Volume II Part 94 (1/2)

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 Gloucesters.h.i.+re 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 s.h.i.+eld, 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 Gloucesters.h.i.+re, 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 uns.h.i.+elded, Every barefoot boy on earth is but a younger son!”

Then he looked to Northward for the tall s.h.i.+ps of Bristol; Far away, and cold as death, he saw the Severn s.h.i.+ne: 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 Hamps.h.i.+re 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: