"O God, we are but leaves upon Thy stream,
Clouds in Thy sky."
Dinah Mulock.
A busy place on a Monday morning was Bread Street, in the city of
London. As its name denotes, it was the street of the bakers; for our
ancestors did not give names, as we do, without reason, for mere
distinction's sake. If a town gate bore the name of York Gate, that was
equivalent to a signpost, showing that it opened on the York road. They
made history and topography, where we only make confusion.
The fat, flour-besprinkled baker at the Harp, in Bread Street, was in
full tide of business. His shelves were occupied by the eight different
kinds of bread in common use--wassel, used only by knights and squires;
cocket, the kind in ordinary use by smaller folk; maslin, a mixture of
wheat, oats, and barley; barley, rye, and brown bread, the fare of
tradesmen and monks; oaten, the food of the poorest; and horse bread.
There were two or three varieties finer and better than these, only used
by the nobles, which were therefore made at home, and not commonly to be
found at the baker's: simnel, manchet or chet, and paynemayne or _pain
de main_ (a corruption of _panis dominicus_). We read also of _pain le
Rei_, or the King's bread, but this may be paynemayne under another
name. Even in the large towns, at that time, much of the baking was
done at home; and the chief customers of the bakers were the cookshops
or eating houses, with such private persons as had not time or
convenience to prepare their own bread. The price of bread at this time
does not appear to be on record; but about seventy years later, four
loaves were sold for a penny. [Note 1.]
The cooks, who lived mainly in Eastcheap and along the water-side, of
course had to provide bread of various kinds, to suit their different
customers; and a young man, armed with a huge basket, came to have it
filled with all varieties. Another young man had entered after him, and
now stood waiting by the wall till the former should have finished his
business.
"Now then," said the baker, turning to the man in waiting, as the other
trudged forth with his basket: "what shall I serve you with?"
"I don't want you to serve me; I want to serve you," was the answer.
The baker looked him over with a good-natured but doubtful expression.
"Want to serve me, do you? Whence come you?"
"I'm an upland man." [From the country.]
"Got any one to speak for you?"
"A pair of eyes, a pair of hands, a fair wit, and a good will to work."
The fat baker looked amused. "And an honest repute, eh?" said he.
"I have it, but I can't give it you, except from my wife, and I scarcely
suppose you'll be satisfied to go to her for my character."
"I'm not so sure of that!" laughed the baker. "If she'd speak truth,
she could give you the character best worth having of any."
"She never yet spoke any thing else, nor did I."
"_Ha, jolife_!--you must be a fine pair. Well, now, speak the truth,
and tell me why a decent, tidy-seeming young fellow like you can't get a
character to give me."
"Because I should have to put my wife in peril, if I went back to do
it," was the bold answer.
"Ha, so!" Such a possibility, in those rough days, was only too
apparent to the honest baker. "Well, well! Had to run from a bad
master, eh? Ay, ay, I see."
He did not see exactly the accurate details of the facts; but the
applicant did not contradict him.
"Well! I could do with another hand, it's true; and I must say I like
the look of you. How long have you been a baker's man?"
"When I've been with you seven days, it'll be just a week," was the
humorous reply.
"What, you've all to learn? That's a poor lookout."
"A man that has all to learn, and has a will to it, will serve you
better than one that has less to learn, and has no will to it."
"Come, I can't gainsay that. What have you been, then?"
"I have been watchman in a castle."
"Oh, ho!--how long?"
"Fifteen years."
"And what gives you a mind to be a baker?"
"Well, more notions than one. It's a clean trade, and of good repute;
wholesome, for aught I know: there's no killing in it, for which I
haven't a mind; and as folks must eat, it does not depend on fashion
like some things. Moths don't get into bread and spoil it, nor rust
neither; and if you can't sell it, you can eat it yourself, and you're
no worse off, or not much. It dries and gets stale, of course, in time:
but one can't have every thing; and seems to me there's as little risk
in bread, and as little dirt or worry, as there is in any thing one can
put one's hand to do. I'm not afraid of work, but I don't like dirt,
loss, nor worry."
The fat baker chuckled. "Good for you, my lad!--couldn't have put it
better myself. Man was made to labour, and I like to see a man that's
not afraid of work. Keep clear of worry by all means; it eats a man's
heart out, which honest work never does. Work away, and sing at your
work--that's my notion: and it's the way to get on and be happy."
"I'm glad to hear it; I always do," said the applicant. "And mind you,
lad,--I don't know an unhappier thing than discontent. When you want to
measure your happiness, don't go and set your ell-wand against him
that's got more than you have, but against him that's got less. Bread
and content's a finer dinner any day than fat capon with grumble-sauce.
We can't all be alike; some are up, and some down: but it isn't them at
the top of the tree that's got the softest bed to lie on, nor them that
sup on the richest pasties that most enjoy their supper. If a man wants
to be comfortable, he must keep his heart clear of envy, and put a good
will into his work. I believe a man may come to take pleasure in any
thing, even the veriest drudgery, that brings a good heart to it and
does his best to turn it out well."
"I am sure of that," was the response, heartily given.
The baker was pleased with the hearty response to the neat epigrammatic
apothegms wherein he delighted to unfold himself. He nodded approval.
"I'll take you on trial for a month," he said. "And if you've given
yourself a true character, you'll stay longer. I'll pay you--No, we'll
settle that question when I have seen how you work."
"I'll stay as long as I can," was the answer, as the young man turned to
leave the shop.
"Tarry a whit! What's your name, and how old are you?"
"I am one-and-thirty years of age, and my name is Stephen."
"Good. Be here when the vesper bell begins to ring."
Stephen went up to Cheapside, turned along it, up Lady Cicely's Lane,
and out into Smithfield by one of the small posterns in the City wall.
Entering a small house in Cock Lane, he went up a long ladder leading to
a tiny chamber, screened-off from a garret. Here a tabby cat came to
meet him, and rubbed itself against his legs as he stooped down to
caress it, while Ermine, who sat on the solitary bench, looked up
brightly to greet him.
"Any success, Stephen?"
"Thy prayer is heard, sweet heart. I have entered the service of a
baker in Bread Street,--a good-humoured fellow who would take me at my
own word. I told him I had no one to refer him to for a character but
you,--I did not think of Gib, or I might have added him. You'd speak
for me, wouldn't you, old tabby?"