,tt.!,l|t 1 t u •A"i". '■, ,,1 /\i^i-i ALFRED I^HH THE ; ^ern: 'ES ^^£' ^^^1 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY UNDERGRADUATE LIBRARY Cornell University Library PR 6027.O98T12 Tales of the Mermaid Tavern. 3 1924 014 173 565 Cornell University Library The original of tliis bool< is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014173565 TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Ben Jonson From an Original Painting TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN ALFRED NOTES Author of "Drake, " "Sherwood," " The Enchanted hland," etc. iLLUsrnATED SECOND EDITION NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS U.L, Copyright, 1913, by Frederick A. Stokes Company All rights reserved April, 1913 TO EDMUND GOSSE IN GRATEFUL RECOLLECTION OP GRBAT ENCOURAGEMENT CONTENTS PAGE I A Knight of the Ocean-Sea .... i II A Coiner of Angels 19 III Black Bill's Honey-moon 45 IV The Sign of the Golden Shoe .... 73 V The Companion of a Mile 99 VI Big Ben . 117 VII The Burial of a Queen 133 VIII Flos Mercatorum 169 IX Raleigh 205 ILLUSTRATIONS Ben Jonson From an Original Painting Frontispiece PACING PAGE William Shakespeare From a Painting in the Collection of the Duke of Somerset 28 Sir Francis Bacon From an Old Print 46 John Fletcher . 83 John Selden From a Painting Attributed to Sir Peter Lely, in the Bodleian Library, Oxford 124 Michael Drayton From an Original Painting in Dulwich College . .138 Francis Beaumont 170 Sir Walter Raleigh From a Painting in the Collection of the Duchess of Dorset ^ 206 I A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN « A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA UNDER that foggy sunset London glowed, Like one huge cob-webbed flagon of old wine. And, as I walked down Fleet Street, the soft sky Flowed thro' the roaring thoroughfares, transfused Their hard sharp outlines, blurred the throngs of black On either pavement, blurred the rolling stream Of red and yellow busses, till the town Turned to a golden suburb of the clouds. And, round that mighty bubble of St. Paul's, Over the up-turned faces of the street, An air-ship slowly sailed, with whirring fans, A voyager in the new-found realms of gold, A shadowy silken chrysalis whence should break What radiant wings in centuries to be. So, wandering on, while all the shores of Time Softened into Eternity, it seemed A dead man touched me with his living hand, A flaming legend passed me in the streets Of London — laugh who will — that City of Clouds, [ I J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Where what a dreamer yet, in spite of all, Is man, that splendid visionary child Who sent his fairy beacon through the dusk. On a blue bus before the moon was risen, — This Night, at eight. The Tempest! Dreaming thus, (Small wonder that my footsteps went astray!) I found myself within a narrow street. Alone. There was no rumour, near or far. Of the long tides of traffic. In my doubt I turned and knocked upon an old inn-door. Hard by, an ancient inn of mullioned panes, And crazy beams and over-hanging eaves: And, as I knocked, the slowly changing west Seemed to change all the world with it and leave Only that old inn steadfast and unchanged, A rock in the rich-coloured tides of time. And, suddenly, as a song that wholly escapes Remembrance, at one note, wholly returns, There, as I knocked, memory returned to me. I knew it all — the little twisted street. The rough wet cobbles gleaming, far away. Like opals, where it ended on the sky; And, overhead, the darkly smiling face Of that old wizard inn; I knew by rote The smooth sun-bubbles in the worn green paint Upon the doors and shutters. [ 2l A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA There was one Myself had idly scratched away one dawn, One mad May-dawn, three hundred years ago, When out of the woods we came with hawthorn boughs And found the doors locked, as they seemed to-night. Three hundred years ago — nay. Time was dead! No need to scan the sign-board any more Where that white-breasted siren of the sea Curled her moon-silvered tail among such rocks As never in the merriest seaman's tale Broke the blue-bliss of fabulous lagoons Beyond the Spanish Main. And, through the dream. Even as I stood and listened, came a sound Of clashing wine #"■ ^'-■^'. :■;.'■ ■■' , -#;",> ''^^S^fc^'^ -'#-■' ■ i *£ John Fletcher THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE On Marlowe . . . feigned a joy in his young art, Murmured his songs, used all her London tricks To coney-catch the country green-horn. Man, Kit never even saw her painted face! He pored on books by candle-light and saw Everything thro' a mist. O, I could laugh To think of it, only — his up-turned skull There, in the dark, now that the flesh drops off, Has laughed enough, a horrible silent laugh, To think his Angel of Light was, after all, Only the red-lipped Angel of the Plague. He was no better than the rest of us. No worse. He felt the heat. He felt the cold. He took her down to Deptford to escape Contagion, and the crashing of sextons' spades On dead men's bones in every churchyard round; The jangling bell and the cry. Bring out your dead. And there she told him of her luckless life, Wedded, deserted, both against her will, A luckless Eve that never knew the snake. True and half-true she mixed in one wild lie, And then — she caught him by the hand and wept. No death-cart passed to warn him with its bell. Her eyes, her perfumed hair, and her red mouth, Her warm white breast, her civet-scented skin, Swimming before him, in a piteous mist. Made the lad drunk, and — she was in his arms; And all that God had meant to wake one day Under the Sun of Love, suddenly woke By candle-light and cried, ' The Sun; The Sun! ' And he believed it, Chapman, he believed it! [83] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN He was a cobbler's son, and he believed In Love! Blind, through that mist, he caught at Love, The everlasting King of all this world. Kit was not clever. Clever men — like Pomp — Might jest. And fools might laugh. But when a man, Simple as all great elemental things. Makes his whole heart a sacrificial fire To one whose love is in her supple skin. There comes a laughter in which jests break up Like icebergs in a sea of burning marl. Then dreamers turn to murderers in an hour. Then topless towers ^re burnt, and the Ocean-sea Tramples the proud fleet, down, into the dark, And sweeps over it, laughing. Come and see, The heart now of this darkness — no more waves, But the black central hollow where that wreck Went down for ever. How should Piers Penniless Brand that wild picture on the world's black heart? — Last night I tried the way of the Florentine, And bruised myself; but we are friends together Mourning a dead friend, none will ever know ! — Kit, do you smile at poor Piers Penniless, Measuring it out? Ah, boy, it is my best! Siqce hearts must beat, let it be terza rima, A ladder of rhyme that two sad friends alone May let down, thus, to the last circle of hell." So saying, and motionless as a man in trance, Nash treathed the words that raised the veil anew, [84J THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE Strange intervolving words which, as he spake them, Moved like the huge slow whirlpool of that pit Where the wreck sank, the serpentine slow folds Of the lewd Kraken that sucked it, shuddering, down: This is the Deptford Inn. Climb the dark stair. Come, come and see Kit Marlowe lying dead! See, on the table, by that broken chair. The little phials of paint — the white and red. A cut-lawn kerchief hangs behind the door, Left by his punk, even as the tapster said. There is the gold-fringed taffeta gchvn she wore, And, on that wine-stained bed, as is most meet, He lies alone, never to waken more. O, still as chiselled marble, the frayed sheet Folds the still form on that sepulchral bed. Hides the dead face, and peaks the rigid feet. Come, come and see Kit Marlowe lying dead! Draw back the sheet, ah, tenderly lay bare The splendour of that Apollonian head; The gloriole of his flame-coloured hair; The lean athletic body, deftly planned To carry that swift soul of fire and air; The long thin flanks, the broad breast, and the grand Heroic shoulders! Look, what lost dreams lie Cold in the fingers of that delicate hand; [8S] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN And, shut within those lyric lips, what cry Of unborn beauty, sunk in utter night, Lost worlds of song, sealed in an unknown sky, Never to be brought forth, clothed on with light. Was this, then, this the secret of his song? — Who ever loved that loved not at first sight? It was not Love, not Love, that wrought this wrong; And yet — what evil shadow of this dark town Could quench a soul so flame-like clean and strong, Strike the young glory of his manhood down, Dead, like a dog, dead in a drunken brawl, Dead for a phial of paint, a taffeta gown? What if his blood were hot? High over all He heard, as in his song the world still hears, Those angels on the burning heavenly wall Who chant the thunder-music of the spheres. Yet — through the glory of his own young dream Here did he meet that face, wet with strange tears, Andromeda, with piteous face astream, Hailing him, Perseus. In her treacherous eyes As in dark pools the mirrored stars will gleam, Here did he see his own eternal skies; And here — she laughed, nor found the dream amiss; But bade him pluck and eat — in Paradise. [86] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE Here did she hold him, broken up with bliss, Here, like a supple snake, around him coiled, Here did she pluck his heart out with a kiss, Here were the wings clipped and the glory soiled, Here adders coupled in the pure white shrine. Here was the Wine spilt, and the Shew-bread spoiled. Black was that feast, though he who poured the Wine Dreamed that he poured it in high sacrament. Deep in her eyes he saw his own eyes shine. Beheld Love's god-head and was well content. Subtly her hand struck the pure silver note. The throbbing chord of passion that God meant To swell the bliss of heaven. Round his young throat She wound her swarthy tresses; then, with eyes Half mad to see their power, half mad to gloat. Half mad to batten on their own devilries. And mark what heaven-born splendours they could quell, She held him quivering in a mesh of lies. And in soft broken speech began to tell — There as, against her heart, throbbing he lay — The truth that hurled his soul from heaven to hell. Quivering, she watched the subtle whip-lash flay^ The white flesh of the dreams of his pure youth; Then sucked the blood and left them cold as clay. [87] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Luxuriously she lashed him with the truth. Against his mouth her subtle mouth she set To show, as through a mask, O, without ruth, As through a cold clay mask (brackish and wet With what strange tears!) it was not his, not his, The kiss that through his quivering lips she met. Kissing him, " Thus" she whispered, " did he kiss. Ah, is the sweetness like a sword, then, sweet? Last night — ah, kiss again — aching with bliss. Thus was I made his own, from head to feet." — A sudden agony thro' his body swept Tempestuously.—" Our wedded pulses beat Like this and this; and then, at dawn, he slept," She laughed, pouting her lips against his cheek To drink; and, as in answer, Marlowe wept. As a dead man in dreams, he heard her speak. Clasped in the bitter grave of that sweet clay, Wedded and one with it, he moaned. Too weak Even to lift his head, sobbing, he lay. Then, slowly, as their breathings rose and fell. He felt the storm of passion, far away, Gather. The shuddering waves began to swell. And, through the menace of the thunder-roll, The thin quick lightnings, thrilling through his hell, [88] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE Lightnings that hell itself could not control (Even while she strove to bowr his neck anew) Woke the great slumbering legions of his soul. Sharp was that severance of the false and true, Sharp as a sword drawn from a shuddering wound. But they, that were one flesh, were cloven in two. Flesh leapt from clasping flesh, without a sound. He plucked his body from her white embrace, And cast him down, and grovelled on the ground. Yet, ere he went, he strove once more to trace. Deep in her eyes, the loveliness he knew; Then — spat his hatred into her smiling face. She clung to him. He flung her off. He drew His dagger, thumbed the blade, and laughed — '' Pcor punk! What? Would you make me your own murderer, too?" " That was the day of our great feast," said Nash, " Aboard the Golden Hind. The grand old hulk Was drawn up for the citizens' wonderment At Deptford. Ay, Piers Penniless was there! Soaked and besotted as I was, I saw Everything. On her poop the minstrels played. And round her sea-worn keel, like meadow-sweet Curtseying round a lightning-blackened oak, [89] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Prentices and their sweethearts, heel and toe, Danced the brave English dances, clean and fresh As May. But in her broad gun-guarded waist Once red with British blood, long tables groaned For revellers not so worthy. Where her guns Had raked the seas, barrels of ale were sprung, Bestrid by roaring tipplers. Where at night The storm-beat crew silently bowed their heads With Drake before the King of Life and Death, A strumpet wrestled with a mountebank For pence, a loose-limbed Lais with a clown Of Cherry Hilton. Leering at their lewd twists. Cross-legged upon the deck, sluggish with sack, Like a squat toad sat Puff • . . Propped up against the bulwarks, at his side. Archer, his apple-squire, hiccoughed a bawdy song. Suddenly, through that orgy, with wild eyes, Yet with her customary smile, O, there I saw in day-light what Kit Marlowe saw Through blinding mists, the face of his first love. She stood before her paramour on the deck. Cocking her painted head to right and left. Her white teeth smiling, but her voice a hiss: ' Quickly,' she said to Archer, ' come away. Of there'll be blood spilt!' ' Better blood than wine,' Said Archer, struggling to his feet, ' but who. Who would spill blood ? ' ' Marlowe ! ' she said. [90J THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE Then Puff Reeled to his feet. 'What, Kit, the cobbler's son? The lad that broke his leg at the Red Bull, Tamburlaine-Marlowe, he that would chain kings To's chariot-wheel? What, is he rushing hither? He would spill blood for Gloriana, hey? O, my Belphoebe, you will crack my sides? Was this the wench that shipped a thousand squires? O, ho! But here he comes. Now, solemnly, lads, — Now walk the angels on the walls of heaven To entertain divine Zenocratel' And there stood Kit, high on the storm-scarred poop, Against the sky, bare-headed. I saw his face, Pale, innocent, just the clear face of that boy Who walked to Cambridge with a bundle and stick,— The little cobbler's son. Yet — there I caught My only glimpse of how the sun-god looked. And only for one moment. When he saw His mistress, his face whitened, and he shook. Down to the deck he came, a poor weak man; And yet — by God — the only man that day In all our drunken crew. 'Come along. Kit,' Cried Puff, 'we'll all be friends now, all take hands. And dance — ha! ha! — the shaking of the sheets!' Then Archer, shuffling a step, raised his cracked voice In Kit's own song to a falsetto tune. Snapping one hand, thus over his head as he danced: — [91] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN ' Come, live with me, and be my lave. And we will all the pleasures prove! ' . . . Puff reeled between, laughing. ' Damn you,' cried Kit, And, catching the fat swine by his round soft throat. Hurled him headlong, crashing across the tables. To lie and groan in the red bilge of wine That washed the scuppers. Kit gave him not one glance. ' Archer,' he said in a whisper. Instantly A long thin rapier flashed in Archer's hand. The ship was one wild uproar. Women screamed And huddled together. A drunken clamorous ring Seethed around Marlowe and his enemy. Kit drew his dagger, slowly, and I knew Blood would be spilt. ' Here, take my rapier, Kit ! ' I cried across the crowd, seeing the lad Was armed so slightly. But he did not hear. I could not reach him. All at once he leapt Like a wounded tiger, past the rapier point Straight at his enemy's throat. I saw his hand Up-raised to strike! I heard a harlot's scream, And, in mid-air, the hand stayed, quivering, white, A frozen menace. I saw a yellow claw Twisting the dagger out of that frozen hand; I saw his own steel in that yellow grip. His own lost lightning raised to strike at him! [92 J THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE I saw it flash! I heard the driving grunt Of him that struck! Then, with a shout, the crowd Sundere^l, and through the gap, a blank red thing Streaming with blood, came the blind face of Kit, Reeling, to me! And I, poor drunken I, Held my arms wide for him^ Here, on my breast, With one great sob, he burst his heart and died." Nash ceased. And, far away down Friday Street, The crowder with his fiddle wailed again : " Blaspheming Tambolin must die And Faustus meet his end. Repent, repent, or presentlie To hell ye must descend." And, as in answer, Chapman slowly breathed Those mightiest lines of Marlowe's own despair: " Think'st thou that I who saw the face of God, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven. Am not tormented with ten thousand hells? " " Ah, you have said it," said Nash, " and there you know Why Kit desired your hand to crown his work. He reverenced you as one whose temperate eyes Austere and grave, could look him through and through; One whose firm hand could grasp the reins of law" And guide those furious horses of the sun, As Ben and Will can guide them, where you will. His were, perchance, the noblest steeds of all, And from their nostrils blew a fierier dawn [93] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Above the world. That glory is his own ; But where he fell, he fell. Before his hand Had learned to quell them, he was dashed to the earth. 'Tis yours to show that good men honoured him. For, mark this, Chapman, since Kit Marlowe fell. There will be fools that, in the name of Art, Will wallow in the mire, crying ' I fall, I fall from heaven ! ' — fools that have only heard From earth, the rumour of those golden hooves Far, far above them. Yes, you know the kind, The fools that scorn Will for his lack of fire Because he quells the storms they never knew, And rides above the thunder; fools of Art That skip and vex, like little vicious fleas. Their only Helicon, some green madam's breast. Art! Art! O, God, that I could send my soul, In one last wave, from that night-hidden wreck, Across the shorps of all the years to be; O, God, that like a crowdcr I might shake Their blind dark casements with the pity of it, Piers Penniless his ballad, a poor scrap. That but for lack of time, and hope and pence. He might have bettered ! For a dead man's sake>,, Thus would the wave break, thus the crowder cry:- Dead, like a dog upon the road; Dead, for a harlot's kiss; The Apollonian throat and brow. The lyric lips, so silent now, The flaming wings that heaven bestowed For loftier airs than this! [94] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE The sun-like eyes whose light and life Had gazed an angel's down, That burning heart of honey and fire, Quenched and dead for an apple-squire, Quenched at the thrust of a mummer's knife. Dead — for a taffeta gown ! The wine that Gfod 'had set apart. The noblest wine of all. Wine of the grapes that angels trod. The vintage of the glory of God, The crimson wine of that rich heart, Spilt In a drunken brawl. Poured out to make a steaming bath That night in the Devil's Inn, A steaming bath of living wine Poured out for Circe and her swine, A bath of blood for a harlot To supple and sleek her skin. And many a fool that finds it sweet Through all the years to be. Crowning a lie with Marlowe's fame. Will ape the sin, will ape the shame, Will ape our captain in defeat; But — not in victory; Till Art become a leaping-house, And Death be crowned as Life, And one wild jest out-shine the soul [95] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Of Truth . . . O, fool, is this your goal ? You are not our Kit Marlowe, But the drunkard with the knife; Not Marlowe, but the Jack-o'-Lent That lured him o'er the fen! O, ay, the tavern is in its place. And the punk's painted smiling face, But where is our JCit Marlowe The man, the king of men? Passion ? You kiss the painted mouth. The hand that clipped his wings. The hand that into his heart she thrust And tuned him to her whimpering lust. And played upon his quivering youth As a crowder plucks the strings. But he who dared the thunder-roll. Whose eagle-wings could soar. Buffeting down the clouds of night, To beat against the Light of Light, That great God-blinded eagle-soul, We shall not see him more." I96] V THE COMPANION OF A MILE THE COMPANION OF A MILE 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, — bangi 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 green-wood 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 cocks-comb to the blue And crowing like Chanticleer, Give them a rouse! [99 J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Tickle it, tabourerl Nimbly, lasses, nimbly I Tuck up your russet petticoats and dance! Let the Cheape know it is the first of Mayl And as I seized shirt, doublet and trunk-hose, I saw the hobby-horse come cantering down, A paste-board 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: — SONG 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 [too] THE COMPANION OF A MILE 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 crtw against the deepening Axwa, " 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, [lOl] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Who should it be but Ben, rare Ben himself? The wild troop 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 country-side 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 difiicult; 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. [102] THE COMPANION OF A MILE 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 dotted 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 [103] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Does this rogue tell? Sir, I havie 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: [104] THE COMPANION OF A MILE 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, arid 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, [los] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN I fitted her with morrice-bells that sweetened into wood- bine 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 J" 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 [io6] THE COMPANION OF A MILE 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, Marking the measure as they trolled the tale. Chanting alternately, each answering each. 11 The Fool The tabor fainted far away 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 lamb- kins 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 [107] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN The dust, the dust to Eden-bloom; and, past the throb- bing 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 con- spire To build His world of music. All in rhythmic rank and me, I saw them in their cosmic dance, catch hands across, re- tire, 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 uni- verse unite! The lambs of God around us and His passion in every flower! [io8] THE COMPANION OF A MILE 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 I 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?" Kempt 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, — [109] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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: — in 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 tabouret, " Farewell," she laughed, and vanished with a Suffolk courtesie. [no] THE COMPANION OF A MILE I leapt away to Rockland, and from Rockland on to Hing- ham, 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! [Ill] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 w^ould 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, [112] THE COMPANION OF A MILE / saw the tall young butcher pass to little red-roofed Sud- bury, 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 Jig 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! [113] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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. [114] VI BIG BEN VI BIG BEN 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 prisoned first For some imagined insult to the Scots In Eastward Hoj 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. [117] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 wear no three-piled rufE. 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 Cheap 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. [ii8] BIG BEN But I, as I walk by Red Rose Lane, Tho' it warmeth my heart to see The Swan, The Golden Hind, 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 mill-stone, 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; [119] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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." [I20] BIG BEN " 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 Tiost, The* 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 sprig^ 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! [121] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN " 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! " [122] BIG BEN Then into the room rushed Havlland 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 Innl " 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 cobble stones. 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 pufiE. " 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. [123] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 w^ent 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 [124] John Selden From a Painting Attributed to Sir Peter Ldy, in the Bodleian Liirary, Oxford BIG BEN 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 doer 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. [125] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN ' 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 [126] BIG BEN 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." " Selden, you saved us in the nick of time ; 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, large-boned hands entwined Behind his neck. " She brought this to the gaol," [127] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 w^rapped His purple round him like an emperor. I think she had another for herself." " There's Roman blood in both," Dekker replied ; " 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 Puritans Head; But I knew a sign of 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 ! " [128] BIG BEN 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. [129] VII THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN VII THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN ''TT^WAS 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. [133] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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, "Plenty of work, eh Timothy?" said Ben. 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." "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 careless hand." Then, under breath. Yet with some passion, he murmured this brief rhyme: — [134] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 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 J — so musical and low. " Mightier than marble is my song! " Ah, did the poet Know why little Lalage was mightier even so? Ill 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, [135] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 that 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 [136] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 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 winged 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, [137] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 fire-light 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 Lais. 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, [138] Michael Drayton From an Origiiial Fainting in Didwich College THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 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 atatis, 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 [139] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN A lively pleasure. Could he have buried a third, It w^ould 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. [140] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 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. [141] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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; i 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." [14a] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN " And what 'uU 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, [143] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 country-side, 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. [144] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 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, [145] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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: — Though thy hands have plied their trade Eighty years without a rest, Robin Scarlet, never thy spade Built a house for such a guest! [146] / THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 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 kefeping. 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 weep- ing, weeping, weeping, — O, ma patrie. La plus cherie. Adieu, plaisant pays de Francel [147] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN III Many a red heart died to beat — Music swelled in HolyroodJ — Once, beneath her fair white feet. — Nozv 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 Canongatel Edinboro'! Edinboro'! Music built the towers of Troy, but thy gray 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. [148] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 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 moon-light 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, [149] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN ' 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, 'AH 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 cofSn. 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 gap. 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; , [ISO] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 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 [151] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 tahle. 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 hoUand which, some said, Afterwards they might keep, — Ah J 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 [152] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 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, iWhich 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 CofKn, with its velvet pall, Borne by six Gentlemen, under a canopy Of purple, lifted by four knights, goes by. The Crown Imperiall Burns on the Coffin-head, Four Bannerols On either side, uplifted by four squires. Roll on the wind their rich heraldic fires. [153] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Toll.i The Chief Mourner — the fair Russell ! — /o/// ■ Countess of Bedford — tolll — 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. [154] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN " 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 1 " " 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/ [155] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 foot-prints 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, [156] THE BURIAL OP A QUEEN 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; [157] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 ira, dies ilia Solvet saclum 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, [158] THE BURIAL OF A QTJEEN 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, [159] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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: — Douglas, in the moonless night — Muffled oars on blue Lech Levenl- Took her hand, a flake of white — Beauty slides the bolts of heaven. — [i6o] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 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 moon-beam, soon shall you set the broad-swords 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 I — 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! [i6i] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 cherie. 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 [162] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN Suddenly forward. "Timothy," he said, "That's a most marvellous rubyl " 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 ! " [163] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN " 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." [164] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN " 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 Ian thorn, "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 [165] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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. [166] VIII FLOS MERCATORUM VIII FLOS MERCATORUM FLOS MERCATORUM 1 On that night of nights We drew from 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! [169] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 scufHe, 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 " 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 [170] ^^^^ Francis Beaumont FLOS MERCATORUM To shouts of merriment. Then, like one deep bell His voice rang out, in answer to their peal: — " Children of Cheape, Hold you all stilll 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. [171] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 Hejrwood. 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! " — [172] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 inscroUed; Every street a coloured page, 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 ; [173] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 remembei 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 painted 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. £174] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 splcery. 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 [175] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 Hey wood. " 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 glitter- ing 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 saiiron. 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 ! " [176] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 Faerie on the great pack-saddle. " Hey ! " laughed the chapmen, " the prentice wins the prize 1 " " 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. [177] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN I I ' 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 ; [178] FLOS MERCATORUM Flos Mercatoruml '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 tin- gling 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; [179] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 He3rwood 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 ! " [i8o] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 doubk 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! [i8i] TALES or THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 rush-light. 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-Win- dows, 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, [182] FLOS MERCATORUM Leaning over Red Rose Lane, O, leaning out of Paradise, Drooped the sudden glory of his green-crowned 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 irom 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, [183] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 [184] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 night-mares and to fly Down endless tunnels ih 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, 1^85] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Tliat 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 all the house. 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 TJnicorn, his tall new ship, must sail Beyond the world to gather gorgeous webs I186] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 faerie foam Would lap Blackfriars wharf, where London lads Glazed 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, [187] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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. [i88] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 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 [189] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 againf [190] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 ! ' [191] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 out-shines 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.' [192] FLOS MERCATORUM ' Then,' answfered 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. [193] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 summer 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 till 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. [194] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 mer- chandise, Rales 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, I>95] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 Right- eousness; 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 Mercatoruntj 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 [i$6] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 ! " "Ay," 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 oflSce, as Lord Mayor, placed certain gums [197] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 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 ^d^ed 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, — A 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 [198] FLOS MERCATORUM 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 ! [199] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Flos Mercatoruml Blossom wide, ye sails of England, 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 England ! ' Each for all, and all for each,' quoth Richard Whitting- ton. Marchaunt Adventurers, O what 'uU 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, [200] FLOS MERCATORUM 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: — TJt 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 Albui flooded with pure light. [aoi] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Flos Mercatorum, Fundator presbyteroruntj . . . 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 v'tncendo morosum Condidit hoc templum . . . Pauperibus pater Finilt ipse dies Sis sibi Christe quies. Amen" [202] IX RALEIGH IX RALEIGH "DEN was our only guest that day. His tribe -■^ Had flown to their new shrine — the Apollo Room, To which, though they enscrolled his golden verse Above their doors like some great-fruited vine, Ben still preferred our Mermaid, and to smoke Alone in his old nook; perhaps to hear The voices of the dead. The voices of his old companions, Hovering near him, — 'Will and Kit and Rob, " Our Ocean-shepherd from the Main-deep sea, Raleigh," he muttered, as I brimmed his cup, " Last of the men that broke the fleets of Spain, 'Twas not enough to cage him, sixteen years, Rotting his heart out in the Bloody Tower, But they must fling him forth in his old age To hunt for El Dorado. Then, mine host, Because his poor old ship The Destiny Smashes the Spaniard, but comes tottering home Without the Spanish gold, our gracious king, To please a catamite. Sends the old lion back to the Tower again. The friends of Spain will send him to the block [205] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN This time. That male Salome, Buckingham, Is dancing for his head. Raleigh is doomed." A shadow stood in the doorway. We looked up; And there, but O, how changed, how worn and grey, Sir Walter Raleigh, like a hunted thing. Stared at us. " Ben," he said, and glanced behind him. Ben took a step towards him. " O, my God, Ben," whispered the old man in a husky voice. Half timorous and half cunning, so unlike His old heroic self that one might weep To hear it, " Ben, I have given them all the slip ! I may be followed. Can you hide me here Till it grows dark?" Ben drew him quickly in, and motioned me To lock the door. "Till it grows dark," he cried, "My God, that you should ask it!" " Do not think. Do not believe that I am quite disgraced," The old man faltered, " for they'll say it, Ben ; And when my boy grows up, they'll tell him, too. His father was a coward. I do cling To life for many reasons, not from fear Of death. No, Ben, I can disdain that still; But — there's my boy I" Then all his face went blind. He dropt upon Ben's shoulder and sobbed outright, " They are trying to break my pride, to break my pride ! ' The window darkened, and I saw a face Blurring the panes. Ben gripped the old man's arm, [206] Sir Walter Raleigh From a Painting in the Collection of the Duchess of Dorset RALEIGH And led him gently to a room within, Out of the way of guests. "Your pride," he said, " That is the pride of England! " At that name — England! — As at a signal-gun, heard in the night Far out at sea, the weather and world-worn man, That once was Raleigh, lifted up his head. Old age and weakness, weariness and fear Fell from him like a cloak. He stood erect. His eager eyes, full of great sea-washed dawns. Burned for a moment with immortal youth, While tears blurred mine to see him. " You do think That England will remember? You do think it? " He asked with a great light upon his face. Ben bowed his head in silence. • • •••••• " I have wronged My cause by this," said Raleigh. "Well they know it Who left this way for me. I have flung myself Like a blind moth into this deadly light Of freedom. Now, at the eleventh hour, Is it too late? I might return and — "No! Not now ! " Ben interrupted. " I'd have said Laugh at the headsman sixteen years ago. When England was awake. She will awake Again. But now, while our most gracious king, Who hates tobacco, dedicates his prayers [207] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN To Buckingham — This is no land for men that, under God, Shattered the Fleet Invincible." A knock Startled us, at the outer door. " My friend Stukeley," said Raleigh, " if I know his hand. He has a ketch will cariy me to France, Waiting at Tilbury." I let him in, — A lean and stealthy fellow. Sir Lewis Stukeley, — I liked him little. He thought much of his health, More of his money bags, and most of all On how to run with all men all at once For his own profit. At the Mermaid Inn Men disagreed in friendship and in truth; But he agreed with all men, and his life Was one soft quag of falsehood. Fugitives Must use false keys, I thought ; and there was hope For Raleigh if such a man would walk one mile To serve him now. Yet my throat moved to see him Usurping, with one hand on Raleigh's arm, A kind of ownership. "Lend me ten pounds" Were the first words he breathed in the old man's ear. And Raleigh slipped his purse into his hand. • ••••••a Just over Bread Street hung the bruised white moon When they crept out. Sir Lewis Stukeley's watch-dog, A derelict bo'suii, with a mulberry face. Met them outside. "The coast quite clear, eh, Hart?" Said Stukeley. " Ah, that's good. Lead on, then, quick." And there, framed in the cruddle of moonlit clouds [ao8] RALEIGH That ended the steep street, dark on its light, And standing on those glistening cobble-stones Just where they turned to silver, Raleigh looked back Before he turned the corner. He stood there. A figure like foot-feathered Mercury, Tall, straight and splendid, waving his plumed hat To Ben, and taking his last look, I felt, Upon our Mermaid Tavern. As he paused, His long fantastic shadow swayed and swept Against our feet. Then, like a shadow, he passed. " It is not right," said Ben, " it is not right. Why did they give the old man so much grace? Witness and evidence are what they lack. Would you trust Stukeley — not to draw him out? Raleigh was always rash. A phrase or two Will turn their murderous axe into a sword Of righteousness — Why, come to think of it, Blackfriar's Wharf, last night, I landed there. And — no, by God! — Raleigh is not himself. The tide will never serve beyond Gravesend. It is a trap! Come on! We'll follow them! Quick! To the river side!"— We reached the wharf Only to see their wherry, a small black cloud Dwindling far down that running silver road. Ben touched my arm. " Look there," he said, pointing up stream. The moon Glanced on a cluster of pikes, like silver thorns, [209] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Three hundred yards away, a little troop Of weaponed men, embarking hurriedly. Their great black wherry clumsily swung about, Then, with twelve oars for legs, came striding down. An armoured beetle on the glittering trail Of some small victim. Just below our wharf A little dinghy waddled. Ben cut the painter, and without one word Drew her up crackling thro' the lapping water, Motioned me to the tiller, thrust her off, And, pulling with one oar, backing with the other, Swirled her round and down, hard on the track Of Raleigh. Ben^was an old man now, but tough, O tough as a buccaneer. We distanced them. His oar blades drove the silver boiling back. By Broken Wharf the beetle was a speck. It dwindled by Queen Hythe and the Three Cranes. By Bellyn's Gate we had left it, out of sight. By Custom House and Galley Keye we shot Thro' silver all the way, without one glimpse Of Raleigh, Then a dreadful shadow fell And over us the Tower of London rose Like ebony; and, on the glittering reach Beyond it, I could see the small black cloud That carried the great old seaman slowly down Between the dark shores whence in happier years The throng had cheered his golden galleons out. And watched his proud sails filling for Cathay. There, as through lead, we dragged by Traitor's Gate, There, in the darkness, under the Bloody Tower, [210] RALEIGH There, on the very verge of victory, Ben gasped and dropped his oars. " Take one and row," he said, " my arms are numbed. We'll overtake him yet ! " I clambered past him, And took the bow oar. Once, as the pace flagged, Over his shoulder he turned his great scarred face And snarled, with a trickle of blood on his coarse lips, "Hard!"— And blood and fire ran through my veins again, For half a minute more. Yet we fell back. Our course was crooked now. And suddenly A grim black speck began to grow behind us, Grow like the threat of death upon old age. Then, thickening, blackening, sharpening, foaming, swept Up the bright line of bubbles in our wake. That armoured wherry, with its long twelve oars All well together nowl " Too late," gasped Ben, His ash-grey face uplifted to the moon, One quivering hand upon the thwart behind him, A moment. Then he bowed over his knees Coughing. " But we'll delay them. We'll be drunk, And hold the catch-polls up! " We drifted down Before them, broadside on. They sheered aside. Then, feigning a clumsy stroke, Ben drove our craft As they drew level, right in among their blades. There was a shout, an oath. They thrust us off; And then we swung our nose against their bows [211] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN And pulled them round with every well-meant stroke. A full half minute, ere they won quite free, Cursing us for a pair of drunken fools. We drifted down behind them. " There's no doubt," Said Ben, " the headsman waits behind all this For Raleigh. This is a play to cheat the soul Of England, teach the people to applaud The red fifth act." Without another word we drifted down For centuries it seemed, until we came To Greenwich. Then up the long white burnished reach there crept Like little sooty clouds the two black .boats To meet us. " He is in the trap," said Ben, " And does not know it yet. See, where he sits By Stukeley as by a friend." Long after this, We heard how Raleigh, simply as a child, Seeing the tide would never serve him now, And they must turn, had taken from his neck Some trinkets that he wore. " Keep them," he said To Stukeley, " in remembrance of this night." He had no doubts of Stukeley when he saw The wherry, close beside them. He but wrapped His cloak a little closer round his face. Our boat rocked in their wash when Stukeley dropped The mask. We saw him give the sign, and heard [212] RALEIGH His high-pitched quavering voice — " in the king's NAME ! " Raleigh rose to his feet. " I am under arrest ? " He said, like a dazed man. And Stukeley laughed. Then, as he bore himself to the grim end, All doubt being over, the old sea-king stood Among those glittering points, a king indeed. The black boats rocked. We heard his level voice, "Sir Lewis, these actions never will turn out To your good credit." Across the moonlit Thames It rang contemptuously, cold as cold steel. And passionless as the judgment that ends all. • •••■••• Some three months later, Raleigh's widow came To lodge a se'nnight at the Mermaid Inn. His house in Bread Street was no more her own, But in the hands of Stukeley, who had reaped A pretty harvest. . She kept close to her room, and that same night, Being ill and with some fever, sent her maid To fetch the apothecary from Friday Street, Old " Galen " as the Mermaid christened him. At that same moment, as the maid went out, Stukeley came in. He met her at the door ; And, chucking her under the chin, gave her a letter. "Take this up to your mistress. It concerns Her property," he said. " Say that I wait. And would be glad to speak with her." [213] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN The wench Looked perdy in his face, and tripped upstairs, I scarce could trust my hands. " Sir Lewis," I said, " This is no time to trouble her. She is ill." " Let her decide," he answered, with a sneer. Before I found another word to say The maid tripped down again. I scarce believed My senses, when she beckoned him up the stair. Shaking from head to foot, I blocked the way. " Property! " Could the crux of mine and thine Bring widow and murderer into one small room? "Sir Lewis," I said, "she is ill. It is not right! She never would consent." He sneered again, " You are her doctor ? Out of the way, old fool I She has decided ! " " Go," I said to the maid, " Fetch the apothecary. Let it rest With him!" She tossed her head. Her quick eyes glanced. Showing the white, like the eyes of a vicious mare. She laughed at Stukeley, loitered, then obeyed. And so we waited, till the wench returned. With Galen at her heels. His wholesome face, Russet and wrinkled like an apple, peered Shrewdly at Stukeley, twinkled once at me, And passed in silence, leaving a whiff of herbs Behind him on the stair. [214] RALEIGH Five minutes later To my amazement, that same wholesome face Leaned from the lighted door above, and called "Sir Lewis Stukeley!" Sir Judas hastened up. The apothecary followed him within. The door shut. I was left there in the dark Bewildered; for my heart was hot with thoughts Of those last months. Our Summer's Nightingale, Our Ocean-Shepherd from the Main-deep Sea, The Founder of our Mermaid Fellowship, Was this his guerdon — at the Mermaid Inn? Was this that maid-of-honour whose romance With Raleigh, once, had been a kingdom's talk? Could Bess Throckmorton slight his memory thus? " It is not right," I said, " it is not right. She wrongs him deeply." I leaned against the porch Staring into the night. A ghostly ray Above me, from her window, bridged the street, And rested on the goldsmith's painted sign Opposite. I could hear the muffled voice. Of Stukeley overhead, persuasive, bland; And then, her own, cooing, soft as a dove Calling her mate from Eden cedar-boughs, Flowed on and on ; and then — all my flesh crept At something worse than either, a long space Of silence that stretched threatening and cold. Cold as a dagger-point pricking the skin Over my heart. [215] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Then came a stifled cry, A crashing door, a footstep on the stair Blundering like a drunkard's, heavily down ; And with his gasping face one tragic mask Of horror, — may God help me to forget Some day the frozen awful eyes of one Who, fearing neither hell nor heaven, has met That ultimate weapon of the gods, the face And serpent-tresses that turn flesh to stone — Stukeley stumbled, groping his way out. Blindly, past me, into the sheltering night. It was the last night of another year Before I understood what punishment Had overtaken Stukeley. Ben, and Brome, — Ben's ancient servant, but turned poet now — Sat by the fire with the old apothecary To see the New Year in. The starry night Had drawn me to the door. Could it be true That our poor earth no longer was the hub Of those white wheeling orbs? I scarce believed The strange new dreams; but I had seen the veils Rent from vast oceans and huge continents, Till what was once our comfortable fire, \ Our cosy tavern, and our earthly home With heaven beyond the next turn in the road. All the resplendent fabric of our world Shrank to a glow-worm, lighting up one leaf In one small forest, in one little land, Among those wild infinitudes of God. [2l6] RALEIGH A tattered wastrel wandered down the street, Clad in a seaman's jersey, staring hard At every sign. Beneath our own, the light Fell on his red carbuncled face. I knew him — The bo'sun. Hart. He pointed to our sign And leered at me. " That's her," he said, " no doubt, The sea-witch with the shiny mackerel tail Swishing in wine. That's what Sir Lewis meant. He called it blood. Blood is his craze, you see. This is the Mermaid Tavern, sir, no doubt ? " I nodded. " Ah, I thought as much," he said. " Well — happen this is worth a cup of ale." He thrust his hand under his jersey and lugged A greasy letter out. It was inscribed The Apothecary at the Mermaid Tavern. I led him in. " I knew it, sir," he said, While Galen broke the seal. " Soon as I saw That sweet young naked wench curling her tail In those red waves. — The old man called it blood. Blood is his craze, you see. — But you can tell 'Tis wine, sir, by the foam. Malmsey, no doubt. And that sweet wench to make you smack your lips Like oysters, with her slippery tail and all ! Why, sir, no doubt, this was the Mermaid Inn." " But this," said Galen, lifting his grave face To Ben, " this letter is from all that's left Of Stukeley. The good host, there, thinks I wronged Your Ocean-shepherd's memory. From this letter, I think I helped to avenge him. Do not wrong [217] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN His widow, even in thought. She loved him dearly. You know she keeps his poor grey severed head Embalmed ; and so will keep it till she dies ; Weeps over it alone. I have heard such things In wild Italian tales. But this was true. Had I refused to let her speak with Stukeley I feared she would go mad. This letter proves That I — and she perhaps — were instruments, Of some more terrible chirurgery Than either knew." " Ah, when I saw your sign," The bo'sun interjected, " I'd no doubt That letter was well worth a cup of ale." " Go — paint your bows with hell-fire somewhere else Not at this inn," said Ben, tossing the rogue A good French crown. " Pickle yourself in hell." And Hart lurched out into the night again, Muttering " Thank you, sirs. 'Twas worth all that. No doubt at all." " There are some men," said Galen, Spreading the letter out on his plump knees, " Will heap up wrong on wrong; and, at the last. Wonder because the world will not forget Just when it suits them, cancel all they owe, And, like a mother, hold its arms out wide At their first cry. And, sirs, I do believe That Stukeley, on that night, had some such wish To reconcile himself. What else had passed Between the widow and himself I know not; But she had lured him on until he thought That words and smiles, perhaps a tear or two, [2l8] RALEIGH Might make the widow take the murderer's hand In friendship, since it might advantage both. Indeed, he came prepared for even more. Villains are always fools. A wicked act. What is it but a false move in the game, A blind man's blunder, a deaf man's reply. The wrong drug taken in the dead of night? I always pity villains. I mistook The avenger for the victim. There she lay Panting, that night, her eyes like summer stars. Her pale gold hair upon the pillows tossed Dishevelled, while the fever in her face Brought back the lost wild roses of her youth For half an hour. Against a breast as pure And smooth as any maid's, her soft arms pressed A bundle wrapped in a white embroidered cloth. She crooned over it as a mother croons Over her suckling child. I stood beside her. — That was her wish, and mine, while Stukeley stayed.- And, over against me, on the other side, Stood Stukeley, gnawing his nether lip to find She could not, or she would not, speak one word In answer to his letter. " Lady Raleigh, You wrong me, and you wrong yourself," he cried, " To play like a green girl when great affairs Are laid before you. Let me speak with you Alone." " But I am all alone," she said, " Far more alone than I have ever been [aig] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN In all my life before. This is my doctor. He must not leave me." Then she lured him on, Played on his brain as a musician plays Upon the lute. " Forgive me, dear Sir Lewis, If I am grown too gay for widowhood. But I have pondered for a long, long time On all these matters. I know the world was right; And Spain was right, Sir Lewis. Yes, and you, You too, were right; and my poor husband wrong. You see I knew his mind so very well. I knew his every gesture, every smile. I lived with him. I think I died with him. It is a strange thing, marriage. For my soul (As if myself were present in this flesh) Beside him, slept in his grey prison-cell On that last dreadful dawn. I heard the throng Murmuring round the scaffold far away; And, with the smell of saw-dust in my nostrils, I woke, bewildered as himself, to see That tall black-cassocked figure by his bed. I heard the words that made him understand: The Body of our Lord — take and eat this/ I rolled the small sour flakes beneath my tongue With him. I caught, with him, the gleam of tears. Far off, on some strange face of sickly dread. The Blood — and the cold cup was in my hand. Cold as an axe-heft washed with waterish red. I heard his last poor cry to wife and child. — Could any that heard forget it? — My true God, [220] RALEIGH Hold you both in His arms, both in His arms. And then — that last poor wish, a thing to raise A smile in some. I have smiled at it myself A thousand times. ' Give me my pipe,' he said, ' My old Winchester clay, with the long stem. And half an hour alone. The crowd can wait. They have not waited half so long as I.' And then, O then, I know what soft blue clouds, What wavering rings, fragrant ascending wreaths Melted his prison walls to a summer haze. Through which I think he saw the little port Of Budleigh Salterton, like a sea-bird's nest Among the Devon cliflEs — the tarry quay Whence in his boyhood he had flung a line For bass or whiting-pollock. I remembered (Had he not told me, on some summer night, His arm about my neck, kissing my hair) He used to sit there, gazing out to sea; Fish, and for what? Not all for what he caught And handled; but for rainbow-coloured things. The water-drops that jewelled his thin line, Flotsam and jetsam of the sunset-clouds; While the green water, gurgling through the piles, Heaving and sinking, helped him to believe The fast-bound quay a galleon plunging out Superbly for Cathay. There would he sit Listening, a radiant boy, child of the sea. Listening to some old seaman's glowing tales, His grey eyes rich with pictures -r- [221] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Then he saw, And I with him, that gathering in the West, To break the Fleet Invincible. O, I heard The trumpets and the neighings and the drums. I watched the beacons on a hundred hills. I drank that wine of battle from his cup, And gloried in it, lying against his heart. I sailed with him and saw the unknown worlds! The slender ivory towers of old Cathay Rose for us over lilac-coloured seas That crumbled a sky-blue foam on long shores Of shining sand, shores of so clear a glass They drew the sunset-clouds into their bosom And hung that City of Vision in mid-air Girdling it round, as with a moat of sky. Hopelessly beautiful. O, yet I heard, Heard from his blazoned poops the trumpeters Blowing proud calls, while overhead the flag Of England floated from white towers of sail — And yet, and yet, I knew that he was wrong. And soon he knew it, too. I saw the cloud Of doubt assail him, in the Bloody Tower, When, being withheld from sailing the high seas For sixteen years, he spread a prouder sail. Took up his pen, and, walled about with stone. Began to write — his History of the World. And emperors came like Lazarus from the grave To wear his purple. And the night disgorged Its empires, till, O, like the swirl of dust Around their marching legions, that dim cloud [222] RALEIGH Of doubt closed round him. Was there any man So sure of heart and brain as to record The simple truth of things himself had seen? Then who could plumb that night? The work broke off! He knew that he was wrong. I knew it, too! Once more that stately structure of his dreams Melted like mist. His eagles perished like clouds. Death wound a thin horn through the centuries. The grave resumed his forlorn emperors. His empires crumbled back to a little ash Eaiocked from his pipe.— He dropped his pen in homage to the truth. The truth? O, eloquent, just and mighty Death! Then, when he forged, out of one golden thought, A key to open his prison; when the king Released him for a tale of faerie gold Under the tropic palms; when those grey walls Melted before his passion; do you think The gold that lured the king was quite the same As that which Raleigh saw? You know the song: ' Say to the King,' quoth Raleigh, ' I have a tale to tell him ; Wealth beyond derision, Veils to lift from the sky. Seas to sail for England, And a little dream to sell him. Gold, the gold of a visipn That angels cannot buy.' Ah, no! For all the beauty and the pride, [223] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Raleigh was wrong; but not so wrong, I think. As those for whom his kingdoms oversea Meant only glittering dust. The fight he waged Was not with them. They never worsted him. It was The Destiny that brought him home Without the Spanish gold. — O, he was wrong, But such a wrong, in Gloriana's day. Was more than- right, was immortality. He had just half an hour to put all this Into his pipe and smoke it. — The red fire, The red heroic fire that filled his veins When the proud flag of England floated out Its challenge to the world — all gone to ash ? What! Was the great red wine that Drake had quafifed Vinegar? He must fawn, haul down his flag. And count all nations nobler than his own, Tear out the lions from the painted shields That hung his poop, for fear that he offend The pride of Spain? Treason to sack the ships Of Spain? The wounds of slaughtered Englishmen Cried out — there is no law beyond the line! Treason to sweep the seas with Francis Drake? Treason to fight for England? If it were so, The times had changed and quickly. He had been A school-boy in the morning of the world Playing with wooden swords and winning crowns Of tinsel; but his comrades had out-grown Their morning-game, and gathered round to mock His battles in the sunset. Yet he knew [224] RALEIGH That all his life had passed in that brief day; And he was old, too old to understand The smile upon the face of Buckingham, The smile on Cobham's face, at that great word England! He knew the solid earth was changed To something less than dust among the stars — And, O, be sure he knew that he was wrong. That gleams would come,, Gleams of a happier world for younger men, That Commonwealth, far off. This was a time Of sadder things, destruction of the old Before the new was born. At least he knew It was his own way that had brought the world Thus far, England thus far! How could he change, Who had loved England as a man might love His mistress, change from year to fickle year? For the new years would change, even as the old. No — he was wedded to that old first love. Crude flesh and blood, and coarse as meat and drink. The woman — England; no fine angel-isle, Ruled by that male Salome — Buckingham! Better the axe than to live on and wage These new and silent and more deadly wars That play at friendship with our enemies. Such times are evil. Not of their own desire They lead to good, blind agents of that Hand Which now had hewed him down, down to his knees. But in a prouder battle than men knew. His pipe was out, the guard was at the door. [225] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Raleigh was not a god. But, when he climbed The scaffold, I believe he looked a man. And when the axe fell, I believe that God Set on his shoulders that immortal head Which he desired on earth. O, he was wrong! But when that axe fell, not one shout was raised. That mighty throng around that crimson block Stood silent — like the hushed black cloud that holds The thunder. You might hear the headsman's breath. Stillness like that is dangerous, being charged, Sometimes, with thought. Sir Lewis! England sleeps! What if, one day, the Stewart should be called To know that England wakes? What if a shout Should thunder-strike Whitehall, and the dogs lift Their heads along the fringes of the crowd To catch a certain savour that I know. The smell of blood and saw-dust? — Ah, Sir Lewis, 'Tis hard to find one little seed of right Among so many wrongs. Raleigh was wrong, And yet — it was because he loved his country Next to himself. Sir Lewis, by your leave. His country butchered him. You did not know That I was only third in his affections? The night I told him — we were parting then — I had begged the last disposal of his body, Did he not say, with O, so gentle a smile, ' Thou hadst not always the disposal of it In life, dear Bess. 'Tis well it should be thine In death!' " [226] RALEIGH " The jest was bitter at such an hour, And somewhat coarse in grain," Stukeley replied. " Indeed I thought him kinder." " Kinder," she said, Laughing bitterly. Stukeley looked at her. She whispered something, and his lewd old eyes Fastened upon her own. He knelt by her. " Perhaps," he said, " your woman's wit has found A better way to solve this bitter business." Her head moved on the pillow with little tossings. He touched her hand. It leapt quickly away. She hugged that strange white bundle to her breast. And vn:ithed back, smiling at him, across the bed. " Ah, Bess," he whispered huskily, pressing his lips To that warm hollow where her head had lain, " There is one way to close the long dispute, Keep the estates unbroken in your hands And stop all slanderous tongues, one happy way. We have some years to live; and why alone? " " Alone ? " she sighed. " My husband thought of that. He wrote a letter to me, long ago. When he was first condemned. He said — he said — Now let me think — what was it that he said? — I had it all by heart. Beseech you, Bess, Hide not yourself for many days, he said." " True wisdom that," quoth Stukeley, " for the love That seeks to chain the living to the dead Is but self-love at best ! " [227] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN " And yet,'' she said, " How his poor heart was torn between two cares, Love of himself and care for me, as thus : Love God! Begin to repose yourself on Him! Therein you shall find true and lasting riches; But all the rest is nothing. When you have tired Your thoughts on earthly things, when you have travelled Through all the glittering pomps of this preud world You shall sit down by Sorrow in the end. Begin betimes, and teach your little son To serve and fear God also. Then God will be a husband unto you. And unto him a father: nor can Death Bereave you any more. When I am gone. No doubt you shall be sought unto by many For the world thinks that I was very rich. No greater misery can befall you, Bess, Than to become a prey, and, afterwards. To he despised." " Human enough," said Stukeley, " And yet — self-love, self-love! " " Ah no," quoth she, " You have not heard the end : God knows, I speak it Not to dissuade you — not to dissuade you, mark — From marriage. That will be the best for you. Both in respect of God and of the world. Was that self-love, Sir Lewis? Ah, not all. And thus he ended: For his father's sake That chose and loved you in his happiest times. Remember your poor child! The Everlasting, Infinite, powerful, and inscrutable God, [228] RALEIGH Keep you and yours, have mercy upon me. And teach me to forgive my false accusers — Wrong, even in death, you see. Then — My true wife. Farewell! Bless my poor boy! Fray for me! My true God, Hold you both in His arms, both in His arms! I know that he was wrong. You did not know, Sir Lewis, that he had left me a little child. Come closer. You shall see its orphaned face. The sad, sad relict of a man that loved His country — all that's left to me. Come, look! " She beckoned Stukeley nearer. He bent down Curiously. Her feverish fingers drew The white wrap from the bundle in her arms, And, with a smile that would make angels weep. She showed him, pressed against her naked breast. Terrible as Medusa, the grey flesh And shrivelled face, embalmed, the thing that dropped Into the headsman's basket, months agone, — The head of Raleigh. Half her body lay Bare, while she held that grey babe to her heart; But Judas hid his face. . . . " Living," she said, " he was not always mine ; But — dead — I shall not wean him " — Then, I too Covered my face — I cannot tell you more. There was a dreadful silence in that room. Silence that, as I know, shattered the brain Of Stukeley. — When I dared to raise my head Beneath that silent thunder of our God, [229] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN The man had gone — This is his letter, sirs, Written from Lundy Island: For God's love. Tell them it is a cruel thing to say That I drink blood. I have no secret sin. A thousand pound is not so great a sum; And that is all they paid mCj every penny. Salt water, that is all the drink I taste On this rough island. Somebody has taught The sea-gulls how to wail around my hut All night, like lost souls. And there is a face, A dead man's face that laughs in every storm. And sleeps in every pool along the coast. I thought it was my own, once. But I know These actions never, never, on God's earth. Will turn out to their credit, who believe That I drink blood. He crumpled up the letter And tossed it into the fire. "Galen," said Ben, " I think you are right — that one should pity villains." The clock struck twelve. The bells began to peal, • We drank a cup of sack to the New Year. " New songs, new voices, all as fresh as may," Said Ben to Brome, " but I shall never live To hear them." All was not so well, indeed, With Ben, as hitherto. Age had come upon him. He dragged one foot as in paralysis. The critics bayed against the old lion, now, [230] RALEIGH And called him arrogant. " My brain," he said, " Is yet unhurt although, set round with pain. It cannot long hold out." He never stooped, Never once pandered to that brainless hour. His coat was thread-bare. Weeks had passed of late Without his voice resounding in our inn. " The statues are defiled, the gods dethroned, The Ionian movement reigns, not the free soul. And, as for me, I have lived too long," he said. " Well — I can weave the old threnodies anew." And, jfilling his cup, he murmured, soft and low, A new song, breaking on an ancient shore; Marlowe is dead, and Greene is in his grave. And sweet Will Shakespeare long ago is gone! Our Ocean-shepherd sleeps beneath the wave ; Robin is dead, and Marlowe in his grave. Why should I stay to chant an idle stave. And in my Mermaid Tavern drink alone? For Kit is dead and Greene is in his grave. And sweet Will Shakespeare long ago is gone. n Where is the singer of the Faerie Queen? Where are the lyric lips of Astrophel? Long, long ago, their quiet graves were green; Ay, and the grave, too, of their Faerie Queen! And yet their faces, hovering here unseen, [231] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Call me to taste their new-found cenomel; To sup with him who sang the Faerie Queen; To drink with him whose name was Astrophel. Ill I drink to that great Inn beyond the grave! — If there be none, the gods have done us wrong. — Ere long I hope to chant a better stave, In some great Mermaid Inn beyond the grave; And quafif the best of earth that heaven can save, Red wine like blood, deep love of friends and song. I drink to that great Inn beyond the grave; And hope to greet my golden lads ere long. He raised his cup and drank in silence. Brome Drank with him, too. The bells had ceased to peal. Galen shook hands, and bade us all good night. Then Brome, a little wistfully, I thought. Looked at his old-time master, and prepared To follow. " Good night — Ben," he said, a pause Before he spoke the name. " Good night ! Good night ! My dear old Brome," said Ben. And, at the door, Brome whispered to me, " He is lonely now. There are not many left of his old friends. We all go out — like this — into the night. But what a fleet of stars ! " he said, and shook My hand, and smiled, and pointed to the sky. [232] RALEIGH And, when I looked into the room again, The lights were very dim, and I believed That' Ben had fallen asleep. His great grey head Was boM^ed across the table, on his arms. Then, all at once, I knew that he was weeping; And like a shadow I crept back again. And stole into the night. There as I stood Under the painted sign, I could have vowed That I, too, heard the voices of the dead. The voices of his old companions. Gathering round him in that lonely room. Till all the timbers of the Mermaid Inn Trembled above me with their ghostly song! Say to the King, quoth Raleigh I have a tale to tell him. Wealth beyond derision, Veils to lift from the sky, Seas to sail for England And a little dream to sell him, — Gold, the gold of a vision, That angels cannot buy. 11 Fair thro' the walls of his dungeon, — What were the stones but a shadow?- Streamed the light of the rapture. The lure that he followed of old, [233] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN The dream of his old companions, The vision of El Dorado, The fleet that they never could capture, The City of Sunset-gold. Ill Yet did they sail the seas And, dazed writh exceeding wonder, Straight through the sunset-glory Plunge into the dawn: Leaving their home behind them, By a road of splendour and thunder, They came to their home in amazement Simply by sailing on. THE END [234] ■iii