the stately court dance to the merry circle on the village green. The
principal dances were the solemn _pavane_, the _brawl_, the _Passamezzo
galliard_, the _Canary dance_, the _coranto_, the _lavolta_, the _jig_,
the _galliard_, the _fancy_, and the _hey_.
Gentlemen were followed in the streets by their servants, who carried
their master's sword. Their dress was blue, with the master's badge in
silver on the left arm.
The pages of Stow, Harrison, Hall, Greene, and Nash contain not only
glimpses, but also set pictures of the time, from which extracts by the
hundred might be made. There are the awful examples, for instance, of
Sir John Champneys, Alderman and Lord Mayor, and Richard Wethell,
citizen and tailor. Both these persons built high towers to their houses
to show their pride and to look down upon their neighbors--one is
reminded of the huge leaning towers in Bologna. What happened? The first
went blind, so that though he might climb his tower he could see
nothing. The second was afflicted with gout in hands and feet, so that
he could not walk, much less climb his tower. Stubbes has other
instances of judgments, particularly the terrible fate of the girl who
invoked the devil to help her with her ruff.
Here is a curious little story. It happened in the reign of King James.
One day, in Bishopsgate Ward, a poor man, named Richard Atkinson, going
to remove a heap of sea-coal ashes in his wheelbarrow, discovered lying
in the ashes the body of a newly-born child. It was still breathing, and
he carried it to his wife, who washed and fed it and restored it to
life. The child was a goodly and well-formed boy, strong and
well-featured, without blemish or harm upon it. They christened the
child at St. Helen's Church, by a name which should cause him to
remember, all through his life, his very remarkable origin. They called
him, in fact, Job Cinere Extractus. A noble name, for the sake of which
alone he should have lived. What an ancestor to have had! How delightful
to be a Cinere Extractus! Who would not wish to belong to such a
family, and to point to the ash-heap as the origin of the first Cinere
Extractus? Nothing like it in history since the creation of Adam
himself. What a coat of arms! A shield azure, an ash-heap proper, with
supporters of two dustmen with shovels; crest a sieve; motto, like that
of the Courtenays, "from what heights descended?" But alas! poor little
Job Cinere Extractus died three days afterwards, and now lies buried in
St. Helen's church-yard, without even a monument.
Another baby story--but this belongs to Charles I.'s time--it happened,
in fact, in the last month of that melancholy reign. It was seven
o'clock in the evening. A certain ship-chandler became suddenly so
foolish as to busy himself over a barrel of gunpowder with a candle.
Naturally a spark fell into the barrel, and he was not even left time
enough to express his regrets. Fifty houses were wrecked. How many were
killed no one could tell, but at the next house but one, the Rose
Tavern, there was a great company holding the parish dinner, and they
all perished. Next morning, however, there was found on the leads of All
Hallows Barking a young child in a cradle as newly laid in bed, neither
child nor cradle having sustained the least harm. It was never known who
the child was, but she was adopted by a gentleman of the parish, and
lived certainly to the age of seventeen, when the historian saw her
going to call her master, who was drinking at a tavern. It is two
hundred and fifty years ago. That young woman may have at this moment
over a thousand descendants at least. Who would not like to boast that
she was his great-grandmother?
A reform of vast importance, though at first it seems a small thing, was
introduced in this reign. It was the restoration of vegetables and roots
as part of daily diet. Harrison is my authority. He says that in old
days--as in the time of the First Edward--herbs, fruits, and roots were
much used, but that from Henry IV. to Henry VIII. the use of them
decayed and was forgotten. "Now," he says, "in my time their use is not
only resumed among the poore commons--I mean of melons, pompines,
gourds, cucumbers, radishes, skirrets, parsneps, carrots, marrowes,
turnips, and all kinds of salad herbes--but they are also looked upon as
deintie dishes at the tables of delicate merchants, gentlemen, and the
nobilitie, who make their provision yearly for new seeds out of strange
countries from whence they have them abundantly."
Perhaps the cause of the disuse of roots and vegetables was the enormous
rise in wages after the Black Death, when the working-classes, becoming
suddenly rich, naturally associated roots with scarcity of beef, and
governed themselves accordingly.
The use of tobacco spread as rapidly, when once it was introduced, as
that of coffee later on. King James speaks of those who spend as much as
£300 a year upon this noxious weed. Those who took tobacco attributed to
it all the virtues possible for any plant to possess, and more.
It was the custom of the better sort of citizens to have gardens outside
the City, each with its own garden-house, in some cases a mere arbor,
but in others a house for residence in the summer months. Moorfields had
many of these gardens, but Bethnal Green, Hoxton (Hoggesden), and Mile
End were favorite spots for these retreats. Of course, the city madams
were accused of using these gardens as convenient places for intrigue.
The education of girls was never so thorough as at this time. Perhaps
Lucy Hutchinson and Lady Jane Grey--well-known cases--ought not to be
taken as average examples. The former, for instance, could read at four,
and at seven was under eight tutors, who taught her languages, music,
dancing, writing, and needle-work. She also became a proficient in the
art of preparing simples and medicines. Of her husband she says that he
was a masterly player on the viol; that he was a good marksman with gun
and bow; and that he was a collector of paintings and engravings.
Perhaps there was never a time when body and mind were equally trained
and developed as they were in the sixteenth century. Think with what
contempt Sidney and Raleigh would regard an age like the present, when
the young men are trained to foot-ball, running, and cricket, but, for
the most part, cannot ride, cannot shoot, cannot fence, cannot box,
cannot wrestle, cannot sing, cannot play any instrument, cannot dance,
and cannot make verses!
[Illustration: NEWGATE]
In the matter of rogues, vagabonds, and common cheats, the age of
Elizabeth shows no falling off, but quite the reverse. We have little
precise information on English _ribauderie_ before this time, but now,
thanks to John Awdely, Thomas Harman, Parson Hybesdrine, Thomas Dekker,
Robert Greene, and others, we learn the whole art and mystery of
coney-catching as practised under the Tudor dynasty. The rogues had
their own language. No doubt they always had their language, as they
have it now; and it varied from year to year as it varies now, but the
groundwork remained the same, and, indeed, remains the same to this day.
The rogues and thieves, the beggars and the impostors, are still with
us. They are still accompanied by their autem morts, their walking
morts, their Kynchen morts, their doxies, and their dolls, only some of
those cheats are changed with the changes of the time. Under Queen
Gloriana they abound in every town and in every street, they tramp along
all the roads, they haunt the farm-houses, they rob the market-women and
the old men. They have their ranks and their precedency. The Upright man
is a captain among them; the Curtall has authority over them; the
Patriarch Co-marries them until death do them part--that is to say,
until they pass a carcass of any creature, when, if they choose, they
shake hands and go separate ways. They are well known by profession and
name at every fair throughout the country. They are Great John Gray and
Little John Gray; John Stradling with the shaking head; Lawrence with
the great leg; Henry Smyth, who drawls when he speaks; that fine old
gentleman, Richard Horwood, who is eighty years of age and can still
bite a sixpenny nail asunder with his teeth, and a notable toper still;
Will Pellet, who carries the Kynchen mort at his back; John Browne, the
stammerer; and the rest of them. They are all known; their backs and
shoulders are scored with the nine-tailed cat; not a headborough or a
constable but knows them every one. Yet they forget their prison and
their whipping as soon as they are free. Those things are the little
drawbacks of the profession, against which must be set freedom, no work,
no masters, and no duties. Who would not go upon the budge, even though
at the end there stands the three trees, up which we shall have to climb
by the ladder?
The Budge it is a delicate trade,
And a delicate trade of fame;
For when that we have bit the bloe,
We carry away the game.
But when that we come to Tyburn
For going upon the Budge,
There stands Jack Catch the hangman,
That owes us all a grudge.
And when that he hath noosed us,
And our friends tip him no cole;
O then he throws us into the cart,
And tumbles us in the hole.
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]