It seems scarcely possible, we say, to
suppose at any previous time it could be more striking; and yet, at the
period under consideration, it was incomparably more so. Then, every
house was picturesque, and every street a collection of picturesque
objects. Then, that which was objectionable in itself, and contributed
to the insalubrity of the city, namely, the extreme narrowness of the
streets, and overhanging stories of the houses, was the main source of
their beauty. Then, the huge projecting signs with their fantastical
iron-work--the conduits--the crosses (where crosses remained)--the
maypoles--all were picturesque; and as superior to what can now be seen,
as the attire of Charles the Second's age is to the ugly and disfiguring
costume of our own day.
Satiated with this glorious prospect, Leonard began to recur to his own
situation, and carefully scrutinizing every available point on the side
of the Tower, he thought it possible to effect his descent by clambering
down the gradations of one of the buttresses. Still, as this experiment
would be attended with the utmost danger, while, even if he reached the
roof, he would yet be far from his object, he resolved to defer it for a
short time, in the hope that ere long seine of the bell-ringers, or
other persons connected with the cathedral, might come thither and set
him free.
While thus communing with himself, he heard a door open below; and
hurrying down the stairs at the sound, he beheld, to his great surprise
and joy, the piper's daughter, Nizza Macascree.
"I have searched for you everywhere," she cried, "and began to think
some ill had befallen you. I overheard Judith Malmayns say she had shut
you up in a cell in the upper part of the tower. How did you escape
thence?"
Leonard hastily explained.
"I told you I should never forget the service you rendered me in
preserving the life of poor Bell," pursued Nizza, "and what I have done
will prove I am not unmindful of my promise I saw you search the
cathedral last night with Judith, and noticed that she returned from the
tower unaccompanied by you. At first I supposed you might have left the
cathedral without my observing you, and I was further confirmed in the
idea by what I subsequently heard."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Leonard. "What did you hear?"
"I followed Judith to the vaults of Saint Faith's," replied Nizza, "and
heard her inform your companions that you had found the grocer's
daughter, and had taken her away."
"And this false statement imposed upon them?" cried Leonard.
"It did," replied Nizza. "They were by this time more than half
intoxicated by the brandy given them by Chowles, the coffin-maker, and
they departed in high dudgeon with you."
"No wonder!" exclaimed Leonard.
"They had scarcely been gone many minutes," pursued Nizza, "when, having
stationed myself behind one of the massive pillars in the north aisle of
Saint Faith's--for I suspected something was wrong--I observed Judith
and Chowles steal across the nave, and proceed towards the vestry. The
former tapped at the door, and they were instantly admitted by Mr.
Quatremain, the minor canon. Hastening to the door, which was left
slightly ajar, I perceived two young gallants, whom I heard addressed as
the Earl of Rochester and Sir George Etherege, and a young female, who I
could not doubt was Amabel. The earl and his companion laughed heartily
at the trick Judith had played you, and which the latter detailed to
them; but Amabel took no part in their merriment, but, on the contrary,
looked very grave, and even wept."
"Wept, did she?" cried Leonard, in a voice of much emotion. "Then, there
is hope for her yet."
"You appear greatly interested in her," observed Nizza, pausing, in her
narration. "Do you love her?"
"Can you ask it?" cried Leonard, passionately.
"I would advise you to think no more of her, and to fix your heart
elsewhere," returned Nizza.
"You know not what it is to love," replied the apprentice, "or you would
not offer such a counsel."
"Perhaps not," replied Nizza; "but I am sorry you have bestowed your
heart upon one who so little appreciates the boon."
And, feeling she had said too much, she blushed deeply, and cast down
her eyes.
Unconscious of her confusion, and entirely engrossed by the thought of
his mistress, Leonard urged her to proceed.
"Tell me what has become of Amabel--where I shall find her?" he cried.
"You will find her soon enough," replied Nizza. "She has not left the
cathedral. But hear me to an end. On learning you were made a prisoner,
I ran to the door leading to the tower, but found that Judith had locked
it, and removed the key. Not daring to give the alarm--for I had
gathered from what was said that the three vergers were in the earl's
pay--I determined to await a favourable opportunity to release you.
Accordingly I returned to the vestry door, and again played the
eaves-dropper. By this time, another person, who was addressed as Major
Pillichody, and who, it appeared, had been employed in the abduction,
had joined the party. He informed the earl that Mr. Bloundel was in the
greatest distress at his daughter's disappearance, and advised him to
lose no time in conveying her to some secure retreat. These tidings
troubled Amabel exceedingly, and the earl endeavoured to pacify her by
promising to espouse her at daybreak, and, as soon as the ceremony was
over, to introduce her in the character of his countess to her parents."
"Villain!" cried Leonard; "but go on."
"I have little more to tell," replied Nizza, "except that she consented
to the proposal, provided she was allowed to remain till six o'clock,
the hour appointed for the marriage, with Judith."