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 G.o.d, 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 Suss.e.x 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, coa.r.s.e, 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 pa.s.ses, 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 Faerie 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 peac.o.c.k 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, Pa.s.sed 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 mult.i.tude, 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 cas.e.m.e.nt over the sign, And saw the pageant, and the s.h.a.ggy 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:--