FLOS MERCATORUM

FLOS MERCATORUM! On that night of nights

We drew from out our Mermaid cellarage

All the old glory of London in one cask

Of magic vintage. Never a city on earth —

Rome, Paris, Florence, Bagdad — held for Ben

The colours of old London; and, that night,

We staved them like a wine, and drank, drank deep!

‘ Twas Master Heywood, whom the Mermaid Inn

Had dubbed our London laureate, hauled the cask

Out of its ancient harbourage. “Ben,” he cried,

Bustling into the room with Dekker and Brome,

“The prentices are up!” Ben raised his head

Out of the chimney-corner where he drowsed,

And listened, reaching slowly for his pipe.

“Clerk of the Bow Bell,” all along the Cheape

There came a shout that swelled into a roar.

“What! Will they storm the Mermaid?” Heywood laughed,

“They are turning into Bread Street!”

Down they came!

We heard them hooting round the poor old Clerk —

“Clubs! Clubs! The rogue would have us work all night!

He rang ten minutes late! Fifteen, by Paul's!”

And over the hubbub rose, like a thin bell,

The Clerk's entreaty — “Now, good boys, good boys,

Children of Cheape, be still, I do beseech you!

I took some forty winks, but then....” A roar

Of wrathful laughter drowned him — “Forty winks!

Remember Black May-day! We'll make you wink!”

There was a scuffle, and into the tavern rushed

Gregory Clopton, Clerk of the Bow Bell,—

A tall thin man, with yellow hair a-stream,

And blazing eyes.

“Hide me,” he clamoured, “quick!

These picaroons will murder me!”

I closed

The thick oak doors against the coloured storm

Of prentices in red and green and ray,

Saffron and Reading tawny. Twenty clubs

Drubbed on the panels as I barred them out;

And even our walls and shutters could not drown

Their song that, like a mocking peal of bells,

Under our windows, made all Bread Street ring:—

“Clerk of the Bow Bell,

With the yellow locks,

For thy late ringing

Thy head shall have knocks!”

Then Heywood, seeing the Clerk was all a-quake,

Went to an upper casement that o'er-looked

The whole of Bread Street. Heywood knew their ways,

And parleyed with them till their anger turned

To shouts of merriment. Then, like one deep bell

His voice rang out, in answer to their peal:—

“Children of Cheape,

Hold you all still!

You shall have Bow Bell

Rung at your will!”

Loudly they cheered him. Courteously he bowed,

Then firmly shut the window; and, ere I filled

His cup with sack again, the crowd had gone.

“My clochard, sirs, is warm,” quavered the Clerk.

“I do confess I took some forty winks!

They are good lads, our prentices of Cheape,

But hasty!”

“Wine!” said Ben. He filled a cup

And thrust it into Gregory's trembling hands.

“Yours is a task,” said Dekker, “a great task!

You sit among the gods, a lord of time,

Measuring out the pulse of London's heart.”

“Yea, sir, above the hours and days and years,

I sometimes think.‘ Tis a great Bell — the Bow!

And hath been, since the days of Whittington.”

“The good old days,” growled Ben. “Both good and bad

Were measured by my Bell,” the Clerk replied.

And, while he spoke, warmed by the wine, his voice

Mellowed and floated up and down the scale

As if the music of the London bells

Lingered upon his tongue. “I know them all,

And love them, all the voices of the bells.

FLOS MERCATORUM! That's the Bell of Bow

Remembering Richard Whittington. You should hear

The bells of London when they tell his tale.

Once, after hearing them, I wrote it down.

I know the tale by heart now, every turn.”

“Then ring it out,” said Heywood.

Gregory smiled

And cleared his throat.

“You must imagine, sirs,

The Clerk, sitting on high, among the clouds,

With London spread beneath him like a map.

Under his tower, a flock of prentices

Calling like bells, of little size or weight,

But bells no less, ask that the Bell of Bow

Shall tell the tale of Richard Whittington,

As thus.”

Then Gregory Clopton, mellowing all

The chiming vowels, and dwelling on every tone

In rhythm or rhyme that helped to swell the peal

Or keep the ringing measure, beat for beat,

Chanted this legend of the London bells:—

Clerk of the Bow Bell, four and twenty prentices,

All upon a Hallowe'en, we prithee, for our joy,

Ring a little turn again for sweet Dick Whittington,

Flos Mercatorum, and a barefoot boy!—

“Children of Cheape,” did that old Clerk answer,

“You will have a peal, then, for well may you know,

All the bells of London remember Richard Whittington

When they hear the voice of the big Bell of Bow!” —

Clerk with the yellow locks, mellow be thy malmsey!

He was once a prentice, and carolled in the Strand!

Ay, and we are all, too, Marchaunt Adventurers,

Prentices of London, and lords of Engeland.

“Children of Cheape,” did that old Clerk answer,

“Hold you, ah hold you, ah hold you all still!

Souling if you come to the glory of a Prentice,

You shall have the Bow Bell rung at your will!”

“Whittington! Whittington! O, turn again, Whittington,

Lord Mayor of London,” the big Bell began:

“Where was he born? O, at Pauntley in Gloucestershire

Hard by Cold Ashton, Cold Ashton,” it ran.

“Flos Mercatorum,” moaned the bell of All Hallowes,

“There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone!”

“Then we all sang,” echoed happy St. Saviour's,

“Called him, and lured him, and made him our own.

Told him a tale as he lay upon the hillside,

Looking on his home in the meadow-lands below!”

“Told him a tale,” clanged the bell of Cold Abbey;

“Told him the truth,” boomed the big Bell of Bow!

Sang of a City that was like a blazoned missal-book,

Black with oaken gables, carven and inscrolled;

Every street a coloured page, and every sign a hieroglyph,

Dusky with enchantments, a City paved with gold;

“Younger son, younger son, up with stick and bundle!” —

Even so we rung for him — “But — kneel before you go;

Watch by your shield, lad, in little Pauntley Chancel,

Look upon the painted panes that hold your Arms a-glow,—

Coat of Gules and Azure; but the proud will not remember it!

And the Crest a Lion's Head, until the new be won!

Far away, remember it! And O, remember this, too,—

Every barefoot boy on earth is but a younger son.”

Proudly he answered us, beneath the painted window,—

“Though I be a younger son, the glory falls to me:

While my brother bideth by a little land in Gloucestershire,

All the open Earth is mine, and all the Ocean-sea.

Yet will I remember, yet will I remember,

By the chivalry of God, until my day be done,

When I meet a gentle heart, lonely and unshielded,

Every barefoot boy on earth is but a younger son!”

Then he looked to Northward for the tall ships of Bristol;

Far away, and cold as death, he saw the Severn shine:

Then he looked to Eastward, and he saw a string of colours

Trickling through the grey hills, like elfin drops of wine;

Down along the Mendip dale, the chapmen and their horses,

Far away, and carrying each its little coloured load,

Winding like a fairy-tale, with pack and corded bundle,

Trickled like a crimson thread along the silver road.

Quick he ran to meet them, stick and bundle on his shoulder!

Over by Cold Ashton, he met them trampling down,—

White shaggy horses with their packs of purple spicery,

Crimson kegs of malmsey, and the silks of London town.

When the chapmen asked of him the bridle-path to Dorset,

Blithely he showed them, and he led them on their way,

Led them through the fern with their bales of breathing Araby,

Led them to a bridle-path that saved them half a day.

Merrily shook the silver bells that hung the broidered bridle-rein,

Chiming to his hand, as he led them through the fern,

Down to deep Dorset, and the wooded Isle of Purbeck,

Then — by little Kimmeridge — they led him turn for turn.

Down by little Kimmeridge, and up by Hampshire forest-roads,

Round by Sussex violets, and apple-bloom of Kent,

Singing songs of London, telling tales of London,

All the way to London, with packs of wool they went.

“London was London, then! A clean, clear moat

Girdled her walls that measured, round about,

Three miles or less. She is big and dirty now,”

Said Dekker.

“Call it a silver moat,” growled Ben,

“That's the new poetry! Call it crystal, lad!

But, till you kiss the Beast, you'll never find

Your Fairy Prince. Why, all those crowded streets,

Flung all their filth, their refuse, rags and bones,

Dead cats and dogs, into your clean clear moat,

And made it sluggish as old Acheron.

Fevers and plagues, death in a thousand shapes

Crawled out of it. London was dirty, lad;

And till you kiss that fact, you'll never see

The glory of this old Jerusalem!”

“Ay,‘ tis the fogs that make the sunset red,”

Answered Tom Heywood. “London is earthy, coarse,

Grimy and grand. You must make dirt the ground,

Or lose the colours of friend Clopton's tale.

Ring on!” And, nothing loth, the Clerk resumed:—

Bravely swelled his heart to see the moat of London glittering

Round her mighty wall — they told him — two miles long!

Then — he gasped as, echoing in by grim black Aldgate,

Suddenly their shaggy nags were nodding through a throng:

Prentices in red and ray, marchaunts in their saffron,

Aldermen in violets, and minstrels in white,

Clerks in homely hoods of budge, and wives with crimson wimples,

Thronging as to welcome him that happy summer night.

“Back,” they cried, and “Clear the way,” and caught the ringing bridle-reins:

“Wait! the Watch is going by, this vigil of St. John!”

Merrily laughed the chapmen then, reining their great white horses back,

“When the pageant passes, lad, we'll up and follow on!”

There, as thick the crowd surged, beneath the blossomed ale-poles,

Lifting up to Whittington a fair face afraid,

Swept against his horse by a billow of madcap prentices,

Hard against the stirrup breathed a green-gowned maid.

Swift he drew her up and up, and throned her there before him,

High above the throng with her laughing April eyes,

Like a Queen of Faërie on the great pack-saddle.

“Hey!” laughed the chapmen, “the prentice wins the prize!”

“Whittington! Whittington! the world is all before you!”

Blithely rang the bells and the steeples rocked and reeled!

Then — he saw her eyes grow wide, and, all along by Leaden Hall,

Drums rolled, earth shook, and shattering trumpets pealed.

Like a marching sunset, there, from Leaden Hall to Aldgate,

Flared the crimson cressets — O, her brows were haloed then!—

Then the stirring steeds went by with all their mounted trumpeters,

Then, in ringing harness, a thousand marching men.

Marching — marching — his heart and all the halberdiers,

And his pulses throbbing with the throbbing of the drums;

Marching — marching — his blood and all the burganets!

“Look,” she cried, “O, look,” she cried, “and now the morrice comes!”

Dancing — dancing — her eyes and all the Lincoln Green,

Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, dancing through the town!

“Where is Marian?” Laughingly she turned to Richard Whittington.

“Here,” he said, and pointed to her own green gown.

Dancing — dancing — her heart and all the morrice-bells!

Then there burst a mighty shout from thrice a thousand throats!

Then, with all their bows bent, and sheaves of peacock arrows,

Marched the tall archers in their white silk coats,

White silk coats, with the crest of London City

Crimson on the shoulder, a sign for all to read,—

Marching — marching — and then the sworded henchmen,

Then, William Walworth, on his great stirring steed.

Flos Mercatorum, ay, the fish-monger, Walworth,—

He whose nets of silk drew the silver from the tide,

He who saved the king when the king was but a prentice,—

Lord Mayor of London, with his sword at his side!

Burned with magic changes, his blood and all the pageantry;

Burned with deep sea-changes, the wonder in her eyes;

Flos Mercatorum!‘ Twas the rose-mary of Paphos,

Reddening all the City for the prentice and his prize!

All the book of London, the pages of adventure,

Passed before the prentice on that vigil of St. John:

Then the chapmen shook their reins,— “We'll ride behind the revelry,

Round again to Cornhill! Up, and follow on!”

Riding on his pack-horse, above the shouting multitude,

There she turned and smiled at him, and thanked him for his grace:

“Let me down by Red Rose Lane,” and, like a wave of twilight

While she spoke, her shadowy hair — touched his tingling face.

When they came to Red Rose Lane, beneath the blossomed ale-poles,

Light along his arm she lay, a moment, leaping down:

Then she waved “farewell” to him, and down the Lane he watched her

Flitting through the darkness in her gay green gown.

All along the Cheape, as he rode among the chapmen,

Round by Black Friars, to the Two-Necked Swan

Coloured like the sunset, prentices and maidens

Danced for red roses on the vigil of St. John.

Over them were jewelled lamps in great black galleries,

Garlanded with beauty, and burning all the night;

All the doors were shadowy with orpin and St. John's wort,

Long fennel, green birch, and lilies of delight.

“He should have slept here at the Mermaid Inn,”

Said Heywood as the chanter paused for breath.

“What? Has our Mermaid sung so long?” cried Ben.

“Her beams are black enough. There was an Inn,”

Said Tom, “that bore the name; and through its heart

There flowed the right old purple. I like to think

It was the same, where Lydgate took his ease

After his hood was stolen; and Gower, perchance;

And, though he loved the Tabard for a-while,

I like to think the Father of us all,

The old Adam of English minstrelsy caroused

Here in the Mermaid Tavern. I like to think

Jolly Dan Chaucer, with his kind shrewd face

Fresh as an apple above his fur-fringed gown,

One plump hand sporting with his golden chain,

Looked out from that old casement over the sign,

And saw the pageant, and the shaggy nags,

With Whittington, and his green-gowned maid, go by.

“O, very like,” said Clopton, “for the bells

Left not a head indoors that night.” He drank

A draught of malmsey — and thus renewed his tale:—

“Flos Mercatorum,” mourned the bell of All Hallowes,

“There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone,

Rubbing down the great white horses for a supper!”

“True,” boomed the Bow Bell, “his hands were his own!”

Where did he sleep? On a plump white wool-pack,

Open to the moon on that vigil of St. John,

Sheltered from the dew, where the black-timbered gallery

Frowned above the yard of the Two-Necked Swan.

Early in the morning, clanged the bell of St. Martin's,

Early in the morning, with a groat in his hand,

Mournfully he parted with the jolly-hearted chapmen,

Shouldered his bundle and walked into the Strand;

Walked into the Strand, and back again to West Cheape,

Staring at the wizardry of every painted sign,

Dazed with the steeples and the rich heraldic cornices

Drinking in the colours of the Cheape like wine.

All about the booths now, the parti-coloured prentices

Fluted like a flock of birds along a summer lane,

Green linnets, red caps, and gay gold finches,—

What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again?

“Buy my dainty doublets, cut on double taffetas,

Buy my Paris thread,” they cried, and caught him by the hand,

“Laces for your Heart's-Delight, and lawns to make her love you,

Cambric for her wimple, O, the finest in the land.”

Ah, but he was hungry, foot-sore, weary,

Knocking at the doors of the armourers that day!

What d'ye lack? they asked of him; but no man lacked a prentice:

When he told them what he lacked, they frowned and turned away.

Hard was his bed that night, beneath a cruel archway,

Down among the hulks, with his heart growing cold!

London is a rare town, but O, the streets of London,

Red though their flints be, they are not red with gold.

Pale in the dawn, ere he marched on his adventure,

Starving for a crust, did he kneel a-while again,

Then, upon the fourth night, he cried, O, like a wounded bird

“Let me die, if die I must, in Red Rose Lane.”

Like a little wounded bird he trailed through the darkness,

Laid him on a door-step, and then — O, like a breath

Pitifully blowing out his life's little rushlight,

Came a gush of blackness, a swoon deep as death.

Then he heard a rough voice! Then he saw a lanthorn!

Then he saw a bearded face, and blindly wondered whose:

Then — a marchaunt's portly legs, with great Rose-Windows,

Bigger than St. Paul's, he thought, embroidered on his shoes.

“Alice!” roared the voice, and then, O like a lilied angel,

Leaning from the lighted door a fair face afraid,

Leaning over Red Rose Lane, O, leaning out of Paradise,

Drooped the sudden glory of his green-gowned maid!

“O, mellow be thy malmsey,” grunted Ben,

Filling the Clerk another cup.

“The peal,”

Quoth Clopton, “is not ended; but the pause

In ringing, chimes to a deep inward ear

And tells its own deep tale. Silence and sound,

Darkness and light, mourning and mirth,— no tale,

No painting, and no music, nay, no world,

If God should cut their fruitful marriage-knot.

A shallow sort to-day would fain deny

A hell, sirs, to this boundless universe.

To such I say‘ no hell, no Paradise!’

Others would fain deny the topless towers

Of heaven, and make this earth a hell indeed.

To such I say,‘ the unplumbed gulfs of grief

Are only theirs for whom the blissful chimes

Ring from those unseen heights.’ This earth, mid-way,

Hangs like a belfry where the ringers grasp

Their ropes in darkness, each in his own place,

Each knowing, by the tune in his own heart,

Never by sight, when he must toss through heaven

The tone of his own bell. Those bounded souls

Have never heard our chimes! Why, sirs, myself

Simply by running up and down the scale

Descend to hell or soar to heaven. My bells

Height above height, deep below deep, respond!

Their scale is infinite. Dare I, for one breath,

Dream that one note hath crowned and ended all,

Sudden I hear, far, far above those clouds,

Like laughing angels, peal on golden peal,

Innumerable as drops of April rain,

Yet every note distinct, round as a pearl,

And perfect in its place, a chime of law,

Whose pure and boundless mere arithmetic

Climbs with my soul to God.”

Ben looked at him,

Gently. “Resume, old moralist,” he said.

“On to thy marriage-bells!”

“The fairy-tales

Are wiser than they know, sirs. All our woes

Lead on to those celestial marriage-bells.

The world's a-wooing; and the pure City of God

Peals for the wedding of our joy and pain!

This was well seen of Richard Whittington;

For only he that finds the London streets

Paved with red flints, at last shall find them paved

Like to the Perfect City, with pure gold.

Ye know the world! what was a London waif

To Hugh Fitzwarren's daughter? He was fed

And harboured; and the cook declared she lacked

A scullion. So, in Hugh Fitzwarren's house,

He turned the jack, and scoured the dripping-pan.

How could he hope for more?

This marchaunt's house

Was builded like a great high-gabled inn,

Square, with a galleried courtyard, such as now

The players use. Its rooms were rich and dim

With deep-set coloured panes and massy beams.

Its ancient eaves jutted o'er Red Rose Lane

Darkly, like eyebrows of a mage asleep.

Its oaken stair coiled upward through a dusk

Heavy with fume of scented woods that burned

To keep the Plague away,— a gloom to embalm

A Pharaoh, but to dull the cheek and eye

Of country lads like Whittington.

He pined

For wind and sunlight. Yet he plied his task

Patient as in old tales of Elfin-land,

The young knight would unhelm his golden locks

And play the scullion, so that he might watch

His lady's eyes unknown, and oftener hear

Her brook-like laughter rippling overhead;

Her green gown, like the breath of Eden boughs,

Rustling nigh him. And all day long he found

Sunshine enough in this. But when at night

He crept into the low dark vaulted den,

The cobwebbed cellar, where the cook had strewn

The scullion's bed of straw ( and none too thick

Lest he should sleep too long ), he choked for breath;

And, like an old man hoarding up his life,

Fostered his glimmering rushlight as he sate

Bolt upright, while a horrible scurry heaved

His rustling bed, and bright black-beaded eyes

Peered at him from the crannies of the wall.

Then darkness whelmed him, and perchance he slept,—

Only to fight with nightmares and to fly

Down endless tunnels in a ghastly dream,

Hunted by horrible human souls that took

The shape of monstrous rats, great chattering snouts,

Vile shapes of shadowy cunning and grey greed,

That gnaw through beams, and undermine tall towns,

And carry the seeds of plague and ruin and death

Under the careless homes of sleeping men.

Thus, in the darkness, did he wage a war

With all the powers of darkness.‘ If the light

Do break upon me, by the grace of God,’

So did he vow,‘ O, then will I remember,

Then, then, will I remember, ay, and help

To build that lovelier City which is paved

For rich and poor alike, with purest gold.’

Ah, sirs, he kept his vow. Ye will not smile

If, at the first, the best that he could do

Was with his first poor penny-piece to buy

A cat, and bring her home, under his coat

By stealth ( or else that termagant, the cook,

Had drowned it in the water-butt, nor deemed

The water worse to drink ). So did he quell

First his own plague, but bettered others, too.

Now, in those days, Marchaunt Adventurers

Shared with their prentices the happy chance

Of each new venture. Each might have his stake,

Little or great, upon the glowing tides

Of high romance that washed the wharfs of Thames;

And every lad in London had his groat

Or splendid shilling on some fair ship at sea.

So, on an April eve, Fitzwarren called

His prentices together; for, ere long,

The Unicorn, his tall new ship, must sail

Beyond the world to gather gorgeous webs

From Eastern looms, great miracles of silk

Dipt in the dawn by wizard hands of Ind;

Or, if they chanced upon that fabled coast

Where Sydon, river of jewels, like a snake

Slides down the gorge its coils of crimson fire,

Perchance a richer cargo,— rubies, pearls,

Or gold bars from the Gates of Paradise.

And many a moon, at least, a faërie foam

Would lap Blackfriars wharf, where London lads

Gazed in the sunset down that misty reach

For old black battered hulks and tattered sails

Bringing their dreams home from the uncharted sea.

And one flung down a groat — he had no more.

One staked a shilling, one a good French crown;

And one an angel, O, light-winged enough

To reach Cathay; and not a lad but bought

His pennyworth of wonder,

So they thought,

Till all at once Fitzwarren's daughter cried

‘ Father, you have forgot poor Whittington!’

“Snails,’ laughed the rosy marchaunt,‘ but that's true!

Fetch Whittington! The lad must stake his groat!

‘ Twill bring us luck!’

‘ Whittington! Whittington!’

Down the dark stair, like a gold-headed bird,

Fluttered sweet Alice.‘ Whittington! Richard! Quick!

Quick with your groat now for the Unicorn!’

‘ A groat!’ cried Whittington, standing there aghast,

With brown bare arms, still coloured by the sun,

Among his pots and pans.‘ Where should I find

A groat? I staked my last groat in a cat!’

—‘ What! Have you nothing? Nothing but a cat?

Then stake the cat,’ she said; and the quick fire

That in a woman's mind out-runs the thought

Of man, lit her grey eyes.

Whittington laughed

And opened the cellar-door. Out sailed his wealth,

Waving its tail, purring, and rubbing its head

Now on his boots, now on the dainty shoe

Of Alice, who straightway, deaf to his laughing prayers,

Caught up the cat, whispered it, hugged it close,

Against its grey fur leaned her glowing cheek,

And carried it off in triumph.

Red Rose Lane

Echoed with laughter as, with amber eyes

Blinking, the grey cat in a seaman's arms

Went to the wharf.‘ Ay, but we need a cat,’

The captain said. So, when the painted ship

Sailed through a golden sunrise down the Thames,

A grey tail waved upon the misty poop,

And Whittington had his venture on the seas.

It was a nine days’ jest, and soon forgot.

But, all that year,— ah, sirs, ye know the world,

For all the foolish boasting of the proud,

Looks not beneath the coat of Taunton serge

For Gules and Azure. A prince that comes in rags

To clean your shoes and, out of his own pride,

Waits for the world to paint his shield again

Must wait for ever and a day.

The world

Is a great hypocrite, hypocrite most of all

When thus it boasts its purple pride of race,

Then with eyes blind to all but pride of place

Tramples the scullion's heraldry underfoot,

Nay, never sees it, never dreams of it,

Content to know that, here and now, his coat

Is greasy....

So did Whittington find at last

Such nearness was most distant; that to see her,

Talk with her, serve her thus, was but to lose

True sight, true hearing. He must save his life

By losing it; forsake, to win, his love;

Go out into the world to bring her home.

It was but labour lost to clean the shoes,

And turn the jack, and scour the dripping-pan.

For every scolding blown about her ears

The cook's great ladle fell upon the head

Of Whittington; who, beneath her rule, became

The scullery's general scapegoat. It was he

That burned the pie-crust, drank the hippocras,

Dinted the silver beaker....

Many a month

He chafed, till his resolve took sudden shape

And, out of the dark house at the peep of day,

Shouldering bundle and stick again, he stole

To seek his freedom, and to shake the dust

Of London from his shoes....

You know the stone

On Highgate, where he sate awhile to rest,

With aching heart, and thought‘ I shall not see

Her face again.’ There, as the coloured dawn

Over the sleeping City slowly bloomed,

A small black battered ship with tattered sails

Blurring the burnished glamour of the Thames

Crept, side-long to a wharf.

Then, all at once,

The London bells rang out a welcome home;

And, over them all, tossing the tenor on high,

The Bell of Bow, a sun among the stars,

Flooded the morning air with this refrain:—

‘ Turn again, Whittington! Turn again, Whittington!

Flos Mercatorum, thy ship hath come home!

Trailing from her cross-trees the crimson of the sunrise,

Dragging all the glory of the sunset thro’ the foam.

Turn again, Whittington,

Turn again, Whittington,

Lord Mayor of London!

Turn again, Whittington! When thy hope was darkest,

Far beyond the sky-line a ship sailed for thee.

Flos Mercatorum, O, when thy faith was blindest,

Even then thy sails were set beyond the Ocean-sea.’

So he heard and heeded us, and turned again to London,

Stick and bundle on his back, he turned to Red Rose Lane,

Hardly hearing as he went the chatter of the prentices,—

What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again?

Back into the scullery, before the cook had missed him,

Early in the morning his labours he began:

Once again to clean the shoes and clatter with the water-pail,

Once again to scrub the jack and scour the dripping-pan.

All the bells of London were pealing as he laboured.

Wildly beat his heart, and his blood began to race.

Then — there came a light step and, suddenly, beside him

Stood his lady Alice, with a light upon her face.

‘ Quick,’ she said,‘ O, quick,’ she said,‘ they want you,

Richard Whittington!’

‘ Quick,’ she said; and, while she spoke, her lighted eyes betrayed

All that she had hidden long, and all she still would hide from him.

So — he turned and followed her, his green-gowned maid.

There, in a broad dark oaken-panelled room

Rich with black carvings and great gleaming cups

Of silver, sirs, and massy halpace built

Half over Red Rose Lane, Fitzwarren sat;

And, at his side, O, like an old romance

That suddenly comes true and fills the world

With April colours, two bronzed seamen stood,

Tattered and scarred, and stained with sun and brine.

‘ Flos Mercatorum,’ Hugh Fitzwarren cried,

Holding both hands out to the pale-faced boy,

‘ The prentice wins the prize! Why, Whittington,

Thy cat hath caught the biggest mouse of all!’

And, on to the table, tilting a heavy sack,

One of the seamen poured a glittering stream

Of rubies, emeralds, opals, amethysts,

That turned the room to an Aladdin's cave,

Or magic goblet brimmed with dusky wine

Where clustering rainbow-coloured bubbles clung

And sparkled, in the halls of Prester John.

‘ And that,’ said Hugh Fitzwarren,‘ is the price

Paid for your cat in Barbary, by a King

Whose house was rich in gems, but sorely plagued

With rats and mice. Gather it up, my lad,

And praise your master for his honesty;

For, though my cargo prospered, yours outshines

The best of it. Take it, my lad, and go;

You're a rich man; and, if you use it well,

Riches will make you richer, and the world

Will prosper in your own prosperity.

The miser, like the cold and barren moon,

Shines with a fruitless light. The spendthrift fool

Flits like a Jack-o-Lent over quags and fens;

But he that's wisely rich gathers his gold

Into a fruitful and unwasting sun

That spends its glory on a thousand fields

And blesses all the world. Take it and go.’

Blankly, as in a dream, Whittington stared.

‘ How should I take it, sir? The ship was yours,

And...’

‘ Ay, the ship was mine; but in that ship

Your stake was richer than we knew.‘ Tis yours.’

‘ Then,’ answered Whittington,‘ if this wealth be mine,

Who but an hour ago was all so poor,

I know one way to make me richer still.’

He gathered up the glittering sack of gems,

Turned to the halpace, where his green-gowned maid

Stood in the glory of the coloured panes.

He thrust the splendid load into her arms,

Muttering —‘ Take it, lady! Let me be poor!

But rich, at least, in that you not despise

The waif you saved.’

—‘ Despise you, Whittington?’ —

‘ O, no, not in the sight of God! But I

Grow tired of waiting for the Judgment Day!

I am but a man. I am a scullion now;

But I would like, only for half an hour,

To stand upright and say “I am a king!”

Take it!’

And, as they stood, a little apart,

Their eyes were married in one swift level look,

Silent, but all that souls could say was said.

And

‘ I know a way,’ said the Bell of St. Martin's.

‘ Tell it, and be quick,’ laughed the prentices below!

‘ Whittington shall marry her, marry her, marry her!

Peal for a wedding,’ said the big Bell of Bow.

He shall take a kingdom up, and cast it on the sea again;

He shall have his caravels to traffic for him now;

He shall see his royal sails rolling up from Araby,

And the crest — a honey-bee — golden at the prow.

Whittington! Whittington! The world is all a fairy tale!—

Even so we sang for him.— But O, the tale is true!

Whittington he married her, and on his merry marriage-day,

O, we sang, we sang for him, like lavrocks in the blue.

Far away from London, these happy prentice lovers

Wandered through the fern to his western home again,

Down by deep Dorset to the wooded isle of Purbeck,

Round to little Kimmeridge, by many a lover's lane.

There did they abide as in a dove-cote hidden

Deep in happy woods until the bells of duty rang;

Then they rode the way he went, a barefoot boy to London,

Round by Hampshire forest-roads, but as they rode he sang:—

Kimmeridge in Dorset is the happiest of places!

All the little homesteads are thatched with beauty there!

All the old ploughmen, there, have happy smiling faces,

Christmas roses in their cheeks, and crowns of silver hair.

Blue as are the eggs in the nest of the hedge-sparrow,

Gleam the little rooms in the homestead that I know:

Death, I think, has lost the way to Kimmeridge in Dorset;

Sorrow never knew it, or forgot it, long ago!

Kimmeridge in Dorset, Kimmeridge in Dorset,

Though I may not see you more thro’ all the years to be,

Yet will I remember the little happy homestead

Hidden in that Paradise where God was good to me.

So they turned to London, and with mind and soul he laboured,

Flos Mercatorum, for the mighty years to be,

Fashioning, for profit — to the years that should forget him!—

This, our sacred City that must shine upon the sea.

London was a City when the Poulters ruled the Poultry!

Rosaries of prayer were hung in Paternoster Row,

Gutter Lane was Guthrun's, then; and, bright with painted missal-books,

Ave Mary Corner, sirs, was fairer than ye know.

London was mighty when her marchaunts loved their merchandise,

Bales of Eastern magic that empurpled wharf and quay:

London was mighty when her booths were a dream-market,

Loaded with the colours of the sunset and the sea.

There, in all their glory, with the Virgin on their bannerols,

Glory out of Genoa, the Mercers might be seen,

Walking to their Company of Marchaunt Adventurers;—

Gallantly they jetted it in scarlet and in green.

There, in all the glory of the lordly Linen Armourers,

Walked the Marchaunt Taylors with the Pilgrim of their trade,

Fresh from adventuring in Italy and Flanders,

Flos Mercatorum, for a green-gowned maid.

Flos Mercatorum! Can a good thing come of Nazareth?

High above the darkness, where our duller senses drown,

Lifts the splendid Vision of a City, built on merchandise,

Fairer than that City of Light that wore the violet crown,

Lifts the sacred vision of a far-resplendent City,

Flashing, like the heart of heaven, its messages afar,

Trafficking, as God Himself through all His interchanging worlds,

Holding up the scales of law, weighing star by star,

Stern as Justice, in one hand the sword of Truth and Righteousness;

Blind as Justice, in one hand the everlasting scales,

Lifts the sacred Vision of that City from the darkness,

Whence the thoughts of men break out, like blossoms, or like sails!

Ordered and harmonious, a City built to music,

Lifting, out of chaos, the shining towers of law,—

Ay, a sacred City, and a City built of merchandise,

Flos Mercatorum, was the City that he saw.

And by that light,” quoth Clopton, “did he keep

His promise. He was rich; but in his will

He wrote those words which should be blazed with gold

In London's Liber Albus:—

The desire

And busy intention of a man, devout

And wise, should be to fore-cast and secure

The state and end of this short life with deeds

Of mercy and pity, especially to provide

For those whom poverty insulteth, those

To whom the power of labouring for the needs

Of life, is interdicted.

He became

The Father of the City. Felons died

Of fever in old Newgate. He rebuilt

The prison. London sickened, from the lack

Of water, and he made fresh fountains flow.

He heard the cry of suffering and disease,

And built the stately hospital that still

Shines like an angel's lanthorn through the night,

The stately halls of St. Bartholomew.

He saw men wrapt in ignorance, and he raised

Schools, colleges, and libraries. He heard

The cry of the old and weary, and he built

Houses of refuge.

Even so he kept

His prentice vows of Duty, Industry,

Obedience, words contemned of every fool

Who shrinks from law; yet were those ancient vows

The adamantine pillars of the State.

Let all who play their Samson be well warned

That Samsons perish, too!

His monument

Is London!”

“True,” quoth Dekker, “and he deserves

Well of the Mermaid Inn for one good law,

Rightly enforced. He pilloried that rogue

Will Horold, who in Whittington's third year

Of office, as Lord Mayor, placed certain gums

And spices in great casks, and filled them up

With feeble Spanish wine, to have the taste

And smell of Romeney,— Malmsey!”

“Honest wine,

Indeed,” replied the Clerk, “concerns the State,

That solemn structure touched with light from heaven,

Which he, our merchant, helped to build on earth.

And, while he laboured for it, all things else

Were added unto him, until the bells

More than fulfilled their prophecy.

One great eve,

Fair Alice, leaning from her casement, saw

Another Watch, and mightier than the first,

Billowing past the newly painted doors

Of Whittington Palace — so men called his house

In Hart Street, fifteen yards from old Mark Lane,— thousand burganets and halberdiers;

A thousand archers in their white silk coats,

A thousand mounted men in ringing mail,

A thousand sworded henchmen; then, his Guild,

Advancing, on their splendid bannerols

The Virgin, glorious in gold; and then,

Flos Mercatorum, on his great stirring steed

Whittington! On that night he made a feast

For London and the King. His feasting hall

Gleamed like the magic cave that Prester John

Wrought out of one huge opal. East and West

Lavished their wealth on that great Citizen

Who, when the King from Agincourt returned

Victorious, but with empty coffers, lent

Three times the ransom of an Emperor

To fill them — on the royal bond, and said

When the King questioned him of how and whence,

‘ I am the steward of your City, sire!

There is a sea, and who shall drain it dry?’

Over the roasted swans and peacock pies,

The minstrels in the great black gallery tuned

All hearts to mirth, until it seemed their cups

Were brimmed with dawn and sunset, and they drank

The wine of gods. Lord of a hundred ships,

Under the feet of England, Whittington flung

The purple of the seas. And when the Queen,

Catharine, wondered at the costly woods

That burned upon his hearth, the Marchaunt rose,

He drew the great sealed parchments from his breast,

The bonds the King had given him on his loans,

Loans that might drain the Mediterranean dry.

‘ They call us hucksters, madam, we that love

Our City,’ and, into the red-hot heart of the fire,

He tossed the bonds of sixty thousand pounds.

‘ The fire burns low,’ said Richard Whittington.

Then, overhead, the minstrels plucked their strings;

And, over the clash of wine-cups, rose a song

That made the old timbers of their feasting-hall

Shake, as a galleon shakes in a gale of wind,

When she rolls glorying through the Ocean-sea:—

Marchaunt Adventurers, O, what shall it profit you

Thus to seek your kingdom in the dream-destroying sun?

Ask us why the hawthorn brightens on the sky-line:

Even so our sails break out when Spring is well begun!

Flos Mercatorum! Blossom wide, ye sail of Englande,

Hasten ye the kingdom, now the bitter days are done!

Ay, for we be members, one of another,

‘ Each for all and all for each,’ quoth Richard Whittington!

Chorus:— Marchaunt Adventurers,

Marchaunt Adventurers,

Marchaunt Adventurers, the Spring is well begun!

Break, break out on every sea, O, fair white sails of Englande!

‘ Each for all, and all for each,’ quoth Richard Whittington.

Marchaunt Adventurers, O what‘ ull ye bring home again?

Woonders and works and the thunder of the sea!

Whom will ye traffic with? The King of the sunset!—

What shall be your pilot, then?— A wind from Galilee!

— Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty-handed?—

Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see!

Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters;

After many days it shall return with usury.

Chorus:— Marchaunt Adventurers,

Marchaunt Adventurers,

What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be?

Englande! Englande! Englande! Englande!

Glory everlasting and the lordship of the sea.

What need to tell you, sirs, how Whittington

Remembered? Night and morning, as he knelt

In those old days, O, like two children still,

Whittington and his Alice bowed their heads

Together, praying.

From such simple hearts,

O never doubt it, though the whole world doubt

The God that made it, came the steadfast strength

Of England, all that once was her strong soul,

The soul that laughed and shook away defeat

As her strong cliffs hurl back the streaming seas.

Sirs, in his old age Whittington returned,

And stood with Alice, by the silent tomb

In little Pauntley church.

There, to his Arms,

The Gules and Azure, and the Lion's Head

So proudly blazoned on the painted panes;

( O, sirs, the simple wistfulness of it

Might move hard hearts to laughter, but I think

Tears tremble through it, for the Mermaid Inn )

He added his new crest, the hard-won sign

And lowly prize of his own industry,

The Honey-bee. And, far away, the bells

Peal softly from the pure white City of God:—

Ut fragrans nardus

Fama fuit iste Ricardus.

With folded hands he waits the Judgment now.

Slowly our dark bells toll across the world,

For him who waits the reckoning, his accompt

Secure, his conscience clear, his ledger spread

A Liber Albus flooded with pure light.

Flos Mercatorum,

Fundator presbyterorum,...

Slowly the dark bells toll for him who asks

No more of men, but that they may sometimes

Pray for the souls of Richard Whittington,

Alice, his wife, and ( as themselves of old

Had prayed ) the father and mother of each of them.

Slowly the great notes fall and float away:—

Omnibus exemplum

Barathrum vincendo morosum

Condidit hoc templum...

Pauperibus pater...

Finiit ipse dies

Sis sibi Christe quies. Amen.”