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 s.e.xton 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! G.o.d 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 s.e.xton shook his head,-- "Nay! Gentlemen to bear! But--the true cause-- Ah, sir, "tis unbelievable, even to me, A s.e.xton, 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 G.o.ds, 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sage, 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.
VIII
FLOS MERCATORUM
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 cas.e.m.e.nt 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 G.o.ds, 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 d.i.c.k 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!