Act 5 — TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN (continued 2)

Thwack! Thwack! One early dawn upon our door I heard the bladder of some motley fool Bouncing, and all the dusk of London shook With bells! I leapt from bed,—had I forgotten?— I flung my casement wide and craned my neck Over the painted Mermaid. There he stood, His right leg yellow and his left leg blue, With jingling cap, a sheep-bell at his tail, Wielding his eel-skin bladder,—bang! thwack! bang!— Catching a comrade's head with the recoil And skipping away! All Bread Street dimly burned Like a reflected sky, green, red and white With littered branches, ferns and hawthorn-clouds; For, round Sir Fool, a frolic morrice-troop Of players, poets, prentices, mad-cap queans, Robins and Marians, coloured like the dawn, And sparkling like the greenwood whence they came With their fresh boughs all dewy from the dark, Clamoured, Come down! Come down, and let us in! High over these, I suddenly saw Sir Fool Leap to a sign-board, swing to a conduit-head, And perch there, gorgeous on the morning sky, Tossing his crimson cockscomb to the blue And crowing like Chanticleer, Give them a rouse! Tickle it, tabourer! Nimbly, lasses, nimbly! Tuck up your russet petticoats and dance! Let the Cheape know it is the first of May! And as I seized shirt, doublet and trunk-hose, I saw the hobby-horse come cantering down, A pasteboard steed, dappled a rosy white Like peach-bloom, bridled with purple, bitted with gold, A crimson foot-cloth on his royal flanks, And, riding him, His Majesty of the May! Round him the whole crowd frolicked with a shout, And as I stumbled down the crooked stair I heard them break into a dance and sing:—

I Into the woods we'll trip and go, Up and down and to and fro, Under the moon to fetch in May, And two by two till break of day, A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not? Even so— Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go. II Out of the woods we'll dance and sing Under the morning-star of Spring, Into the town with our fresh boughs And knock at every sleeping house, Not sighing, Or crying, Though Love knows no denying! Then, round your summer queen and king, Come, young lovers, dance and sing, Dance and sing! "Chorus," the great Fool tossed his gorgeous crest, And lustily crew against the deepening dawn, "Chorus," till all the Cheape caught the refrain, And, with a double thunder of frolic feet, Its ancient nut-brown tabors woke the Strand:— A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not? Even so,— Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go. Into the Mermaid with a shout they rushed As I shot back the bolts, and bang, thwack, bang, The bladder bounced about me. What cared I? This was all England's holy-day! "Come in, My yellow-hammers," roared the Friar Tuck Of this mad morrice, "come you into church, My nightingales, my scraps of Lincoln green, And hear my sermon!" On a window-seat He stood, against the diamonded rich panes In the old oak parlour and, throwing back his hood, Who should it be but Ben, rare Ben himself? The wild troup laughed around him, some a-sprawl On tables, kicking parti-coloured heels, Some with their Marians jigging on their knees, And, in the front of all, the motley fool Cross-legged upon the rushes. O, I knew him,— Will Kemp, the player, who danced from London town To Norwich in nine days and was proclaimed Freeman of Marchaunt Venturers and hedge-king Of English morrice-dancery for ever! His nine-days' wonder, through the countryside Was hawked by every ballad-monger. Kemp Raged at their shake-rag Muses. None but I Guessed ever for what reason, since he chose His anticks for himself and, in his games, Was more than most May-fools fantastical. I watched his thin face, as he rocked and crooned, Shaking the squirrels' tails around his ears; And, out of all the players I had seen, His face was quickest through its clay to flash The passing mood. Though not a muscle stirred, The very skin of it seemed to flicker and gleam With little summer lightnings of the soul At every fleeting fancy. For a man So quick to bleed at a pin-prick or to leap Laughing through hell to save a butterfly, This world was difficult; and perchance he found In his fantastic games that open road Which even Will Shakespeare only found at last In motley and with some wild straws in his hair. But "Drawer! drawer!" bellowed Friar Ben, "Make ready a righteous breakfast while I preach;— Tankards of nut-brown ale, and cold roast beef, Cracknels, old cheese, flaunes, tarts and clotted cream. Hath any a wish not circumscribed by these?" "A white-pot custard, for my white-pot queen," Cried Kemp, waving his bauble, "mark this, boy, A white-pot custard for my queen of May,— She is not here, but that concerns not thee!— A white-pot Mermaid custard, with a crust, Lashings of cream, eggs, apple-pulse and spice, A little sugar and manchet bread. Away! Be swift!" And as I bustled to and fro, The Friar raised his big brown fists again And preached in mockery of the Puritans Who thought to strip the moonshine wings from Mab, Tear down the May-poles, rout our English games, And drive all beauty back into the sea. Then laughter and chatter and clashing tankards drowned All but their May-day jollity a-while. But, as their breakfast ended, and I sank Gasping upon a bench, there came still more Poets and players crowding into the room; And one—I only knew him as Sir John Waved a great ballad at Will Kemp and laughed, "Atonement, Will, atonement!" "What," groaned Kemp, "Another penny poet? How many lies Does this rogue tell? Sir, I have suffered much From these Melpomenes and strawberry quills, And think them better at their bloody lines On The Blue Lady. Sir, they set to work At seven o'clock in the morning, the same hour That I, myself, that's Cavaliero Kemp, With heels of feather and heart of cork, began Frolickly footing, from the great Lord Mayor Of London, tow'rds the worshipful Master Mayor Of Norwich." "Nay, Kemp, this is a May-day tune, A morrice of country rhymes, made by a poet Who thought it shame so worthy an act as thine Should wither in oblivion if the Muse With her Castalian showers could keep it green. And while the fool nid-nodded all in time, Sir John, in swinging measure, trolled this tale:— I With Georgie Sprat, my overseer, and Thomas Slye, my tabourer, And William Bee, my courier, when dawn emblazed the skies, I met a tall young butcher as I danced by little Sudbury, Head-master o' morrice-dancers all, high headborough of hyes. By Sudbury, by Sudbury, by little red-roofed Sudbury, He wished to dance a mile with me! I made a courtly bow: I fitted him with morrice-bells, with treble, bass and tenor bells, And "Tickle your tabor, Tom," I cried, "we're going to market now." And rollicking down the lanes we dashed, and frolicking up the hills we clashed, And like a sail behind me flapped his great white frock a-while, Till, with a gasp, he sank and swore that he could dance with me no more; And—over the hedge a milk-maid laughed, Not dance with him a mile? "You lout!" she laughed, "I'll leave my pail, and dance with him for cakes and ale! I'll dance a mile for love," she laughed, "and win my wager, too. Your feet are shod and mine are bare; but when could leather dance on air? A milk-maid's feet can fall as fair and light as falling dew." I fitted her with morrice-bells, with treble, bass and tenor bells: The fore-bells, as I linked them at her throat, how soft they sang! Green linnets in a golden nest, they chirped and trembled on her breast, And, faint as elfin blue-bells, at her nut-brown ankles rang. I fitted her with morrice-bells that sweetened into woodbine bells, And trembled as I hung them there and crowned her sunny brow: "Strike up," she laughed, "my summer king!" And all her bells began to ring, And "Tickle your tabor, Tom," I cried, "we're going to Sherwood now!" When cocks were crowing, and light was growing, and horns were blowing, and milk-pails flowing, We swam thro' waves of emerald gloom along a chestnut aisle, Then, up a shining hawthorn-lane, we sailed into the sun again, Will Kemp and his companion, his companion of a mile. "Truer than most," snarled Kemp, "but mostly lies! And why does he forget the miry lanes By Brainford with thick woods on either side, And the deep holes, where I could find no ease But skipped up to my waist?" A crackling laugh Broke from his lips which, if he had not worn The cap and bells, would scarce have roused the mirth Of good Sir John, who roundly echoed it, Then waved his hand and said, "Nay, but he treats Your morrice in the spirit of Lucian, Will, Who thought that dancing was no mushroom growth, But sprung from the beginning of the world When Love persuaded earth, air, water, fire, And all the jarring elements to move In measure. Right to the heart of it, my lad, The song goes, though the skin mislike you so." "Nay, an there's more of it, I'll sing it, too! 'Tis a fine tale, Sir John, I have it by heart, Although 'tis lies throughout." Up leapt Will Kemp, And crouched and swayed, and swung his bauble round, Making the measure as they trolled the tale, Chanting alternately, each answering each. II The Fool The tabor fainted far behind us, but her feet that day They beat a rosier morrice o'er the fairy-circled green. Sir John And o'er a field of buttercups, a field of lambs and buttercups, We danced along a cloth of gold, a summer king and queen! The Fool And straying we went, and swaying we went, with lambkins round us playing we went; Her face uplift to drink the sun, and not for me her smile, We danced, a king and queen of May, upon a fleeting holy-day, But O, she'd won her wager, my companion of a mile! Sir John Her rosy lips they never spoke, though every rosy foot-fall broke The dust, the dust to Eden-bloom; and, past the throbbing blue, All ordered to her rhythmic feet, the stars were dancing with my sweet, And all the world a morrice-dance! The Fool She knew not; but I knew! Love like Amphion with his lyre, made all the elements conspire To build His world of music. All in rhythmic rank and file, I saw them in their cosmic dance, catch hands across, retire, advance, For me and my companion, my companion of a mile! Sir John The little leaves on every tree, the rivers winding to the sea, The swinging tides, the wheeling winds, the rolling heavens above, Around the May-pole Igdrasil, they worked the Morrice-master's will, Persuaded into measure by the all-creative Love. That hour I saw, from depth to height, this wildering universe unite! The lambs of God around us and His passion in every flower! The Fool His grandeur in the dust, His dust a blaze of blinding majesty, And all His immortality in one poor mortal hour. And Death was but a change of key in Life the golden melody, And Time became Eternity, and Heaven a fleeting smile; For all was each and each was all, and all a wedded unity, Her heart in mine, and mine in my companion of a mile. Thwack! Thwack! He whirled his bauble round about, "This fellow beats them all," he cried, "the worst Those others wrote was that I hopped from York To Paris with a mortar on my head. This fellow sends me leaping through the clouds To buss the moon! The best is yet to come; Strike up, Sir John! Ha! ha! You know no more?" Kemp leapt upon a table. "Clear the way", He cried, and with a great stamp of his foot And a wild crackling laugh, drew all to hark, "With hey and ho, through thick and thin, The hobby-horse is forgotten, But I must finish what I begin, Tho' all the roads be rotten. "By all those twenty thousand chariots, Ben, Hear this true tale they shall! Now, let me see, Where was Will Kemp? Bussing the moon's pale mouth? Ah, yes!" He crouched above the listening throng,— "Good as a play," I heard one whispering quean,— And, waving his bauble, shuffling with his feet In a dance that marked the time, he sank his voice As if to breathe great secrets, and so sang:— III At Melford town, at Melford town, at little grey-roofed Melford town, A long mile from Sudbury, upon the village green, We danced into a merry rout of country-folk that skipt about A hobby-horse, a May-pole, and a laughing white-pot queen. They thronged about us as we stayed, and there I gave my sunshine maid An English crown for cakes and ale—her dancing was so true! And "Nay," she said, "I danced my mile for love!" I answered with a smile, "'Tis but a silver token, lass, 'thou'st won that wager, too." I took my leash of morrice-bells, my treble, bass and tenor bells, They pealed like distant marriage-bells! And up came William Bee With Georgie Sprat, my overseer, and Thomas Slye, my tabourer, "Farewell," she laughed, and vanished with a Suffolk courtesie. I leapt away to Rockland, and from Rockland on to Hingham, From Hingham on to Norwich, sirs! I hardly heard a-while The throngs that followed after, with their shouting and their laughter, For a shadow danced beside me, my companion of a mile! At Norwich, by St. Giles his gate, I entered, and the Mayor in state, With all the rosy knights and squires for twenty miles about, With trumpets and with minstrelsy, was waiting there to welcome me; And, as I skipt into the street, the City raised a shout. They gave me what I did not seek. I fed on roasted swans a week! They pledged me in their malmsey, and they lined me warm with ale! They sleeked my skin with red-deer pies, and all that runs and swims and flies; But, through the clashing wine-cups, O, I heard her clanking pail. And, rising from his crimson chair, the worshipful and portly Mayor Bequeathed me forty shillings every year that I should live, With five good angels in my hand that I might drink while I could stand! They gave me golden angels! What I lacked they could not give. They made Will Kemp, thenceforward, sirs, Freeman of Marchaunt Venturers! They hoped that I would dance again from Norwich up to York; Then they asked me, all together, had I met with right May weather, And they praised my heels of feather, and my heart, my heart of cork. * * * * As I came home by Sudbury, by little red-roofed Sudbury, I waited for my bare-foot maid, among her satin kine! I heard a peal of wedding-bells, of treble, bass and tenor bells: "Ring well," I cried, "this bridal morn! You soon shall ring for mine!" I found her foot-prints in the grass, just where she stood and saw me pass. I stood within her own sweet field and waited for my may. I laughed. The dance has turned about! I stand within: she'll pass without, And—down the road the wedding came, the road I danced that day! I saw the wedding-folk go by, with laughter and with minstrelsy, I gazed across her own sweet hedge, I caught her happy smile, I saw the tall young butcher pass to little red-roofed Sudbury, His bride upon his arm, my lost companion of a mile. Down from his table leapt the motley Fool. His bladder bounced from head to ducking head, His crackling laugh rang high,—"Sir John, I danced In February, and the song says May! A fig for all your poets, liars all! Away to Fenchurch Street, lasses and lads, They hold high revel there this May-day morn. Away!" The mad-cap throng echoed the cry. He drove them with his bauble through the door; Then, as the last gay kerchief fluttered out He gave one little sharp sad lingering cry As of a lute-string breaking. He turned back And threw himself along a low dark bench; His jingling cap was crumpled in his fist, And, as he lay there, all along Cheapside The happy voices of his comrades rang:— Out of the woods we'll dance and sing Under the morning-star of Spring, Into the town with our fresh boughs And knock at every sleeping house, Not sighing, Or crying, Though Love knows no denying! Then, round your summer queen and king, Come, young lovers, dance and sing, Dance and sing! His motley shoulders heaved. I touched his arm, "What ails you, sir?" He raised his thin white face, Wet with the May-dew still. A few stray petals Clung in his tangled hair. He leapt to his feet, "'Twas February, but I danced, boy, danced In May! Can you do this?" Forward he bent Over his feet, and shuffled it, heel and toe, Out of the Mermaid, singing his old song— A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not? Even so,— Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go. Five minutes later, over the roaring Strand, "Chorus!" I heard him crow, and half the town Reeled into music under his crimson comb.

Gods, what a hubbub shook our cobwebs out The day that Chapman, Marston and our Ben Waited in Newgate for the hangman's hands. Chapman and Marston had been flung there first For some imagined insult to the Scots In Eastward Ho, the play they wrote with Ben. But Ben was famous now, and our brave law Would fain have winked and passed the big man by. The lesser men had straightway been condemned To have their ears cut off, their noses slit. With other tortures. Ben had risen at that! He gripped his cudgel, called for a quart of ale, Then like Helvellyn with his rocky face And mountain-belly, he surged along Cheapside, Snorting with wrath, and rolled into the gaol, To share the punishment. "There is my mark! 'Tis not the first time you have branded me," Said our big Ben, and thrust his broad left thumb Branded with T for Tyburn, into the face Of every protest. "That's the mark you gave me Because I killed my man in Spitalfields, A duel honest as any your courtiers fight. But I was no Fitzdotterel, bore no gules And azure, robbed no silk-worms for my hose, I was Ben Jonson, out of Annandale, Bricklayer in common to the good Lord God. You branded me. I am Ben Jonson still. You cannot rub it out." The Mermaid Inn Buzzed like a hornet's nest, upon the day Fixed for their mutilation. And the stings Were ready, too; for rapiers flashed and clashed Among the tankards. Dekker was there, and Nash, Brome (Jonson's body-servant, whom he taught His art of verse and, more than that, to love him,) And half a dozen more. They planned to meet The prisoners going to Tyburn, and attempt A desperate rescue. All at once we heard A great gay song come marching down the street, A single voice, and twenty marching men, Then the full chorus, twenty voices strong:— The prentice whistles at break of day All under fair roofs and towers, When the old Cheape openeth every way Her little sweet inns like flowers; And he sings like a lark, both early and late, To think, if his house take fire, At the good Green Dragon in Bishopsgate He may drink to his heart's desire. Chorus: Or sit at his ease in the old Cross Keys And drink to his heart's desire. But I, as I walk by Red Rose Lane, Tho' it warmeth my heart to see The Swan, The Golden Hynde, and The Crane, With the door set wide for me; Tho' Signs like daffodils paint the strand When the thirsty bees begin, Of all the good taverns in Engeland My choice is—The Mermaid Inn. Chorus: There is much to be said for The Saracen's Head, But my choice is The Mermaid Inn. Into the tavern they rushed, these roaring boys. "Now broach your ripest and your best," they cried. "All's well! They are all released! They are on the way! Old Camden and young Selden worked the trick. Where is Dame Dimpling? Where's our jolly hostess? Tell her the Mermaid Tavern will have guests: We are sent to warn her. She must raid Cook's Row, And make their ovens roar. Nobody dines This day with old Duke Humphrey. Red-deer pies, Castles of almond crust, a shield of brawn Big as the nether millstone, barrels of wine, Three roasted peacocks! Ben is on the way!" Then all the rafters rang with song again:— There was a Prince—long since, long since!— To East Cheape did resort, For that he loved The Blue Boar's Head Far better than Crown or Court; But old King Harry in Westminster Hung up, for all to see, Three bells of power in St. Stephen's Tower, Yea, bells of a thousand and three, Chorus: Three bells of power in a timber tower, Thirty thousand and three, For Harry the Fourth was a godly king And loved great godly bells! He bade them ring and he bade them swing Till a man might hear nought else. In every tavern it soured the sack With discord and with din; But they drowned it all in a madrigal Like this, at The Mermaid Inn. Chorus: They drowned it all in a madrigal Like this, at The Mermaid Inn. "But how did Selden work it?"—"Nobody knows. They will be here anon. Better ask Will. He's the magician!"—"Ah, here comes Dame Dimpling!" And, into the rollicking chaos our good Dame —A Dame of only two and thirty springs— All lavender and roses and white kerchief, Bustled, to lay the tables. Fletcher flung His arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. But all she said was, "One—two—three—four—five— Six at a pinch, in yonder window-seat." "A health to our Dame Dimpling," Beaumont cried, And Dekker, leaping on the old black settle, Led all their tumult into a song again:— What is the Mermaid's merriest toast? Our hostess—good Dame Dimpling! Who is it rules the Mermaid roast? Who is it bangs the Mermaid host, Tho' her hands be soft as her heart almost? Dame Dimpling! She stands at the board in her fresh blue gown With the sleeves tucked up—Dame Dimpling! She rolls the white dough up and down And her pies are crisp, and her eyes are brown. So—she is the Queen of all this town,— Dame Dimpling! Her sheets are white as black-thorn bloom, White as her neck, Dame Dimpling! Her lavender sprigs in the London gloom Make every little bridal-room A country nook of fresh perfume,— Dame Dimpling! She wears white lace on her dark brown hair: And a rose on her breast, Dame Dimpling! And who can show you a foot as fair Or an ankle as neat when she climbs the stair, Taper in hand, and head in the air, And a rose in her cheek?—O, past compare, Dame Dimpling! "But don't forget those oyster-pies," cried Lyly. "Nor the roast beef," roared Dekker. "Prove yourself The Muse of meat and drink." There was a shout In Bread Street, and our windows all swung wide, Six heads at each. Nat Field bestrode our sign And kissed the painted Mermaid on her lips, Then waved his tankard. "Here they come," he cried. "Camden and Selden, Chapman and Marston, too, And half Will's company with our big Ben Riding upon their shoulders." "Look!" cried Dekker, "But where is Atlas now? O, let them have it! A thumping chorus, lads! Let the roof crack!" And all the Mermaid clashed and banged again In thunderous measure to the marching tune That rolled down Bread Street, forty voices strong:— At Ypres Inn, by Wring-wren Lane, Old John of Gaunt would dine: He scarce had opened an oyster or twain, Or drunk one flagon of wine, When, all along the Vintry Ward, He heard the trumpets blow, And a voice that roared—"If thou love thy lord, Tell John of Gaunt to go!" Chorus: A great voice roared—"If thou love thy lord, Tell John of Gaunt to go!" Then into the room rushed Haviland That fair fat Flemish host, "They are marching hither with sword and brand, Ten thousand men—almost! It is these oysters or thy sweet life, Thy blood or the best of the bin!"— "Proud Pump, avaunt!" quoth John of Gaunt, "I will dine at The Mermaid Inn!" Chorus: "Proud Pump, avaunt!" quoth John of Gaunt, "There is wine at The Mermaid Inn!" And in came Ben like a great galleon poised High on the white crest of a shouting wave, And then the feast began. The fragrant steam As from the kitchens of Olympus drew A throng of ragged urchins to our doors. Ben ordered them a castellated pie That rolled a cloud around them where they sat Munching upon the cobblestones. Our casements Dripped with the golden dews of Helicon; And, under the warm feast our cellarage Gurgled and foamed in the delicious cool With crimson freshets— "Tell us," cried Nat Field, When pipes began to puff. "How did you work it?" Camden chuckled and tugged his long white beard. "Out of the mouth of babes," he said and shook His head at Selden! "O, young man, young man, There's a career before you! Selden did it. Take my advice, my children. Make young Selden Solicitor-general to the Mermaid Inn. That rosy silken smile of his conceals A scholar! Yes, that suckling lawyer there Puts my grey beard to shame. His courteous airs And silken manners hide the nimblest wit That ever trimmed a sail to catch the wind Of courtly favour. Mark my words now, Ben, That youth will sail right up against the wind By skilful tacking. But you run it fine, Selden, you run it fine. Take my advice And don't be too ironical, my boy, Or even the King will see it." He chuckled again. "But tell them of your tractate!" "Here it is," Quoth Selden, twisting a lighted paper spill, Then, with his round cherubic face aglow Lit his long silver pipe, "Why, first," he said, "Camden being Clarencieux King-at-arms, He read the King this little tract I wrote Against tobacco." And the Mermaid roared With laughter. "Well, you went the way to hang All three of them," cried Lyly, "and, as for Ben, His Trinidado goes to bed with him." "Green gosling, quack no more," Selden replied, Smiling that rosy silken smile anew. "The King's a critic! When have critics known The poet from his creatures, God from me? How many cite Polonius to their sons And call it Shakespeare? Well, I took my text From sundry creatures of our great big Ben, And called it 'Jonson.' Camden read it out Without the flicker of an eye. His beard Saved us, I think. The King admired his text. 'There is a man,' he read, 'lies at death's door Thro' taking of tobacco. Yesterday He voided a bushel of soot.' 'God bless my soul, A bushel of soot! Think of it!' said the King. 'The man who wrote those great and splendid words,' Camden replied,—I had prepared his case Carefully—'lies in Newgate prison, sire. His nose and ears await the hangman's knife.' 'Ah,' said the shrewd King, goggling his great eyes Cannily. 'Did he not defame the Scots?' 'That's true,' said Camden, like a man that hears Truth for the first time. 'O ay, he defamed 'em,' The King said, very wisely, once again. 'Ah, but,' says Camden, like a man that strives With more than mortal wit, 'only such Scots As flout your majesty, and take tobacco. He is a Scot, himself, and hath the gift Of preaching.' Then we gave him Jonson's lines Against Virginia. 'Neither do thou lust After that tawny weed; for who can tell, Before the gathering and the making up, What alligarta may have spawned thereon,' Or words to that effect. 'Magneeficent!' Spluttered the King—'who knows? Who knows, indeed? That's a grand touch, that Alligarta, Camden!' 'The Scot who wrote those great and splendid words,' Said Camden, 'languishes in Newgate, sire. His ears and nose—' And there, as we arranged With Inigo Jones, the ladies of the court Assailed the King in tears. Their masque and ball Would all be ruined. All their Grecian robes, Procured at vast expense, were wasted now. The masque was not half-written. Master Jones Had lost his poets. They were all in gaol. Their noses and their ears ... 'God bless my soul,' Spluttered the King, goggling his eyes again, 'What d'you make of it, Camden?'— 'I should say A Puritan plot, sire; for these justices— Who love tobacco—use their law, it seems, To flout your Majesty at every turn. If this continue, sire, there'll not be left A loyal ear or nose in all your realm.' At that, our noble monarch well-nigh swooned. He hunched his body, padded as it was Against the assassin's knife, six inches deep With great green quilts, wagged his enormous head, Then, in a dozen words, he wooed destruction: 'It is presumption and a high contempt In subjects to dispute what kings can do,' He whimpered. 'Even as it is blasphemy To thwart the will of God.' He waved his hand, And rose. 'These men must be released, at once!' Then, as I think, to seek a safer place, He waddled from the room, his rickety legs Doubling beneath that great green feather-bed He calls his 'person.'—I shall dream to-night Of spiders, Camden.—But in half an hour, Inigo Jones was armed with Right Divine To save such ears and noses as the ball Required for its perfection. Think of that! And let this earthly ball remember, too, That Chapman, Marston, and our great big Ben Owe their poor adjuncts to—ten Grecian robes And 'Jonson' on tobacco! England loves Her poets, O, supremely, when they're dead." "But Ben has narrowly escaped her love," Said Chapman gravely. "What do you mean?" said Lodge. And, as he spoke, there was a sudden hush. A tall gaunt woman with great burning eyes, And white hair blown back softly from a face Ethereally fierce, as might have looked Cassandra in old age, stood at the door. "Where is my Ben?" she said. "Mother!" cried Ben. He rose and caught her in his mighty arms. Her labour-reddened, long-boned hands entwined Behind his neck. "She brought this to the gaol," Said Chapman quietly, tossing a phial across To Camden. "And he meant to take it, too, Before the hangman touched him. Half an hour And you'd have been too late to save big Ben. He has lived too much in ancient Rome to love A slit nose and the pillory. He'd have wrapped His purple round him like an emperor. I think she had another for herself." "There's Roman blood in both of them," said Dekker, "Don't look. She is weeping now," And, while Ben held That gaunt old body sobbing against his heart, Dekker, to make her think they paid no heed, Began to sing; and very softly now. Full forty voices echoed the refrain:— The Cardinal's Hat is a very good inn, And so is The Puritan's Head; But I know a sign of a Wine, a Wine That is better when all is said. It is whiter than Venus, redder than Mars, It was old when the world begun; For all good inns are moons or stars But The Mermaid is their Sun. Chorus: They are all alight like moons in the night, But The Mermaid is their Sun. Therefore, when priest or parson cries That inns like flowers increase, I say that mine inn is a church likewise, And I say to them "Be at peace!" An host may gather in dark St. Paul's To salve their souls from sin; But the Light may be where "two or three" Drink Wine in The Mermaid Inn. Chorus: The Light may be where "two or three" Drink Wine in The Mermaid Inn.

'Twas on an All Souls' Eve that our good Inn —Whereof, for ten years now, myself was host— Heard and took part in its most eerie tale. It was a bitter night, and master Ben, —His hair now flecked with grey, though youth still fired His deep and ageless eyes,—in the old oak-chair, Over the roaring hearth, puffed at his pipe; A little sad, as often I found him now Remembering vanished faces. Yet the years Brought others round him. Wreaths of Heliochrise Gleamed still in that great tribe of Benjamin, Burned still across the malmsey and muscadel. Chapman and Browne, Herrick,—a name like thyme Crushed into sweetness by a bare-foot maid Milking, at dewy dawn, in Elfin-land,— These three came late, and sat in a little room Aside, supping together, on one great pie, Whereof both crust and coffin were prepared By master Herrick's receipt, and all washed down With mighty cups of sack. This left with Ben, John Ford, wrapped in his cloak, brooding aloof, Drayton and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden. Suddenly, in the porch, I heard a sound Of iron that grated on the flags. A spade And pick came edging through the door. "O, room! Room for the master-craftsman," muttered Ford, And grey old sexton Scarlet hobbled in. He shuffled off the snow that clogged his boots, —On my clean rushes!—brushed it from his cloak Of Northern Russet, wiped his rheumatic knees, Blew out his lanthorn, hung it on a nail, Leaned his rude pick and spade against the wall, Flung back his rough frieze hood, flapped his gaunt arms, And called for ale. "Come to the fire," said Lodge. "Room for the wisest counsellor of kings, The kindly sage that puts us all to bed, And tucks us up beneath the grass-green quilt." "Plenty of work, eh Timothy?" said Ben. "Work? Where's my liquor? O, ay, there's work to spare," Old Scarlet croaked, then quaffed his creaming stoup, While Ben said softly—"Pity you could not spare, You and your Scythe-man, some of the golden lads That I have seen here in the Mermaid Inn!" Then, with a quiet smile he shook his head And turned to master Drummond of Hawthornden. "Well, songs are good; but flesh and blood are better. The grey old tomb of Horace glows for me Across the centuries, with one little fire Lit by a girl's light hand." Then, under breath, Yet with some passion, he murmured this brief rhyme:— I Dulce ridentem, laughing through the ages, Dulce loquentem, O, fairer far to me, Rarer than the wisdom of all his golden pages Floats the happy laughter of his vanished Lalage. II Dulce loquentem,—we hear it and we know it. Dulce ridentem,—so musical and low. "Mightier than marble is my song!" Ah, did the poet Know why little Lalage was mightier even so? III Dulce ridentem,—through all the years that sever, Clear as o'er yon hawthorn hedge we heard her passing by,— Lalagen amabo,—a song may live for ever Dulce loquentem,—but Lalage must die. "I'd like to learn that rhyme," the sexton said. "I've a fine memory too. You start me now, I'd keep it up all night with ancient ballads." And then—a strange thing happened. I saw John Ford "With folded arms and melancholy hat" (As in our Mermaid jest he still would sit) Watching old Scarlet like a man in trance. The sexton gulped his ale and smacked his lips, Then croaked again—"O, ay, there's work to spare, We fills 'em faster than the spades can dig," And, all at once, the lights burned low and blue. Ford leaned right forward, with his grim black eyes Widening. "Why, that's a marvellous ring!" he said, And pointed to the sexton's gnarled old hand Spread on the black oak-table like the claw Of some great bird of prey. "A ruby worth The ransom of a queen!" The fire leapt up! The sexton stared at him; Then stretched his hand out, with its blue-black nails, Full in the light, a grim earth-coloured hand, But bare as it was born. "There was a ring! I could have sworn it! Red as blood!" cried Ford. And Ben and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden All stared at him. For such a silent soul Was master Ford that, when he suddenly spake, It struck the rest as dumb as if the Sphinx Had opened its cold stone lips. He would sit mute Brooding, aloof, for hours, his cloak around him, A staff between his knees, as if prepared For a long journey, a lonely pilgrimage To some dark tomb; a strange and sorrowful soul, Yet not—as many thought him—harsh or hard, But of a most kind patience. Though he wrote In blood, they say, the blood came from his heart; And all the sufferings of this world he took To his own soul, and bade them pasture there: Till out of his compassion, he became A monument of bitterness. He rebelled; And so fell short of that celestial height Whereto the greatest only climb, who stand By Shakespeare, and accept the Eternal Law. These find, in law, firm footing for the soul, The strength that binds the stars, and reins the sea, The base of being, the pillars of the world, The pledge of honour, the pure cord of love, The form of truth, the golden floors of heaven. These men discern a height beyond all heights, A depth below all depths, and never an end Without a pang beyond it, and a hope; Without a heaven beyond it, and a hell. For these, despair is like a bubble pricked, An old romance to make young lovers weep. For these, the law becomes a fiery road, A Jacob's ladder through that vast abyss Lacking no rung from realm to loftier realm, Nor wanting one degree from dust to wings. These, at the last, radiant with victory, Lay their strong hands upon the wingèd steeds And fiery chariots, and exult to hold, Themselves, the throbbing reins, whereby they steer The stormy splendours. He, being less, rebelled, Cried out for unreined steeds, and unruled stars, An unprohibited ocean and a truth Untrue; and the equal thunder of the law Hurled him to night and chaos, who was born To shine upon the forehead of the day. And yet—the voice of darkness and despair May speak for heaven where heaven would not be heard, May fight for heaven where heaven would not prevail, And the consummate splendour of that strife, Swallowing up all discords, all defeat, In one huge victory, harmonising all, Make Lucifer, at last, at one with God. There,—on that All Souls' Eve, you might have thought A dead man spoke, to see how Drayton stared, And Drummond started. "You saw no ruby ring," The old sexton muttered sullenly. "If you did, The worse for me, by all accounts. The lights Burned low. You caught the firelight on my fist. What was it like, this ring?" "A band of gold, And a great ruby, heart-shaped, fit to burn Between the breasts of Laïs. Am I awake Or dreaming?" "Well,—that makes the second time! There's many have said they saw it, out of jest, To scare me. For the astrologer did say The third time I should die. Now, did you see it? Most likely someone's told you that old tale! You hadn't heard it, now?" Ford shook his head. "What tale?" said Ben. "O, you could make a book About my life. I've talked with quick and dead, And neither ghost nor flesh can fright me now! I wish it was a ring, so's I could catch him, And sell him; but I've never seen him yet. A white witch told me, if I did, I'd go Clink, just like that, to heaven or t'other place, Whirled in a fiery chariot with ten steeds The way Elijah went. For I have seen So many mighty things that I must die Mightily. Well,—I came, sirs, to my craft The day mine uncle Robert dug the grave For good Queen Katharine, she whose heart was broke By old King Harry, a very great while ago. Maybe you've heard about my uncle, sirs? He was far-famous for his grave-digging. In depth, in speed, in neatness, he'd no match! They've put a fine slab to his memory In Peterborough Cathedral—Robert Scarlet, Sexton for half a century, it says, In Peterborough Cathedral, where he built The last sad habitation for two queens, And many hundreds of the common sort. And now himself, who for so many built Eternal habitations, others have buried. Obiit anno ætatis, ninety-eight, July the second, fifteen ninety-four. We should do well, sir, with a slab like that, Shouldn't we?" And the sexton leered at Lodge. "Not many boasts a finer slab than that. There's many a king done worse. Ah, well, you see, He'd a fine record. Living to ninety-eight, He buried generations of the poor, A countless host, and thought no more of it Than digging potatoes. He'd a lofty mind That found no satisfaction in small deeds. But from his burying of two queens he drew A lively pleasure. Could he have buried a third, It would indeed have crowned his old white hairs. But he was famous, and he thought, perchance, A third were mere vain-glory. So he died. I helped him with the second." The old man leered To see the shaft go home. Ben filled the stoup With ale. "So that," quoth he, "began the tale About this ruby ring?" "But who," said Lodge, "Who was the second queen?" "A famous queen, And a great lover! When you hear her name, Your hearts will leap. Her beauty passed the bounds Of modesty, men say, yet—she died young! We buried her at midnight. There were few That knew it; for the high State Funeral Was held upon the morrow, Lammas morn. Anon you shall hear why. A strange thing that,— To see the mourners weeping round a hearse That held a dummy coffin. Stranger still To see us lowering the true coffin down By torchlight, with some few of her true friends, In Peterborough Cathedral, all alone." "Old as the world," said Ford. "It is the way Of princes. Their true tears and smiles are seen At dead of night, like ghosts raised from the grave! And all the luxury of their brief, bright noon, Cloaks but a dummy throne, a mask of life; And, at the last, drapes a false catafalque, Holding a vacant urn, a mask of death. But tell, tell on!" The sexton took a draught Of ale and smacked his lips. "Mine uncle lived A mile or more from Peterborough, then. And, past his cottage, in the dead of night, Her royal coach came creeping through the lanes, With scutcheons round it and no crowd to see, And heralds carrying torches in their hands, And none to admire, but him and me, and one, A pedlar-poet, who lodged with us that week And paid his lodging with a bunch of rhymes. By these, he said, my uncle Robert's fame Should live, as in a picture, till the crack Of doom. My uncle thought that he should pay Four-pence beside; but, when the man declared The thought unworthy of these august events, My uncle was abashed. And, truth to tell, The rhymes were mellow, though here and there he swerved From truth to make them so. Nor would he change 'June' to 'July' for all that we could say. 'I never said the month was June,' he cried, 'And if I did, Shakespeare hath jumped an age! Gods, will you hedge me round with thirty nights? "June" rhymes with "moon"!' With that, he flung them down And strode away like Lucifer, and was gone, Before old Scarlet could approach again The matter of that four-pence. Yet his rhymes Have caught the very colours of that night! I can see through them, Ay, just as through our cottage window-panes, Can see the great black coach, Carrying the dead queen past our garden-gate. The roses bobbing and fluttering to and fro, Hide, and yet show the more by hiding, half. And, like smoked glass through which you see the sun, The song shows truest when it blurs the truth. This is the way it goes." He rose to his feet, Picked up his spade, and struck an attitude, Leaning upon it. "I've got to feel my spade, Or I'll forget it. This is the way I speak it. Always." And, with a schoolboy's rigid face, And eyes fixed on the rafters, he began, Sing-song, the pedlar-poet's bunch of rhymes:— As I went by the cattle-shed The grey dew dimmed the grass, And, under a twisted apple-tree, Old Robin Scarlet stood by me. "Keep watch! Keep watch to-night," he said, "There's things 'ull come to pass. "Keep watch until the moon has cleared The thatch of yonder rick; Then I'll come out of my cottage-door To wait for the coach of a queen once more; And—you'll say nothing of what you've heard, But rise and follow me quick." "And what 'ull I see if I keep your trust, And wait and watch so late?" "Pride," he said, "and Pomp," he said, "Beauty to haunt you till you're dead, And Glorious Dust that goes to dust, Passing the white farm-gate. "You are young and all for adventure, lad, And the great tales to be told: This night, before the clock strike one, Your lordliest hour will all be done; But you'll remember it and be glad, In the days when you are old!" All in the middle of the night, My face was at the pane; When, creeping out of his cottage-door, To wait for the coach of a queen once more, Old Scarlet, in the moon-light, Beckoned to me again. He stood beneath a lilac-spray, Like Father Time for dole, In Reading Tawny cloak and hood, With mattock and with spade he stood, And, far away to southward, A bell began to toll. He stood beneath a lilac-spray, And never a word he said; But, as I stole out of the house, He pointed over the orchard boughs, Where, not with dawn or sunset, The Northern sky grew red. I followed him, and half in fear, To the old farm-gate again; And, round the curve of the long white road, I saw that the dew-dashed hedges glowed Red with the grandeur drawing near, And the torches of her train. They carried her down with singing, With singing sweet and low, Slowly round the curve they came, Twenty torches dropping flame, The heralds that were bringing her The way we all must go. 'Twas master William Dethick, The Garter King of Arms, Before her royal coach did ride, With none to see his Coat of Pride, For peace was on the countryside, And sleep upon the farms; Peace upon the red farm, Peace upon the grey, Peace on the heavy orchard trees, And little white-walled cottages, Peace upon the wayside, And sleep upon the way. So master William Dethick, With forty horse and men, Like any common man and mean Rode on before the Queen, the Queen, And—only a wandering pedlar Could tell the tale again. How, like a cloud of darkness, Between the torches moved Four black steeds and a velvet pall Crowned with the Crown Imperiall And—on her shield—the lilies, The lilies that she loved. Ah, stained and ever stainless Ah, white as her own hand, White as the wonder of that brow, Crowned with colder lilies now, White on the velvet darkness, The lilies of her land! The witch from over the water, The fay from over the foam, The bride that rode thro' Edinbro' town With satin shoes and a silken gown, A queen, and a great king's daughter,— Thus they carried her home, With torches and with scutcheons, Unhonoured and unseen, With the lilies of France in the wind a-stir, And the Lion of Scotland over her, Darkly, in the dead of night, They carried the Queen, the Queen. The sexton paused and took a draught of ale. "'Twas there," he said, "I joined 'em at the gate, My uncle and the pedlar. What they sang, The little shadowy throng of men that walked Behind the scutcheoned coach with bare bent heads I know not; but 'twas very soft and low. They walked behind the rest, like shadows flung Behind the torch-light, from that strange dark hearse. And, some said, afterwards, they were the ghosts Of lovers that this queen had brought to death. A foolish thought it seemed to me, and yet Like the night-wind they sang. And there was one An olive-coloured man,—the pedlar said Was like a certain foreigner that she loved, One Chastelard, a wild French poet of hers. Also the pedlar thought they sang 'farewell' In words like this, and that the words in French Were written by the hapless Queen herself, When as a girl she left the vines of France For Scotland and the halls of Holyrood:— I Though thy hands have plied their trade Eighty years without a rest, Robin Scarlet, never thy spade Built a house for such a guest! Carry her where, in earliest June, All the whitest hawthorns blow; Carry her under the midnight moon, Singing very soft and low. Slow between the low green larches, carry the lovely lady sleeping, Past the low white moon-lit farms, along the lilac-shadowed way! Carry her through the summer darkness, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping! Answering only, to any that ask you, whence ye carry her,—Fotheringhay! II She was gayer than a child! —Let your torches droop for sorrow.— Laughter in her eyes ran wild! —Carry her down to Peterboro'.— Words were kisses in her mouth! —Let no word of blame be spoken.— She was Queen of all the South! —In the North, her heart was broken.— They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping, Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance. Out of the cold grey Northern mists, we carry her weeping, weeping, weeping,— O, ma patrie, La plus chérie, Adieu, plaisant pays de France! III Many a red heart died to beat —Music swelled in Holyrood!— Once, beneath her fair white feet. —Now the floors may rot with blood— She was young and her deep hair— —Wind and rain were all her fate!— Trapped young Love as in a snare, —And the wind's a sword in the Canongate! Edinboro'! Edinboro'! Music built the towers of Troy, but thy grey walls are built of sorrow! Wind-swept hills, and sorrowful glens, of thrifty sowing and iron reaping, What if her foot were fair as a sunbeam, how should it touch or melt your snows? What if her hair were a silken mesh? Hands of steel can deal hard blows, Iron breast-plates bruise fair flesh! Carry her southward, palled in purple, Weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping, What had their rocks to do with roses? Body and soul she was all one rose. Thus, through the summer night, slowly they went, We three behind,—the pedlar-poet and I, And Robin Scarlet. The moving flare that ringed The escutcheoned hearse, lit every leaf distinct Along the hedges and woke the sleeping birds, But drew no watchers from the drowsier farms. Thus, through a world of innocence and sleep, We brought her to the doors of her last home, In Peterborough Cathedral. Round her tomb They stood, in the huge gloom of those old aisles, The heralds with their torches, but their light Struggled in vain with that tremendous dark. Their ring of smoky red could only show A few sad faces round the purple pall, The wings of a stone angel overhead, The base of three great pillars, and, fitfully, Faint as the phosphorus glowing in some old vault, One little slab of marble, far away. Yet, or the darkness, or the pedlar's words Had made me fanciful, I thought I saw Bowed shadows praying in those unplumbed aisles, Nay, dimly heard them weeping, in a grief That still was built of silence, like the drip Of water from a frozen fountain-head. We laid her in her grave. We closed the tomb. With echoing footsteps all the funeral went; And I went last to close and lock the doors; Last, and half frightened of the enormous gloom That rolled along behind me as one by one The torches vanished. O, I was glad to see The moonlight on the kind turf-mounds again. But, as I turned the key, a quivering hand Was laid upon my arm. I turned and saw That foreigner with the olive-coloured face. From head to foot he shivered, as with cold. He drew me into the shadows of the porch. 'Come back with me,' he whispered, and slid his hand —Like ice it was!—along my wrist, and slipped A ring upon my finger, muttering quick, As in a burning fever, 'All the wealth Of Eldorado for one hour! Come back! I must go back and see her face again! I was not there, not there, the day she—died. You'll help me with the coffin. Not a soul Will know. Come back! One moment, only one!' I thought the man was mad, and plucked my hand Away from him. He caught me by the sleeve, And sank upon his knees, lifting his face Most piteously to mine. 'One moment! See! I loved her!' I saw the moonlight glisten on his tears, Great, long, slow tears they were; and then—my God— As his face lifted and his head sank back Beseeching me—I saw a crimson thread Circling his throat, as though the headsman's axe Had cloven it with one blow, so shrewd, so keen, The head had slipped not from the trunk. I gasped; And, as he pleaded, stretching his head back, The wound, O like a second awful mouth, The wound began to gape. I tore my cloak Out of his clutch. My keys fell with a clash. I left them where they lay, and with a shout I dashed into the broad white empty road. There was no soul in sight. Sweating with fear I hastened home, not daring to look back; But as I turned the corner, I heard the clang Of those great doors, and knew he had entered in. Not till I saw before me in the lane The pedlar and my uncle did I halt And look at that which clasped my finger still As with a band of ice. My hand was bare! I stared at it and rubbed it. Then I thought I had been dreaming. There had been no ring! The poor man I had left there in the porch, Being a Frenchman, talked a little wild; But only wished to look upon her grave. And I—I was the madman! So I said Nothing. But all the same, for all my thoughts, I'd not go back that night to find the keys, No, not for all the rubies in the crown Of Prester John. * * * * The high State Funeral Was held on Lammas Day. A wondrous sight For Peterborough! For myself, I found Small satisfaction in a catafalque That carried a dummy coffin. None the less, The pedlar thought that as a Solemn Masque, Or Piece of Purple Pomp, the thing was good, And worthy of a picture in his rhymes; The more because he said it shadowed forth The ironic face of Death. The Masque, indeed Began before we buried her. For a host Of Mourners—Lords and Ladies—on Lammas eve Panting with eagerness of pride and place, Arrived in readiness for the morrow's pomp, And at the Bishop's Palace they found prepared A mighty supper for them, where they sat All at one table. In a Chamber hung With 'scutcheons and black cloth, they drank red wine And feasted, while the torches and the Queen Crept through the darkness of Northampton lanes. At seven o'clock on Lammas Morn they woke, After the Queen was buried; and at eight The Masque set forth, thus pictured in the rhymes With tolling bells, which on the pedlar's lips Had more than paid his lodging: Thus he spake it, Slowly, sounding the rhymes like solemn bells, And tolling, in between, with lingering tongue:— Toll!—From the Palace the Releevants creep,— A hundred poor old women, nigh their end, Wearing their black cloth gowns, and on each head An ell of snow-white holland which, some said, Afterwards they might keep, —Ah, Toll!—with nine new shillings each to spend, For all the trouble that they had, and all The sorrow of walking to this funeral. Toll!—And the Mourning Cloaks in purple streamed Following, a long procession, two by two, Her Household first. With these, Monsieur du Preau Her French Confessor, unafraid to show The golden Cross that gleamed About his neck, warned what the crowd might do Said I will wear it, though I die for it! So subtle in malice was that Jesuit. Toll!—Sir George Savile in his Mourner's Gown Carried the solemn Cross upon a Field Azure, and under it by a streamer borne Upon a field of Gules, an Unicorn Argent and, lower down, A scrolled device upon a blazoned shield, Which seemed to say—I am silent till the end!— Toll! Toll!—In my defence, God me defend! Toll!—and a hundred poor old men went by, Followed by two great Bishops.—Toll, ah toll!— Then, with White Staves and Gowns, four noble lords; Then sixteen Scots and Frenchmen with drawn swords; Then, with a Bannerol, Sir Andrew Noel, lifting to the sky The Great Red Lion. Then the Crown and Crest Borne by a Herald on his glittering breast. And now—ah now, indeed, the deep bell tolls— That empty Coffin, with its velvet pall, Borne by six Gentlemen, under a canopy Of purple, lifted by four knights, goes by. The Crown Imperial Burns on the Coffin-head. Four Bannerols On either side, uplifted by four squires, Roll on the wind their rich heraldic fires. Toll! The Chief Mourner—the fair Russell!—toll!— Countess of Bedford—toll!—they bring her now, Weeping under a purple Cloth of State, Till, halting there before the Minister Gate, Having in her control The fair White Staves of office, with a bow She gives them to her two great Earls again, Then sweeps them onward in her mournful train. Toll! At the high Cathedral door the Quires Meet them and lead them, singing all the while A mighty Miserere for her soul! Then, as the rolling organ—toll, ah toll!— Floods every glimmering aisle With ocean-thunders, all those knights and squires Bring the false Coffin to the central nave And set it in the Catafalque o'er her grave. The Catafalque was made in Field-bed wise Valanced with midnight purple, fringed with gold: All the Chief Mourners on dark thrones were set Within it, as jewels in some huge carcanet: Above was this device In my defence, God me defend, inscrolled Round the rich Arms of Scotland, as to say "Man judged me. I abide the Judgment Day." The sexton paused anew. All looked at him, And at his wrinkled, grim, earth-coloured hand, As if, in that dim light, beclouded now With blue tobacco-smoke, they thought to see The smouldering ruby again. "Ye know," he said, "How master William Wickham preached that day?" Ford nodded. "I have heard of it. He showed Subtly, O very subtly, after his kind, That the white Body of Beauty such as hers Was in itself Papistical, a feast, A fast, an incense, a burnt-offering, And an Abomination in the sight Of all true Protestants. Why, her very name Was Mary!" "Ay, that's true, that's very true!" The sexton mused. "Now that's a strange deep thought! The Bishop missed a text in missing that. Her name, indeed, was Mary!" "Did you find Your keys again?" "Ay, Sir, I found them!" "Where?" "Strange you should ask me that! After the throng Departed, and the Nobles were at feast, All in the Bishop's Palace—a great feast And worthy of their sorrow—I came back Carrying my uncle's second bunch of keys To lock the doors and search, too, for mine own. 'Twas growing dusk already, and as I thrust The key into the lock, the great grey porch Grew cold upon me, like a tomb. I pushed Hard at the key—then stopped—with all my flesh Freezing, and half in mind to fly; for, sirs, The door was locked already, and—from within! I drew the key forth quietly and stepped back Into the Churchyard, where the graves were warm With sunset still, and the blunt carven stones Lengthened their homely shadows, out and out, To Everlasting. Then I plucked up heart, Seeing the footprints of that mighty Masque Along the pebbled path. A queer thought came Into my head that all the world without Was but a Masque, and I was creeping back, Back from the Mourner's Feast to Truth again. Yet—I grew bold, and tried the Southern door. 'Twas locked, but held no key on the inner side To foil my own, and softly, softly, click, I turned it, and with heart, sirs, in my mouth, Pushed back the studded door and entered in ... Stepped straight out of the world, I might have said, Out of the dusk into a night so deep, So dark, I trembled like a child.... And then I was aware, sirs, of a great sweet wave Of incense. All the gloom was heavy with it, As if her Papist Household had returned To pray for her poor soul; and, my fear went. But either that strange incense weighed me down, Or else from being sorely over-tasked, A languor came upon me, and sitting there To breathe a moment, in a velvet stall, I closed mine eyes. A moment, and no more, For then I heard a rustling in the nave, And opened them; and, very far away, As if across the world, in Rome herself, I saw twelve tapers in the solemn East, And saw, or thought I saw, cowled figures kneel Before them, in an incense-cloud. And then, Maybe the sunset deepened in the world Of masques without—clear proof that I had closed Mine eyes but for a moment, sirs, I saw As if across a world-without-end tomb, A tiny jewelled glow of crimson panes Darkening and brightening with the West. And then, Then I saw something more—Queen Mary's vault, And—it was open!... Then, I heard a voice, A strange deep broken voice, whispering love In soft French words, that clasped and clung like hands; And then—two shadows passed against the West, Two blurs of black against that crimson stain, Slowly, O very slowly, with bowed heads, Leaning together, and vanished into the dark Beyond the Catafalque. Then—I heard him pray,— And knew him for the man that prayed to me,— Pray as a man prays for his love's last breath! And then, O sirs, it caught me by the throat, And I, too, dropped upon my knees and prayed; For, as in answer to his prayer, there came A moan of music, a mighty shuddering sound From the great organ, a sound that rose and fell Like seas in anger, very far away; And then a peal of thunder, and then it seemed, As if the graves were giving up their dead, A great cowled host of shadows rose and sang;— Dies iræ, dies illâ Solvet sæclum in favilla, Teste David cum Sibylla. I heard her sad, sad, little, broken voice, Out in the darkness. 'Ay, and David, too, His blood is on the floors of Holyrood, To speak for me.' Then that great ocean-sound Swelled to a thunder again, and heaven and earth Shrivelled away; and in that huge slow hymn Chariots were driven forth in flaming rows, And terrible trumpets blown from deep to deep. And then, ah then, the heart of heaven was hushed, And—in the hush—it seemed an angel wept, Another Mary wept, and gathering up All our poor wounded, weary, way-worn world, Even as a Mother gathers up her babe, Soothed it against her breast, and rained her tears On the pierced feet of God, and melted Him To pity, and over His feet poured her deep hair. The music died away. The shadows knelt. And then—I heard a rustling nigh the tomb, And heard—and heard—or dreamed I heard—farewells, Farewells for everlasting, deep farewells, Bitter as blood, darker than any death. And, at the last, as in a kiss, one breath, One agony of sweetness, like a sword For sharpness, drawn along a soft white throat; And, for its terrible sweetness, like a sigh Across great waters, very far away,— Sweetheart! And then, like doors, like world-without-end doors That shut for Everlasting, came a clang, And ringing, echoing, through the echo of it, One terrible cry that plucked my heart-strings out, Mary! And on the closed and silent tomb, Where there were two, one shuddering shadow lay, And then—I, too,—reeled, swooned and knew no more. Sirs, when I woke, there was a broad bright shaft Of moonlight, slanting through an Eastern pane Full on her tomb and that black Catafalque. And on the tomb there lay—my bunch of keys! I struggled to my feet, Ashamed of my wild fancies, like a man Awakening from a drunken dream. And yet, When I picked up the keys, although that storm Of terror had all blown by and left me calm, I lifted up mine eyes to see the scroll Round the rich crest of that dark canopy, In my defence, God me defend. The moon Struck full upon it; and, as I turned and went, God help me, sirs, though I were loyal enough To good Queen Bess, I could not help but say, Amen! And yet, methought it was not I that spake, But some deep soul that used me for a mask, A soul that rose up in this hollow shell Like dark sea-tides flooding an empty cave. I could not help but say with my poor lips, Amen! Amen! Sirs, 'tis a terrible thing To move in great events. Since that strange night I have not been as other men. The tides Would rise in this dark cave"—he tapped his skull— "Deep tides, I know not whence; and when they rose My friends looked strangely upon me and stood aloof. And once, my uncle said to me—indeed, It troubled me strangely,—'Timothy,' he said, 'Thou art translated! I could well believe Thou art two men, whereof the one's a fool, The other a prophet. Or else, beneath thy skin There lurks a changeling! What hath come to thee?' And then, sirs, then—well I remember it! 'Twas on a summer eve, and we walked home Between high ghostly hedges white with may— And uncle Robin, in his holy-day suit Of Reading Tawny, felt his old heart swell With pride in his great memories. He began Chanting the pedlar's tune, keeping the time Thus, jingle, jingle, slowly, with his keys:— I Douglas, in the moonless night —Muffled oars on blue Loch Leven!— Took her hand, a flake of white —Beauty slides the bolts of heaven.— Little white hand, like a flake of snow, When they saw it, his Highland crew Swung together and murmured low, "Douglas, wilt thou die then, too?" And the pine trees whispered, weeping, "Douglas, Douglas, tender and true! Little white hand like a tender moonbeam, soon shall you set the broadswords leaping, It is the Queen, the Queen!" they whispered, watching her soar to the saddle anew. "There will be trumpets blown in the mountains, a mist of blood on the heather, and weeping, Weeping, weeping, and thou, too, dead for her, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true." II Carry the queenly lass along! —Cold she lies, cold and dead,— She whose laughter was a song, —Lapped around with sheets of lead!— She whose blood was wine of the South, —Light her down to a couch of clay!— And a royal rose her mouth, And her body made of may! —Lift your torches, weeping, weeping, Light her down to a couch of clay. They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping, Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance! Hush! Between the solemn pinewoods, carry the lovely lady sleeping, Out of the cold grey Northern mists, with banner and scutcheon, plume, and lance, Carry her southward, palled in purple, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping,— O, ma patrie, La plus chérie, Adieu, plaisant pays de France! Well, sirs, that dark tide rose within my brain! I snatched his keys and flung them over the hedge, Then flung myself down on a bank of ferns And wept and wept and wept. It puzzled him. Perchance he feared my mind was going and yet, O, sirs, if you consider it rightly now, With all those ages knocking at his doors, With all that custom clamouring for his care, Is it so strange a grave-digger should weep? Well—he was kind enough and heaped my plate That night at supper. But I could never dig my graves at ease In Peterborough Churchyard. So I came To London—to St. Mary Magdalen's. And thus, I chanced to drink my ale one night Here in the Mermaid Inn. 'Twas All Souls' Eve, And, on that bench, where master Ford now sits Was master Shakespeare— Well, the lights burned low, And just like master Ford to-night he leaned Suddenly forward. 'Timothy,' he said, 'That's a most marvellous ruby!' My blood froze! I stretched my hand out bare as it was born; And he said nothing, only looked at me. Then, seeing my pipe was empty, he bade me fill And lit it for me. Peach, the astrologer, Was living then; and that same night I went And told him all my trouble about this ring. He took my hand in his, and held it—thus— Then looked into my face and said this rhyme:— The ruby ring, that only three While Time and Tide go by, shall see, Weds your hand to history. Honour and pride the first shall lend; The second shall give you gold to spend; The third—shall warn you of your end. Peach was a rogue, some say, and yet he spake Most truly about the first," the sexton mused, "For master Shakespeare, though they say in youth Outside the theatres, he would hold your horse For pence, prospered at last, bought a fine house In Stratford, lived there like a squire, they say. And here, here he would sit, for all the world As he were but a poet! God bless us all, And then—to think!—he rose to be a squire! A deep one, masters! Well, he lit my pipe!" "Why did they bury such a queen by night?" Said Ford. "Kings might have wept for her. Did Death Play epicure and glutton that so few Were bidden to such a feast. Once on a time, I could have wept, myself, to hear a tale Of beauty buried in the dark. And hers Was loveliness, far, far beyond the common! Such beauty should be marble to the touch Of time, and clad in purple to amaze The moth. But she was kind and soft and fair, A woman, and so she died. But, why the dark?" "Sir, they gave out the coffin was too heavy For gentlemen to bear!"—"For kings to bear?" Ford flashed at him. The sexton shook his head,— "Nay! Gentlemen to bear! But—the true cause— Ah, sir, 'tis unbelievable, even to me, A sexton, for a queen so fair of face! And all her beds, even as the pedlar said, Breathing Arabia, sirs, her walls all hung With woven purple wonders and great tales Of amorous gods, and mighty mirrors, too, Imaging her own softness, night and dawn, When through her sumptuous hair she drew the combs; And like one great white rose-leaf half her breast Shone through it, firm as ivory." "Ay," said Lodge, Murmuring his own rich music under breath, "About her neck did all the graces throng, And lay such baits as did entangle death." "Well, sir, the weather being hot, they feared She would not hold the burying!"... "In some sort," Ford answered slowly, "if your tale be true, She did not hold it. Many a knightly crest Will bend yet o'er the ghost of that small hand." There was a hush, broken by Ben at last, Who turned to Ford—"How now, my golden lad? The astrologer's dead hand is on thy purse!" Ford laughed, grimly, and flung an angel down. "Well, cause or consequence, rhyme or no rhyme, There is thy gold. I will not break the spell, Or thou mayst live to bury us one and all!" "And, if I live so long," the old man replied, Lighting his lanthorn, "you may trust me, sirs, Mine Inn is quiet, and I can find you beds Where Queens might sleep all night and never move. Good-night, sirs, and God bless you, one and all." He shouldered pick and spade. I opened the door. The snow blew in, and, as he shuffled out, There, in the strait dark passage, I could swear I saw a spark of red upon his hand, Like a great smouldering ruby. I gasped. He stopped. He peered at me. "Twice in a night," he said. "Nothing," I answered, "only the lanthorn-light." He shook his head. "I'll tell you something more! There's nothing, nothing now in life or death That frightens me. Ah, things used to frighten me. But never now. I thought I had ten years; But if the warning comes and says 'Thou fool, This night!' Why, then, I'm ready." I watched him go, With glimmering lanthorn up the narrow street, Like one that walked upon the clouds, through snow That seemed to mix the City with the skies. On Christmas Eve we heard that he was dead.

Flos Mercatorum! On that night of nights We drew from out our Mermaid cellarage All the old glory of London in one cask Of magic vintage. Never a city on earth— Rome, Paris, Florence, Bagdad—held for Ben The colours of old London; and, that night, We staved them like a wine, and drank, drank deep! 'Twas Master Heywood, whom the Mermaid Inn Had dubbed our London laureate, hauled the cask Out of its ancient harbourage. "Ben," he cried, Bustling into the room with Dekker and Brome, "The prentices are up!" Ben raised his head Out of the chimney-corner where he drowsed, And listened, reaching slowly for his pipe. "Clerk of the Bow Bell," all along the Cheape There came a shout that swelled into a roar. "What! Will they storm the Mermaid?" Heywood laughed, "They are turning into Bread Street!" Down they came! We heard them hooting round the poor old Clerk— "Clubs! Clubs! The rogue would have us work all night! He rang ten minutes late! Fifteen, by Paul's!" And over the hubbub rose, like a thin bell, The Clerk's entreaty—"Now, good boys, good boys, Children of Cheape, be still, I do beseech you! I took some forty winks, but then...." A roar Of wrathful laughter drowned him—"Forty winks! Remember Black May-day! We'll make you wink!" There was a scuffle, and into the tavern rushed Gregory Clopton, Clerk of the Bow Bell,— A tall thin man, with yellow hair a-stream, And blazing eyes. "Hide me," he clamoured, "quick! These picaroons will murder me!" I closed The thick oak doors against the coloured storm Of prentices in red and green and ray, Saffron and Reading tawny. Twenty clubs Drubbed on the panels as I barred them out; And even our walls and shutters could not drown Their song that, like a mocking peal of bells, Under our windows, made all Bread Street ring:— "Clerk of the Bow Bell, With the yellow locks, For thy late ringing Thy head shall have knocks!" Then Heywood, seeing the Clerk was all a-quake, Went to an upper casement that o'er-looked The whole of Bread Street. Heywood knew their ways, And parleyed with them till their anger turned To shouts of merriment. Then, like one deep bell His voice rang out, in answer to their peal:— "Children of Cheape, Hold you all still! You shall have Bow Bell Rung at your will!" Loudly they cheered him. Courteously he bowed, Then firmly shut the window; and, ere I filled His cup with sack again, the crowd had gone. "My clochard, sirs, is warm," quavered the Clerk. "I do confess I took some forty winks! They are good lads, our prentices of Cheape, But hasty!" "Wine!" said Ben. He filled a cup And thrust it into Gregory's trembling hands. "Yours is a task," said Dekker, "a great task! You sit among the gods, a lord of time, Measuring out the pulse of London's heart." "Yea, sir, above the hours and days and years, I sometimes think. 'Tis a great Bell—the Bow! And hath been, since the days of Whittington." "The good old days," growled Ben. "Both good and bad Were measured by my Bell," the Clerk replied. And, while he spoke, warmed by the wine, his voice Mellowed and floated up and down the scale As if the music of the London bells Lingered upon his tongue. "I know them all, And love them, all the voices of the bells. Flos Mercatorum! That's the Bell of Bow Remembering Richard Whittington. You should hear The bells of London when they tell his tale. Once, after hearing them, I wrote it down. I know the tale by heart now, every turn." "Then ring it out," said Heywood. Gregory smiled And cleared his throat. "You must imagine, sirs, The Clerk, sitting on high, among the clouds, With London spread beneath him like a map. Under his tower, a flock of prentices Calling like bells, of little size or weight, But bells no less, ask that the Bell of Bow Shall tell the tale of Richard Whittington, As thus." Then Gregory Clopton, mellowing all The chiming vowels, and dwelling on every tone In rhythm or rhyme that helped to swell the peal Or keep the ringing measure, beat for beat, Chanted this legend of the London bells:— Clerk of the Bow Bell, four and twenty prentices, All upon a Hallowe'en, we prithee, for our joy, Ring a little turn again for sweet Dick Whittington, Flos Mercatorum, and a barefoot boy!— "Children of Cheape," did that old Clerk answer, "You will have a peal, then, for well may you know, All the bells of London remember Richard Whittington When they hear the voice of the big Bell of Bow!"— Clerk with the yellow locks, mellow be thy malmsey! He was once a prentice, and carolled in the Strand! Ay, and we are all, too, Marchaunt Adventurers, Prentices of London, and lords of Engeland. "Children of Cheape," did that old Clerk answer, "Hold you, ah hold you, ah hold you all still! Souling if you come to the glory of a Prentice, You shall have the Bow Bell rung at your will!" "Whittington! Whittington! O, turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London," the big Bell began: "Where was he born? O, at Pauntley in Gloucestershire Hard by Cold Ashton, Cold Ashton," it ran. "Flos Mercatorum," moaned the bell of All Hallowes, "There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone!" "Then we all sang," echoed happy St. Saviour's, "Called him, and lured him, and made him our own. Told him a tale as he lay upon the hillside, Looking on his home in the meadow-lands below!" "Told him a tale," clanged the bell of Cold Abbey; "Told him the truth," boomed the big Bell of Bow! Sang of a City that was like a blazoned missal-book, Black with oaken gables, carven and inscrolled; Every street a coloured page, and every sign a hieroglyph, Dusky with enchantments, a City paved with gold; "Younger son, younger son, up with stick and bundle!"— Even so we rung for him—"But—kneel before you go; Watch by your shield, lad, in little Pauntley Chancel, Look upon the painted panes that hold your Arms a-glow,— Coat of Gules and Azure; but the proud will not remember it! And the Crest a Lion's Head, until the new be won! Far away, remember it! And O, remember this, too,— Every barefoot boy on earth is but a younger son." Proudly he answered us, beneath the painted window,— "Though I be a younger son, the glory falls to me: While my brother bideth by a little land in Gloucestershire, All the open Earth is mine, and all the Ocean-sea. Yet will I remember, yet will I remember, By the chivalry of God, until my day be done, When I meet a gentle heart, lonely and unshielded, Every barefoot boy on earth is but a younger son!" Then he looked to Northward for the tall ships of Bristol; Far away, and cold as death, he saw the Severn shine: Then he looked to Eastward, and he saw a string of colours Trickling through the grey hills, like elfin drops of wine; Down along the Mendip dale, the chapmen and their horses, Far away, and carrying each its little coloured load, Winding like a fairy-tale, with pack and corded bundle, Trickled like a crimson thread along the silver road. Quick he ran to meet them, stick and bundle on his shoulder! Over by Cold Ashton, he met them trampling down,— White shaggy horses with their packs of purple spicery, Crimson kegs of malmsey, and the silks of London town. When the chapmen asked of him the bridle-path to Dorset, Blithely he showed them, and he led them on their way, Led them through the fern with their bales of breathing Araby, Led them to a bridle-path that saved them half a day. Merrily shook the silver bells that hung the broidered bridle-rein, Chiming to his hand, as he led them through the fern, Down to deep Dorset, and the wooded Isle of Purbeck, Then—by little Kimmeridge—they led him turn for turn. Down by little Kimmeridge, and up by Hampshire forest-roads, Round by Sussex violets, and apple-bloom of Kent, Singing songs of London, telling tales of London, All the way to London, with packs of wool they went. "London was London, then! A clean, clear moat Girdled her walls that measured, round about, Three miles or less. She is big and dirty now," Said Dekker. "Call it a silver moat," growled Ben, "That's the new poetry! Call it crystal, lad! But, till you kiss the Beast, you'll never find Your Fairy Prince. Why, all those crowded streets, Flung all their filth, their refuse, rags and bones, Dead cats and dogs, into your clean clear moat, And made it sluggish as old Acheron. Fevers and plagues, death in a thousand shapes Crawled out of it. London was dirty, lad; And till you kiss that fact, you'll never see The glory of this old Jerusalem!" "Ay, 'tis the fogs that make the sunset red," Answered Tom Heywood. "London is earthy, coarse, Grimy and grand. You must make dirt the ground, Or lose the colours of friend Clopton's tale. Ring on!" And, nothing loth, the Clerk resumed:— Bravely swelled his heart to see the moat of London glittering Round her mighty wall—they told him—two miles long! Then—he gasped as, echoing in by grim black Aldgate, Suddenly their shaggy nags were nodding through a throng: Prentices in red and ray, marchaunts in their saffron, Aldermen in violets, and minstrels in white, Clerks in homely hoods of budge, and wives with crimson wimples, Thronging as to welcome him that happy summer night. "Back," they cried, and "Clear the way," and caught the ringing bridle-reins: "Wait! the Watch is going by, this vigil of St. John!" Merrily laughed the chapmen then, reining their great white horses back, "When the pageant passes, lad, we'll up and follow on!" There, as thick the crowd surged, beneath the blossomed ale-poles, Lifting up to Whittington a fair face afraid, Swept against his horse by a billow of madcap prentices, Hard against the stirrup breathed a green-gowned maid. Swift he drew her up and up, and throned her there before him, High above the throng with her laughing April eyes, Like a Queen of Faërie on the great pack-saddle. "Hey!" laughed the chapmen, "the prentice wins the prize!" "Whittington! Whittington! the world is all before you!" Blithely rang the bells and the steeples rocked and reeled! Then—he saw her eyes grow wide, and, all along by Leaden Hall, Drums rolled, earth shook, and shattering trumpets pealed. Like a marching sunset, there, from Leaden Hall to Aldgate, Flared the crimson cressets—O, her brows were haloed then!— Then the stirring steeds went by with all their mounted trumpeters, Then, in ringing harness, a thousand marching men. Marching—marching—his heart and all the halberdiers, And his pulses throbbing with the throbbing of the drums; Marching—marching—his blood and all the burganets! "Look," she cried, "O, look," she cried, "and now the morrice comes!" Dancing—dancing—her eyes and all the Lincoln Green, Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, dancing through the town! "Where is Marian?" Laughingly she turned to Richard Whittington. "Here," he said, and pointed to her own green gown. Dancing—dancing—her heart and all the morrice-bells! Then there burst a mighty shout from thrice a thousand throats! Then, with all their bows bent, and sheaves of peacock arrows, Marched the tall archers in their white silk coats, White silk coats, with the crest of London City Crimson on the shoulder, a sign for all to read,— Marching—marching—and then the sworded henchmen, Then, William Walworth, on his great stirring steed. Flos Mercatorum, ay, the fish-monger, Walworth,— He whose nets of silk drew the silver from the tide, He who saved the king when the king was but a prentice,— Lord Mayor of London, with his sword at his side! Burned with magic changes, his blood and all the pageantry; Burned with deep sea-changes, the wonder in her eyes; Flos Mercatorum! 'Twas the rose-mary of Paphos, Reddening all the City for the prentice and his prize! All the book of London, the pages of adventure, Passed before the prentice on that vigil of St. John: Then the chapmen shook their reins,—"We'll ride behind the revelry, Round again to Cornhill! Up, and follow on!" Riding on his pack-horse, above the shouting multitude, There she turned and smiled at him, and thanked him for his grace: "Let me down by Red Rose Lane," and, like a wave of twilight While she spoke, her shadowy hair—touched his tingling face. When they came to Red Rose Lane, beneath the blossomed ale-poles, Light along his arm she lay, a moment, leaping down: Then she waved "farewell" to him, and down the Lane he watched her Flitting through the darkness in her gay green gown. All along the Cheape, as he rode among the chapmen, Round by Black Friars, to the Two-Necked Swan Coloured like the sunset, prentices and maidens Danced for red roses on the vigil of St. John. Over them were jewelled lamps in great black galleries, Garlanded with beauty, and burning all the night; All the doors were shadowy with orpin and St. John's wort, Long fennel, green birch, and lilies of delight. "He should have slept here at the Mermaid Inn," Said Heywood as the chanter paused for breath. "What? Has our Mermaid sung so long?" cried Ben. "Her beams are black enough. There was an Inn," Said Tom, "that bore the name; and through its heart There flowed the right old purple. I like to think It was the same, where Lydgate took his ease After his hood was stolen; and Gower, perchance; And, though he loved the Tabard for a-while, I like to think the Father of us all, The old Adam of English minstrelsy caroused Here in the Mermaid Tavern. I like to think Jolly Dan Chaucer, with his kind shrewd face Fresh as an apple above his fur-fringed gown, One plump hand sporting with his golden chain, Looked out from that old casement over the sign, And saw the pageant, and the shaggy nags, With Whittington, and his green-gowned maid, go by. "O, very like," said Clopton, "for the bells Left not a head indoors that night." He drank A draught of malmsey—and thus renewed his tale:— "Flos Mercatorum," mourned the bell of All Hallowes, "There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone, Rubbing down the great white horses for a supper!" "True," boomed the Bow Bell, "his hands were his own!" Where did he sleep? On a plump white wool-pack, Open to the moon on that vigil of St. John, Sheltered from the dew, where the black-timbered gallery Frowned above the yard of the Two-Necked Swan. Early in the morning, clanged the bell of St. Martin's, Early in the morning, with a groat in his hand, Mournfully he parted with the jolly-hearted chapmen, Shouldered his bundle and walked into the Strand; Walked into the Strand, and back again to West Cheape, Staring at the wizardry of every painted sign, Dazed with the steeples and the rich heraldic cornices Drinking in the colours of the Cheape like wine. All about the booths now, the parti-coloured prentices Fluted like a flock of birds along a summer lane, Green linnets, red caps, and gay gold finches,— What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again? "Buy my dainty doublets, cut on double taffetas, Buy my Paris thread," they cried, and caught him by the hand, "Laces for your Heart's-Delight, and lawns to make her love you, Cambric for her wimple, O, the finest in the land." Ah, but he was hungry, foot-sore, weary, Knocking at the doors of the armourers that day! What d'ye lack? they asked of him; but no man lacked a prentice: When he told them what he lacked, they frowned and turned away. Hard was his bed that night, beneath a cruel archway, Down among the hulks, with his heart growing cold! London is a rare town, but O, the streets of London, Red though their flints be, they are not red with gold. Pale in the dawn, ere he marched on his adventure, Starving for a crust, did he kneel a-while again, Then, upon the fourth night, he cried, O, like a wounded bird "Let me die, if die I must, in Red Rose Lane." Like a little wounded bird he trailed through the darkness, Laid him on a door-step, and then—O, like a breath Pitifully blowing out his life's little rushlight, Came a gush of blackness, a swoon deep as death. Then he heard a rough voice! Then he saw a lanthorn! Then he saw a bearded face, and blindly wondered whose: Then—a marchaunt's portly legs, with great Rose-Windows, Bigger than St. Paul's, he thought, embroidered on his shoes. "Alice!" roared the voice, and then, O like a lilied angel, Leaning from the lighted door a fair face afraid, Leaning over Red Rose Lane, O, leaning out of Paradise, Drooped the sudden glory of his green-gowned maid! * * * * "O, mellow be thy malmsey," grunted Ben, Filling the Clerk another cup. "The peal," Quoth Clopton, "is not ended; but the pause In ringing, chimes to a deep inward ear And tells its own deep tale. Silence and sound, Darkness and light, mourning and mirth,—no tale, No painting, and no music, nay, no world, If God should cut their fruitful marriage-knot. A shallow sort to-day would fain deny A hell, sirs, to this boundless universe. To such I say 'no hell, no Paradise!' Others would fain deny the topless towers Of heaven, and make this earth a hell indeed. To such I say, 'the unplumbed gulfs of grief Are only theirs for whom the blissful chimes Ring from those unseen heights.' This earth, mid-way, Hangs like a belfry where the ringers grasp Their ropes in darkness, each in his own place, Each knowing, by the tune in his own heart, Never by sight, when he must toss through heaven The tone of his own bell. Those bounded souls Have never heard our chimes! Why, sirs, myself Simply by running up and down the scale Descend to hell or soar to heaven. My bells Height above height, deep below deep, respond! Their scale is infinite. Dare I, for one breath, Dream that one note hath crowned and ended all, Sudden I hear, far, far above those clouds, Like laughing angels, peal on golden peal, Innumerable as drops of April rain, Yet every note distinct, round as a pearl, And perfect in its place, a chime of law, Whose pure and boundless mere arithmetic Climbs with my soul to God." Ben looked at him, Gently. "Resume, old moralist," he said. "On to thy marriage-bells!" "The fairy-tales Are wiser than they know, sirs. All our woes Lead on to those celestial marriage-bells. The world's a-wooing; and the pure City of God Peals for the wedding of our joy and pain! This was well seen of Richard Whittington; For only he that finds the London streets Paved with red flints, at last shall find them paved Like to the Perfect City, with pure gold. Ye know the world! what was a London waif To Hugh Fitzwarren's daughter? He was fed And harboured; and the cook declared she lacked A scullion. So, in Hugh Fitzwarren's house, He turned the jack, and scoured the dripping-pan. How could he hope for more? This marchaunt's house Was builded like a great high-gabled inn, Square, with a galleried courtyard, such as now The players use. Its rooms were rich and dim With deep-set coloured panes and massy beams. Its ancient eaves jutted o'er Red Rose Lane Darkly, like eyebrows of a mage asleep. Its oaken stair coiled upward through a dusk Heavy with fume of scented woods that burned To keep the Plague away,—a gloom to embalm A Pharaoh, but to dull the cheek and eye Of country lads like Whittington. He pined For wind and sunlight. Yet he plied his task Patient as in old tales of Elfin-land, The young knight would unhelm his golden locks And play the scullion, so that he might watch His lady's eyes unknown, and oftener hear Her brook-like laughter rippling overhead; Her green gown, like the breath of Eden boughs, Rustling nigh him. And all day long he found Sunshine enough in this. But when at night He crept into the low dark vaulted den, The cobwebbed cellar, where the cook had strewn The scullion's bed of straw (and none too thick Lest he should sleep too long), he choked for breath; And, like an old man hoarding up his life, Fostered his glimmering rushlight as he sate Bolt upright, while a horrible scurry heaved His rustling bed, and bright black-beaded eyes Peered at him from the crannies of the wall. Then darkness whelmed him, and perchance he slept,— Only to fight with nightmares and to fly Down endless tunnels in a ghastly dream, Hunted by horrible human souls that took The shape of monstrous rats, great chattering snouts, Vile shapes of shadowy cunning and grey greed, That gnaw through beams, and undermine tall towns, And carry the seeds of plague and ruin and death Under the careless homes of sleeping men. Thus, in the darkness, did he wage a war With all the powers of darkness. 'If the light Do break upon me, by the grace of God,' So did he vow, 'O, then will I remember, Then, then, will I remember, ay, and help To build that lovelier City which is paved For rich and poor alike, with purest gold.' Ah, sirs, he kept his vow. Ye will not smile If, at the first, the best that he could do Was with his first poor penny-piece to buy A cat, and bring her home, under his coat By stealth (or else that termagant, the cook, Had drowned it in the water-butt, nor deemed The water worse to drink). So did he quell First his own plague, but bettered others, too. Now, in those days, Marchaunt Adventurers Shared with their prentices the happy chance Of each new venture. Each might have his stake, Little or great, upon the glowing tides Of high romance that washed the wharfs of Thames; And every lad in London had his groat Or splendid shilling on some fair ship at sea. So, on an April eve, Fitzwarren called His prentices together; for, ere long, The Unicorn, his tall new ship, must sail Beyond the world to gather gorgeous webs From Eastern looms, great miracles of silk Dipt in the dawn by wizard hands of Ind; Or, if they chanced upon that fabled coast Where Sydon, river of jewels, like a snake Slides down the gorge its coils of crimson fire, Perchance a richer cargo,—rubies, pearls, Or gold bars from the Gates of Paradise. And many a moon, at least, a faërie foam Would lap Blackfriars wharf, where London lads Gazed in the sunset down that misty reach For old black battered hulks and tattered sails Bringing their dreams home from the uncharted sea. And one flung down a groat—he had no more. One staked a shilling, one a good French crown; And one an angel, O, light-winged enough To reach Cathay; and not a lad but bought His pennyworth of wonder, So they thought, Till all at once Fitzwarren's daughter cried 'Father, you have forgot poor Whittington!' "Snails,' laughed the rosy marchaunt, 'but that's true! Fetch Whittington! The lad must stake his groat! 'Twill bring us luck!' 'Whittington! Whittington!' Down the dark stair, like a gold-headed bird, Fluttered sweet Alice. 'Whittington! Richard! Quick! Quick with your groat now for the Unicorn!' 'A groat!' cried Whittington, standing there aghast, With brown bare arms, still coloured by the sun, Among his pots and pans. 'Where should I find A groat? I staked my last groat in a cat!' —'What! Have you nothing? Nothing but a cat? Then stake the cat,' she said; and the quick fire That in a woman's mind out-runs the thought Of man, lit her grey eyes. Whittington laughed And opened the cellar-door. Out sailed his wealth, Waving its tail, purring, and rubbing its head Now on his boots, now on the dainty shoe Of Alice, who straightway, deaf to his laughing prayers, Caught up the cat, whispered it, hugged it close, Against its grey fur leaned her glowing cheek, And carried it off in triumph. Red Rose Lane Echoed with laughter as, with amber eyes Blinking, the grey cat in a seaman's arms Went to the wharf. 'Ay, but we need a cat,' The captain said. So, when the painted ship Sailed through a golden sunrise down the Thames, A grey tail waved upon the misty poop, And Whittington had his venture on the seas. It was a nine days' jest, and soon forgot. But, all that year,—ah, sirs, ye know the world, For all the foolish boasting of the proud, Looks not beneath the coat of Taunton serge For Gules and Azure. A prince that comes in rags To clean your shoes and, out of his own pride, Waits for the world to paint his shield again Must wait for ever and a day. The world Is a great hypocrite, hypocrite most of all When thus it boasts its purple pride of race, Then with eyes blind to all but pride of place Tramples the scullion's heraldry underfoot, Nay, never sees it, never dreams of it, Content to know that, here and now, his coat Is greasy.... So did Whittington find at last Such nearness was most distant; that to see her, Talk with her, serve her thus, was but to lose True sight, true hearing. He must save his life By losing it; forsake, to win, his love; Go out into the world to bring her home. It was but labour lost to clean the shoes, And turn the jack, and scour the dripping-pan. For every scolding blown about her ears The cook's great ladle fell upon the head Of Whittington; who, beneath her rule, became The scullery's general scapegoat. It was he That burned the pie-crust, drank the hippocras, Dinted the silver beaker.... Many a month He chafed, till his resolve took sudden shape And, out of the dark house at the peep of day, Shouldering bundle and stick again, he stole To seek his freedom, and to shake the dust Of London from his shoes.... You know the stone On Highgate, where he sate awhile to rest, With aching heart, and thought 'I shall not see Her face again.' There, as the coloured dawn Over the sleeping City slowly bloomed, A small black battered ship with tattered sails Blurring the burnished glamour of the Thames Crept, side-long to a wharf. Then, all at once, The London bells rang out a welcome home; And, over them all, tossing the tenor on high, The Bell of Bow, a sun among the stars, Flooded the morning air with this refrain:— 'Turn again, Whittington! Turn again, Whittington! Flos Mercatorum, thy ship hath come home! Trailing from her cross-trees the crimson of the sunrise, Dragging all the glory of the sunset thro' the foam. Turn again, Whittington, Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London! Turn again, Whittington! When thy hope was darkest, Far beyond the sky-line a ship sailed for thee. Flos Mercatorum, O, when thy faith was blindest, Even then thy sails were set beyond the Ocean-sea.' So he heard and heeded us, and turned again to London, Stick and bundle on his back, he turned to Red Rose Lane, Hardly hearing as he went the chatter of the prentices,— What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again? Back into the scullery, before the cook had missed him, Early in the morning his labours he began: Once again to clean the shoes and clatter with the water-pail, Once again to scrub the jack and scour the dripping-pan. All the bells of London were pealing as he laboured. Wildly beat his heart, and his blood began to race. Then—there came a light step and, suddenly, beside him Stood his lady Alice, with a light upon her face. 'Quick,' she said, 'O, quick,' she said, 'they want you, Richard Whittington!' 'Quick,' she said; and, while she spoke, her lighted eyes betrayed All that she had hidden long, and all she still would hide from him. So—he turned and followed her, his green-gowned maid. * * * * There, in a broad dark oaken-panelled room Rich with black carvings and great gleaming cups Of silver, sirs, and massy halpace built Half over Red Rose Lane, Fitzwarren sat; And, at his side, O, like an old romance That suddenly comes true and fills the world With April colours, two bronzed seamen stood, Tattered and scarred, and stained with sun and brine. 'Flos Mercatorum,' Hugh Fitzwarren cried, Holding both hands out to the pale-faced boy, 'The prentice wins the prize! Why, Whittington, Thy cat hath caught the biggest mouse of all!' And, on to the table, tilting a heavy sack, One of the seamen poured a glittering stream Of rubies, emeralds, opals, amethysts, That turned the room to an Aladdin's cave, Or magic goblet brimmed with dusky wine Where clustering rainbow-coloured bubbles clung And sparkled, in the halls of Prester John. 'And that,' said Hugh Fitzwarren, 'is the price Paid for your cat in Barbary, by a King Whose house was rich in gems, but sorely plagued With rats and mice. Gather it up, my lad, And praise your master for his honesty; For, though my cargo prospered, yours outshines The best of it. Take it, my lad, and go; You're a rich man; and, if you use it well, Riches will make you richer, and the world Will prosper in your own prosperity. The miser, like the cold and barren moon, Shines with a fruitless light. The spendthrift fool Flits like a Jack-o-Lent over quags and fens; But he that's wisely rich gathers his gold Into a fruitful and unwasting sun That spends its glory on a thousand fields And blesses all the world. Take it and go.' Blankly, as in a dream, Whittington stared. 'How should I take it, sir? The ship was yours, And ...' 'Ay, the ship was mine; but in that ship Your stake was richer than we knew. 'Tis yours.' 'Then,' answered Whittington, 'if this wealth be mine, Who but an hour ago was all so poor, I know one way to make me richer still.' He gathered up the glittering sack of gems, Turned to the halpace, where his green-gowned maid Stood in the glory of the coloured panes. He thrust the splendid load into her arms, Muttering—'Take it, lady! Let me be poor! But rich, at least, in that you not despise The waif you saved.' —'Despise you, Whittington?'— 'O, no, not in the sight of God! But I Grow tired of waiting for the Judgment Day! I am but a man. I am a scullion now; But I would like, only for half an hour, To stand upright and say "I am a king!" Take it!' And, as they stood, a little apart, Their eyes were married in one swift level look, Silent, but all that souls could say was said. * * * * And 'I know a way,' said the Bell of St. Martin's. 'Tell it, and be quick,' laughed the prentices below! 'Whittington shall marry her, marry her, marry her! Peal for a wedding,' said the big Bell of Bow. He shall take a kingdom up, and cast it on the sea again; He shall have his caravels to traffic for him now; He shall see his royal sails rolling up from Araby, And the crest—a honey-bee—golden at the prow. Whittington! Whittington! The world is all a fairy tale!— Even so we sang for him.—But O, the tale is true! Whittington he married her, and on his merry marriage-day, O, we sang, we sang for him, like lavrocks in the blue. Far away from London, these happy prentice lovers Wandered through the fern to his western home again, Down by deep Dorset to the wooded isle of Purbeck, Round to little Kimmeridge, by many a lover's lane. There did they abide as in a dove-cote hidden Deep in happy woods until the bells of duty rang; Then they rode the way he went, a barefoot boy to London, Round by Hampshire forest-roads, but as they rode he sang:— Kimmeridge in Dorset is the happiest of places! All the little homesteads are thatched with beauty there! All the old ploughmen, there, have happy smiling faces, Christmas roses in their cheeks, and crowns of silver hair. Blue as are the eggs in the nest of the hedge-sparrow, Gleam the little rooms in the homestead that I know: Death, I think, has lost the way to Kimmeridge in Dorset; Sorrow never knew it, or forgot it, long ago! Kimmeridge in Dorset, Kimmeridge in Dorset, Though I may not see you more thro' all the years to be, Yet will I remember the little happy homestead Hidden in that Paradise where God was good to me. * * * * So they turned to London, and with mind and soul he laboured, Flos Mercatorum, for the mighty years to be, Fashioning, for profit—to the years that should forget him!— This, our sacred City that must shine upon the sea. London was a City when the Poulters ruled the Poultry! Rosaries of prayer were hung in Paternoster Row, Gutter Lane was Guthrun's, then; and, bright with painted missal-books, Ave Mary Corner, sirs, was fairer than ye know. London was mighty when her marchaunts loved their merchandise, Bales of Eastern magic that empurpled wharf and quay: London was mighty when her booths were a dream-market, Loaded with the colours of the sunset and the sea. There, in all their glory, with the Virgin on their bannerols, Glory out of Genoa, the Mercers might be seen, Walking to their Company of Marchaunt Adventurers;— Gallantly they jetted it in scarlet and in green. There, in all the glory of the lordly Linen Armourers, Walked the Marchaunt Taylors with the Pilgrim of their trade, Fresh from adventuring in Italy and Flanders, Flos Mercatorum, for a green-gowned maid. Flos Mercatorum! Can a good thing come of Nazareth? High above the darkness, where our duller senses drown, Lifts the splendid Vision of a City, built on merchandise, Fairer than that City of Light that wore the violet crown, Lifts the sacred vision of a far-resplendent City, Flashing, like the heart of heaven, its messages afar, Trafficking, as God Himself through all His interchanging worlds, Holding up the scales of law, weighing star by star, Stern as Justice, in one hand the sword of Truth and Righteousness; Blind as Justice, in one hand the everlasting scales, Lifts the sacred Vision of that City from the darkness, Whence the thoughts of men break out, like blossoms, or like sails! Ordered and harmonious, a City built to music, Lifting, out of chaos, the shining towers of law,— Ay, a sacred City, and a City built of merchandise, Flos Mercatorum, was the City that he saw. And by that light," quoth Clopton, "did he keep His promise. He was rich; but in his will He wrote those words which should be blazed with gold In London's Liber Albus:— The desire And busy intention of a man, devout And wise, should be to fore-cast and secure The state and end of this short life with deeds Of mercy and pity, especially to provide For those whom poverty insulteth, those To whom the power of labouring for the needs Of life, is interdicted. He became The Father of the City. Felons died Of fever in old Newgate. He rebuilt The prison. London sickened, from the lack Of water, and he made fresh fountains flow. He heard the cry of suffering and disease, And built the stately hospital that still Shines like an angel's lanthorn through the night, The stately halls of St. Bartholomew. He saw men wrapt in ignorance, and he raised Schools, colleges, and libraries. He heard The cry of the old and weary, and he built Houses of refuge. Even so he kept His prentice vows of Duty, Industry, Obedience, words contemned of every fool Who shrinks from law; yet were those ancient vows The adamantine pillars of the State. Let all who play their Samson be well warned That Samsons perish, too! His monument Is London!" "True," quoth Dekker, "and he deserves Well of the Mermaid Inn for one good law, Rightly enforced. He pilloried that rogue Will Horold, who in Whittington's third year Of office, as Lord Mayor, placed certain gums And spices in great casks, and filled them up With feeble Spanish wine, to have the taste And smell of Romeney,—Malmsey!" "Honest wine, Indeed," replied the Clerk, "concerns the State, That solemn structure touched with light from heaven, Which he, our merchant, helped to build on earth. And, while he laboured for it, all things else Were added unto him, until the bells More than fulfilled their prophecy. One great eve, Fair Alice, leaning from her casement, saw Another Watch, and mightier than the first, Billowing past the newly painted doors Of Whittington Palace—so men called his house In Hart Street, fifteen yards from old Mark Lane,— thousand burganets and halberdiers; A thousand archers in their white silk coats, A thousand mounted men in ringing mail, A thousand sworded henchmen; then, his Guild, Advancing, on their splendid bannerols The Virgin, glorious in gold; and then, Flos Mercatorum, on his great stirring steed Whittington! On that night he made a feast For London and the King. His feasting hall Gleamed like the magic cave that Prester John Wrought out of one huge opal. East and West Lavished their wealth on that great Citizen Who, when the King from Agincourt returned Victorious, but with empty coffers, lent Three times the ransom of an Emperor To fill them—on the royal bond, and said When the King questioned him of how and whence, 'I am the steward of your City, sire! There is a sea, and who shall drain it dry?' Over the roasted swans and peacock pies, The minstrels in the great black gallery tuned All hearts to mirth, until it seemed their cups Were brimmed with dawn and sunset, and they drank The wine of gods. Lord of a hundred ships, Under the feet of England, Whittington flung The purple of the seas. And when the Queen, Catharine, wondered at the costly woods That burned upon his hearth, the Marchaunt rose, He drew the great sealed parchments from his breast, The bonds the King had given him on his loans, Loans that might drain the Mediterranean dry. 'They call us hucksters, madam, we that love Our City,' and, into the red-hot heart of the fire, He tossed the bonds of sixty thousand pounds. 'The fire burns low,' said Richard Whittington. Then, overhead, the minstrels plucked their strings; And, over the clash of wine-cups, rose a song That made the old timbers of their feasting-hall Shake, as a galleon shakes in a gale of wind, When she rolls glorying through the Ocean-sea:— Marchaunt Adventurers, O, what shall it profit you Thus to seek your kingdom in the dream-destroying sun? Ask us why the hawthorn brightens on the sky-line: Even so our sails break out when Spring is well begun! Flos Mercatorum! Blossom wide, ye sail of Englande, Hasten ye the kingdom, now the bitter days are done! Ay, for we be members, one of another, 'Each for all and all for each,' quoth Richard Whittington! Chorus:—Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, the Spring is well begun! Break, break out on every sea, O, fair white sails of Englande! 'Each for all, and all for each,' quoth Richard Whittington. Marchaunt Adventurers, O what 'ull ye bring home again? Woonders and works and the thunder of the sea! Whom will ye traffic with? The King of the sunset!— What shall be your pilot, then?—A wind from Galilee! —Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty-handed?— Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see! Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters; After many days it shall return with usury. Chorus:—Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be? Englande! Englande! Englande! Englande! Glory everlasting and the lordship of the sea. What need to tell you, sirs, how Whittington Remembered? Night and morning, as he knelt In those old days, O, like two children still, Whittington and his Alice bowed their heads Together, praying. From such simple hearts, O never doubt it, though the whole world doubt The God that made it, came the steadfast strength Of England, all that once was her strong soul, The soul that laughed and shook away defeat As her strong cliffs hurl back the streaming seas. Sirs, in his old age Whittington returned, And stood with Alice, by the silent tomb In little Pauntley church. There, to his Arms, The Gules and Azure, and the Lion's Head So proudly blazoned on the painted panes; (O, sirs, the simple wistfulness of it Might move hard hearts to laughter, but I think Tears tremble through it, for the Mermaid Inn) He added his new crest, the hard-won sign And lowly prize of his own industry, The Honey-bee. And, far away, the bells Peal softly from the pure white City of God:— Ut fragrans nardus Fama fuit iste Ricardus. With folded hands he waits the Judgment now. Slowly our dark bells toll across the world, For him who waits the reckoning, his accompt Secure, his conscience clear, his ledger spread A Liber Albus flooded with pure light. Flos Mercatorum, Fundator presbyterorum,... Slowly the dark bells toll for him who asks No more of men, but that they may sometimes Pray for the souls of Richard Whittington, Alice, his wife, and (as themselves of old Had prayed) the father and mother of each of them. Slowly the great notes fall and float away:— Omnibus exemplum Barathrum vincendo morosum Condidit hoc templum ... Pauperibus pater ... Finiit ipse dies Sis sibi Christe quies. Amen."