On the northwest corner of the Abbey precinct—that is to say, on the right hand as one entered by the High Gate from King Street, where now stands the Westminster “Guildhall”—the earth formerly groaned beneath the weight of a ponderous structure resembling a square keep, not unlike that of Colchester, but very much smaller. It was a building of stone; each side was seventy-five feet in length, and it was sixty feet in height. On the east side was a door—the only door, a heavy oaken door covered with plates of iron—which gave entrance to a curiously gloomy and narrow chapel, shaped as a double cross, the equal arms of which were only ten feet in width. Three of the four corners of this lower square consisted of solid stone sixteen feet square; the third corner contained a circular staircase winding up to another chapel above. This, somewhat lighter and loftier than that below, was a plain single cross in form; three of the angles contained rooms; in the fourth the stairs continued to the roof. King Edward III. built—or rebuilt, perhaps—on this corner a belfry, containing three great bells, which were only rung at the coronation and the death of kings. The roof was paved with stone; there was a parapet, but not embattled. On the outside—its construction dated perhaps after King Edward built the belfry—there stood a small circular tower containing stairs to the upper story. The strong walls of this gloomy fortress contained only one door and one window on the lower floor; but in the upper story the walls were only three feet thick. This place was St. Peter’s Sanctuary—the Westminster City of Refuge. It was made so strong that it would resist any sudden attack, and give time for the attacking party to bethink them of the sin of sacrilege. In these two chapels the refugees heard mass; within these walls the nobler sort of those who came here were placed for greater safety; round these walls gathered the common sort, in tenements forming a little colony or village. The building, of which there is very little mention anywhere, was suffered to remain long after its original purpose was abolished. It was pulled down piecemeal, by any who chose to take the trouble, as stone was wanted for other buildings; it is quite possible that some of it was used for the White Hall; but the remaining portions of it were not finally taken away until the middle of the last century; and perhaps the foundations still remain. It is strange that neither Stow nor, after him, Strype, makes any mention of this building, which the former could not fail to see, frowning and gloomy, as yet untouched, whenever he visited Westminster; and it is still more remarkable that neither of these writers seems to attach much importance to the ancient Sanctuary at Westminster. That of St. Martin’s-le-Grand, the remains of which were also visible to Stow, he describes at length.

Like every other ecclesiastical foundation, the right of Sanctuary was originally a beneficent and wise institution, designed by the Church for the protection of the weak, and the prevention of revenge, wild justice, violence, and oppression. If a man, in those days of

swift wrath and ready hand, should kill another in the madness of a moment; if by accident he should wound or maim another; if by the breaking of any law he should incur the penalties of justice; if by any action he should incur the hostility of a stronger man; if by some of the many changes and chances of fortune he should lose his worldly goods and fall into debt or bankruptcy, and so become liable to imprisonment; if he had cause to dread the displeasure of king, baron, or bishop—the right of Sanctuary was open to him. Once on the frith-stool, once clinging to the horns of the altar, he was as safe as an Israelite within the walls of a city refuge: the mighty hand of the Church was over him; his enemies could not touch him, on pain of excommunication.

In theory every church was a sanctuary; but it was easy to blockade a church so that the refugee could be starved into submission. The only real safety for a fugitive from justice or revenge was in those abbeys and places which possessed special charters and immunities. Foremost among these were the Sanctuaries of Westminster and St. Martin’s-le-Grand. Outside London, the principal Sanctuaries appear to have been Beverley, Hexham, Durham, and Beaulieu. But perhaps every great abbey possessed its sanctuary as a part of its reason for existence. That of Westminster was, if not founded, defined and regulated by Edward the Confessor; that of St. Martin’s, the existence of which was always a scandal and an offense to the City of London, was regulated by half a dozen charters of as many kings. Its refugees were principally bankrupts, debtors, and common thieves—offenders against property, therefore specially hated by a trading community.

The privilege of Sanctuary was beautiful in theory. “Come to me,” said the Church; “I will keep thee in safety from the hand of violence and the arm of the law; I will give thee lodging and food; my doors shall be always open to thee, day and night; I will lead thee to repentance. Come: in safety sit down and meditate on the sins which have brought thee hither.”

The invitation was extended to all, but with certain reservations. Traitors, Jews, infidels, and those who had committed sacrilege were forbidden the safety of Sanctuary. Nor was it a formal invitation: Sanctuary was sought by multitudes. In Durham Cathedral two men slept every night in the Galilee to admit any fugitive who might ring the Galilee bell or lift the Galilee knocker. Nay, Sanctuary was actually converted into a city of refuge by the setting apart of a measured space, the whole of which was to be considered Sanctuary. At Hexham, where four roads met in the middle of the town, a cross was set up on every one of the roads to show where Sanctuary began. At Ripon and at Beverley a circle, whose radius was a mile, was the limit of Sanctuary. At St. Martin’s-le-Grand the precinct was accurately laid down and jealously defended. It included many streets—the area is now almost entirely covered by the Post Office and the Telegraph Office. At Westminster the whole precinct of the Abbey—church, monastery buildings, close and cloisters and gardens—was sacred ground.

The right of Sanctuary was maintained with the greatest tenacity by the Church. When, as happened sometimes,—men’s passions carrying them beyond the fear of the Church,—Sanctuary was violated, the Bishop or the Abbot allowed no rest or cessation from clamor, gave no relief from excommunication to the offender, until reparation and submission had been obtained. Thus, as we have seen, in the year 1378, the Constable of the Tower pursued a small company of men, fugitives, into Sanctuary, and actually had the temerity to slay two of them in the church itself, before the Prior’s stall, and during the celebration of High Mass. This seems to be the most flagrant case of violation on record. The Abbot closed the church for four months; the perpetrator of the murder was excommunicated; the guilty persons were very heavily fined; the Abbot protested against the deed at the next meeting of Parliament; and the ancient privileges of St. Peter’s

sanctuary were confirmed. There were other violations, especially in the lawless times of civil war. For instance, in the reign of Richard II., Tressilian, Lord Chief Justice, was dragged out of Sanctuary; the Duke of York took John Holland, Duke of Exeter, out of Sanctuary. On the other hand, Henry VII. was careful to respect Sanctuary when Perkin Warbeck fled to Beaulieu Abbey. This was perhaps politic, and intended to show that he had nothing whatever to fear from that poor little Pretender.

Among the refugees of Westminster the most interesting figure is that of Elizabeth Woodville, Queen of Edward IV., and the most pathetic scene in the history of St. Peter’s Sanctuary is that in which the mother takes leave of her boy, knowing full well that she will see his dear face no more.

Twice did the Queen seek Sanctuary. Once when her husband, at the lowest point of misfortune, fled the country. Then, with her three daughters, she fled to this gloomy fortress, and there gave birth to her elder boy—“forsaken of all her friends and in great penury.” Here she laid the child in his father’s arms on his return. A second time she fled hither, when Richard had seized the crown, and that boy, king for a little day, was in the Tower. What would happen to him? What happened to Henry VI.? What happened to that king’s son, Prince Edward? What happened to the Duke of York? What happened to the Duke of Exeter? What happened to the Duke of Clarence? What but murder could happen? Murder was everywhere. The crown was made secure by murder. Every king murdered his actual or possible rival. How could the usurper reign in peace while those two boys were living? So, in trembling and in haste, she passed from the Palace to the Abbey, and sat on the rushes, disconsolate, with her daughters and her second boy, while her servants fetched some household gear.

Outside, the King’s Council deliberated. Richard would have seized the boy and dragged him out by force. The two Archbishops stood before him. The wrath of St. Peter himself must be braved by him who would violate Sanctuary. But, said the casuist, Sanctuary is a place of refuge for criminals and debtors,

and such as have incurred the penalties of the law. This child is not a criminal; he is too young to have committed any offense—Sanctuary is not for children; therefore to take this child is not to violate Sanctuary, and, since His Highness the King takes him only in kindness and in love, and for a companion to his brother, the wrath of St. Peter will not be awakened. On the other hand, the Holy Apostle cannot but commend the action.

The Archbishops yielded. Let us remember, with the bloodstained chronicles of the time in our mind, that, among all the nobles present at that Council, there was not one who could possibly fail to understand that the two boys were going to be murdered. How else could Richard keep the crown upon his head? Yet the two Archbishops yielded. They consented, therefore, knowing with the greatest certainty that murder would follow. I think they may have argued in some such way as this: “The time is evil; the country has been distracted and torn to pieces by civil wars for five-and-twenty years; nearly all the noble families have been destroyed; above and before everything else we need rest and peace and a strong hand. A hundred years ago, after the troubles in France, we had a boy for king, with consequences that may be still remembered by old men. If this boy reigns, there will be new disasters; if his uncle reigns, there may be peace. Life for two children, with more civil wars, more bloody fields, more ruin and starvation and rapine and violence; or the death of two children, with peace and rest for this long-suffering land—which shall it be?” A terrible alternative! The Archbishops sadly bowed their heads and stepped aside, while Richard climbed the winding stair, and in the upper chapel of the Sanctuary dragged the boy from his mother’s arms.

“Farewell!” she cried, her words charged with the anguish of her heart; “farewell, mine own sweet one! God send thee good keeping! Let me kiss thee once, ere you go. God knoweth when we shall kiss one another again!”

The right of Sanctuary in a modified form lasted long after the Dissolution of the Religious Houses. But when a great Abbey, as that of Beaulieu, standing in a retired and unfrequented place, lay desolate and in ruins, the right of Sanctuary was useless. No one was left to assert the right—no one to defend it; there was neither roof nor hearth nor altar. In great towns it was different; the Abbey might be desecrated, but the Sanctuary house remained. Therefore on the site of St. Martin’s-le-Grand, on the site of Blackfriars, and in Westminster round that old fortress-church, still the debtors ran to escape the bailiffs, and murderers and thieves hid themselves, knowing that the law was weak indeed in the network of courts and streets which formed these retreats. Other places pretended to immunity from the sheriffs; among these were the streets on the site of Whitefriars, Salisbury Court, Ram Alley, and Mitre Court; Fulwood’s Rents in Holborn, the Liberty of the Savoy, and, on the other side of the river, Deadman’s Place, the Clink, the Mint, and Montagu Close. The “privileges” of these places were finally abolished in 1697.

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It was in the year of our Lord 1520, on a pleasant morning in May, that one who greatly loved to walk abroad in order to watch the ways of men, and to hear them discourse, stood at the entrance of King Street,

where the gate called after the Cockpit hard by stood upon the bridge which spanned the little stream flowing eastward to join the river. It was a narrow street—on either side gabled houses. Courts still narrower opened out to right and left. Lady Alley, where were almshouses for poor women; Boar’s Head Court—in the years to come one Cromwell, Member of Parliament, would live here; St. Stephen’s Alley; the Rhenish Wine yard; Thieven’ Lane—a lane by which rogues could be taken to the Gate House Prison without passing through the Precinct and so being able to claim Sanctuary. There were taverns in it,—Westminster was always full of taverns,—the Bell, the Boar’s Head, and the Rhenish Wine House. At the south end stood the High Gate, built by Richard II. The visitor strolled slowly down the street, looking curiously about him, as if the place was strange. This indeed it was, for he had stepped straight out of the nineteenth century into the sixteenth; out of King Street, mean and narrow, into King Street, narrow indeed, but not mean. The roadway was rough and full of holes; a filthy stream ran down the middle; all kinds of refuse were lying about; there was no footpath nor any protection by means of posts for foot passengers,—when a loaded wagon lumbered along the people took refuge in the open doorway; when a string of pack horses plodded down the middle of the street, splashing the mud of the stream about it, the people retreated farther within the door. The street was full of pack horses, because this was one of the two highways to Westminster—Palace and Castle both. In spite of the narrowness, the mud, the dirt, and the inconvenience, the King Street which this visitor saw before him was far more picturesque than that which he had left behind. The houses rose up three and four stories high; gabled all, with projecting fronts, story above story, the timbers of the fronts painted and gilt, some of them with escutcheons hung in front, the richly blazoned arms brightening the narrow way; from a window here and there hung out a bit of colored cloth; some of the houses bore on their fronts a wealth of carven beams—some had signs hanging out; the men who lolled about the doors of the taverns wore bright liveries—those of King, Cardinal, Abbot, or great lord; in the windows above women and girls leaned out, talking and laughing with the men below;

the sun (for it was nearly noon) shone straight up the street upon the stately Gate above and the stately Gate below, and upon the gilding, carving, and painting, and windows of the houses on either side. The street was full of color and of life: from the taverns came the tinkling of the mandolin, and now and then a lusty voice uplifted in a snatch of song—in Westminster the drinking, gambling, singing, and revelry went on all day and sometimes all night as well. Court and Camp and Church, all collected together on the Isle of Bramble, demanded, for their following, taverns innumerable and drink in oceans.

The stranger, of whom no one took any notice, passing through the High Gate, found himself within the Abbey Precinct. “Is this,” he asked, “a separate city?” For before him and to the right and to the left there lay heaped together, as close as they could stand, groups and rows and streets of houses, mostly small tenements, mean and dirty in appearance. Only a clear space was left for the Church of St. Margaret’s and for the Porch to the Abbey Church, the north side of which was hidden by houses. On the right hand—that is, on the west side—the houses were grouped round a great stone structure, gloomy and terrible; farther on they opened out for the Gate House, which led into the fields and so across the meadows to the great highroad; and in the middle, opposite the west end of St. Margaret’s, there was a shapeless mass of erections comprising private houses and old stone buildings and chapels. On the left more houses, and under one a postern leading into New Palace Yard beyond. The place was full of people—men, women, and children. As the visitor threaded his way among the narrow lanes he became conscious of a curious

change. Outside, in King Street, everybody was alert, the street was filled with the happiness of life; the men-at-arms swaggered as they rolled along, hand on sword hilt; the children ran about and laughed and sang and shrieked for mere joy of living; through open windows, down narrow courts, one could see men at work; the girls laughed and talked as they went about the house, or leaned out of windows, or sat over their sewing; life was at full flow, like the broad river beyond. But here—it was a City of Silence. The men stood at the doors moody and silent; the women in the house went about their work in moody silence; the very children rolling in the dust of the foul lanes had forgotten how to laugh; there were no cheerful sounds of work; there were no swash-bucklers, there were no roysterers, there were no taverns; the men carried no arms, they wore no liveries, except the Sanctuary gown with the keys of the Abbey worked in white on the left shoulder; they were apparently plain burgesses of the humbler sort, craftsmen, or keepers of shops and stalls. A strange place! A city apart; a city of melancholy; a city of restlessness and discontent. For the most part the men sat or walked apart; but here and there were groups of twos and threes who whispered with each other, and showed things secretly under cover of their gowns. Villainous faces they wore, and when they walked it was after the manner of the wild beast which slinks behind the rocks.

The visitor found himself before the great square Tower of which we have already spoken. Gloomy and threatening it looked down upon the tenements below, with its belfry in one corner, its single door, its two windows above, its stair tower beside the door, and its blackened massive walls.

As he stood there, wondering and trying to understand this strange world, the door was opened, and a man came forth.

He was dressed as an ecclesiastic, in a black gown; on his left shoulder he wore the keys in white; he was old and somewhat bent; a man of the middle height; the thin hair that showed from under the cap was white; his nose was broad and somewhat flat; his eyes were large, and when he spoke they became luminous and smiling; his voice was still young, and his laugh was ready—a thing unusual in a man when he is past fifty; but this man was close upon seventy—the allotted span. He was so near his end, and yet he laughed. It is given to few among mortals to find aught that makes for mirth after the days of boyhood. Mostly their days are full of misery: men of violence rob them; kings and barons drive them forth to war; they are flogged and set in pillory and are clapped in prison. How should they laugh, when all they desire is rest, when they rejoice exceedingly and are glad if they think the grave is near?

This man, as he came forth from the Sanctuary, espied the visitor, and greeted him.

“Sir,” he said, “be welcome. I am John Skelton.” He drew himself up proudly. “Johannes Skelton, Artium Magister, Laurea Ornatus. Were I free to leave this place—but my Lord the Cardinal takes care of that, so tender is he lest ill hap come to me—I could show you the cloak of white and green, the King’s colors, with the laurel wreath embroidered on the shoulder and the word ‘Calliope’ in cunning device within the wreath—here, on this spot”—he touched his left shoulder—“where are now the keys that are my safety—the keys of this Abbey.”

“And wherefore, Sir John,” asked the visitor, “art thou in Sanctuary?”

“Come with me, and we will talk.”

So John Skelton led the way to a house of better appearance than most. It stood beside the Gate House, which was also the Abbot’s prison. Over against it was the group of buildings called the Almonry, and from the windows there was a pleasant view across the gardens and the orchards of the Abbey.

“Come in, sir,” said the poet. “Let us sit down and talk. Truly I have much to say. A man cannot discourse with the rabble of the Sanctuary. My patron, the Abbot, is oppressed with cares of state; the monks, the good monks, the holy men,”—he smiled, he chuckled, he broke into a laugh,—“they have little learning outside the Psalms which they intone so well, and for poetry they have no love, or they might sing mine.”

He began to troll out, with a voice that had once been lusty:

By Saynt Luke and secundum Skeltonida,” he concluded, with another laugh. “Sir, let us drink before we go on.”

Whereupon he went out, and presently returned carrying a black jack which held three quarts or so, and singing:

So he lifted the black jack to his lips, took a long draught, and handed it to his companion. ’Twas right October, strong and mellow.

The room was small and the furniture was scanty, yet with no suggestion of poverty; there was a strong table of oak, the legs well carven; there was a chair also of good workmanship, high backed, with arms and a cushion; in the fireplace were two andirons and a pile of wood against the cold weather; books were on the table, both printed books from the press of Caxton hard by, and written books; there were writing materials; there was a candlestick of latone; in the corner stood a wooden coffer; there was a curtain, to be drawn across the door in cold weather; a silver mazer stood on the table; a robe of perset, furred, hung over the back of the chair, and another of cloth, also furred, but the fur much eaten of moths, hung upon the wall. It was the room of a scholar. There was a long and broad seat in the window, which was glazed above with diamond panes and provided with a shutter below to keep out rain and cold; but the day was warm, and so the shutter was up, and they sat down in the noonday sunshine—John Skelton at one end of the seat and his guest at the other, and the black jack between. And one listened while the other talked.

“It is now,” said the poet, “five years since I fled hither to escape the revenge of my Lord Cardinal Wolsey—Son of the Wolf, I call him. Well, he may compass my destruction, but my verses can he not destroy, for they are imprinted, and now fly here and there about the land, so that no one knows who they are that read them; and wherever the Cardinal goeth, there he may find that my verses have gotten there before him. Nay, he will die, and after death not only the Lord, but man will sit in judgment upon him; and my verses will be there for all to read. Ha! what said I?

“The Cardinal will not forget these lines so long as he lives; nor will the world forget them, any more than the world forgets the words of Ovid. When men shall speak of Cardinal Wolsey, they shall say, ‘He it was of whom Skelton—poeta laurea donatus—spoke when he said:

By cock’s blood, proud Sir Tyrmagant, I had rather my prison than thy shame!”

He paused and sighed.

“I confess, good sir, that I thought not to end my days in such a place as this. I thought to become a bishop—nay, even an archbishop, if it might please the Lord. All to-ragged as I am”—he was indeed somewhat frayed in the matter of linen—“and poor, insomuch that, unlike these losels among whom I live, who pay to the Abbey rent and fees for protection, I depend upon the bounty of the good Abbot Islip, whom may Christ and St. Peter spede. Yet, look you, I am John Skelton. You know not all that John Skelton has done. In the ‘Garlande of Laurell’ you may find set forth at length all that I have written. Since Dan Chaucer there has been no poet like unto me. My fame hath gone forth into strange lands. Alma parens was Cambridge; but at Oxford was I honoured with the laurel; yea, and the ancient and venerable University of Louvain did also grant me a like honour. Had I time, I would read, gentle sir, certain noble Latin verses written in my honour by a scholar. ‘All the world,’ he truly writes,—‘the woods, the forests, the rivers and the sea, the Loves, the Satyrs, the Nymphs, the Naiades and Oceanides,—all together sing my praise. And my fame shall be as everlasting as the stars—fama perennis erit.’ Thus it is that the scholars speak of poets; thus are we honoured. Why, I look around me and without: I am a Sanctuary man; no bishop am I, nor chancellor,—only a Sanctuary man; yet—fama perennis erit. Or would you know what Erasmus, that great light of learning, said of me? Then read in his immortal Ode ‘De Laudibus BritanniÆ,’ the dedication to Prince Henry. ‘Thou hast,’ he said, ‘at home Skelton, the only light and glory of British letters, one who can not only inflame thee with ardour, but also fill thee with learning.’ Yes, I was indeed the tutor of that young Prince, of whom I may proudly say that, if he is—all men know that he is—learned beyond any prince of his ancestry, mine own handiwork it is.”

Again he paused and sighed. Then he went on: “I have not now to tell a tale of George a Green and Jack a Vale. ’Tis of John Skelton—unlucky John—that I must speak. They made me Rector of Diss in my native county, and there——” He paused and rubbed his chin and smiled. “Understand, sir, we poets pay for the favour of the Muse in many ways. Some of us are merry when we should be grave; and we are prone to fall in love despite our vows; and we love better the company of our brothers, even in taverns and alehouses,—even when they are but clowns and rustics of the baser sort,—than the loneliness of the priest’s house; we laugh in season and out of season; if we make songs we desire to sing them; the rattling of pint-pots, the tinkling of mazers, is music in our ears; we linger over the Psalms no longer than we must; we invent merry conceits and quips; men laugh with us: none so popular as the poet who makes mirth for the company.” Here he sighed and buried his face in the black jack. “’Tis right good ale,” he said. “’Tis solacyous ale, and from the Monastery cellar. Not such is the small stuff doled out to the rest. Drink, good sir. Ay! ’tis easy to make good cheer; but one is not the clown on the stage nor the fool, and they make men laugh as well. If the jester be also a grave scholar and a reverend Divine, there are presently rumours of things unseemly, things unworthy, things tacenda. Add to which that the poet inclineth often unto satire, like Horace and Juvenal; and that those against whom the satire is directed are apt to chafe and even to become revengeful. Quarrels, therefore, I had with Sir Christopher Garnyshe, and with Masters Barclay, Gaguin, and Lily. What? I thumped them and they thumped me. And the world

laughed; and no one the worse. But one must not open mouth against the monks; and by freedom of speech I brought upon me the wrath of the Dominicans. So there was admonishing from the Bishop, and I left Diss, coming to London, where, I hoped, Christ cross me spede and by the favour of His Highness the King, once my scholar apt and quick, to receive some great office.”

“Did you bring your wife with you, Sir John?”

“Ha! Sayest thou wife? How? Doth the world know that I was married? Yea, I brought her with me—and my lusty boys. Sir, many there are—parish priests—who are married secretly and are thought to entertain a leman. By the King was I recommended to the Cardinal. And now, indeed, I thought my fortune made; and so paid court to that great man, and strove to please him. Yea, I wrote for him that admirable poem, profitable to the soul, entitled, ‘The Boke of Three Fooles.’ And the ‘Garlande of Laurell’ I dedicated to my Lord Cardinal’s right noble Grace:

“You fell from his good grace?”

“I did. How, it boots not to relate. Tongue! tongue! that must needs be making rhymes, whether on Cardinal or on Priest, on Lord or Varlet. He gave me nothing; yet he made much of me: gave me what they call Bowge a court at his own great table, where he entertained a hundred daily. He heard my verses, and he smiled; yet he gave me nothing. He heard my jests, and laughed; yet he gave me nothing. Wherefore, the Muse working powerfully within me, not to be resisted, I wrote such verses as I have already told you, and fled hither. And here must I remain, for the Cardinal can never forgive me, seeing that I have set upon him a mark that he can in no way rub off. My only hope is that, as King’s favourites do fall as well as rise, and that His Highness the King hath a temper which is like the wind in March, the great man may fall before I die—otherwise, a Sanctuary man shall I remain unto the end. Drink, good sir.”

Then, as his visitor would take no more of the strong brown ale, he rose.

“Let us sally forth,” he said, “and I will show thee this Sanctuary or Common Sink of all rogues. Here,” he said, as he stood before the Double Chapel, “is the place where, morning and evening, we must hear matins and vespers. So sayeth the Rule; but who is there to examine and find out whether the Rule be kept or not? ‘Tis a dark and gloomy place, built for the better admonition of sinners and the exhorting to repentance. But of repentance is there little or none.

I repent me only that I made not my verses the stronger, so that my Lord Cardinal should feel them, day and night, pricking him like a hair shirt. But these rogues are full of sin; they think all day long of iniquity; Sanctuary is wasted upon them. Look now at yonder company”—they were some of the men noticed before as whispering to each other; they had now got a flask of wine, and were drinking about, but with no merriment—“those are murderers, house breakers, cutters of purses, common thieves, who come in to save their necks, and all day long plot new crimes, which by night—stealing out privily—they commit, bringing hither their stolen goods. Then there are the unthrifts, who, when they have spent their all, buy things for which they cannot pay, and bring them here to live merrily upon them while they last. The wife comes here laden with her husband’s plate, saying that the good man beats her, so that to live with him is intolerable. Then she sells the plate, and God knows what manner of life she leads here. Honest work there is none; but all alike lie idle and unprofitable. Those who have money quickly lose it, paying at a monstrous rate for all things—monks are ever unreasonable askers; those who have none pig it as best they can. Sir, believe me, there is no life worse for man than the idle life. St. Benedict wisely ordained that the hours of rest from prayer should be hours of work with the hands. Alas! In Sanctuary that Rule is clean forgotten.”

Thus discoursing, they drew near to the Gate House, which opens to Tothill Street and Tothill Fields beyond.

“Here is the Abbot’s Prison,” said Skelton; “the prison of those who break the laws of Westminster, and of debtors, and sometimes of traitors. The debtors lie there like sheep; and the longer they live the leaner they grow, because, look you, if a man is shut up he cannot work nor earn his daily bread, much less can he pay his debts.” As he spoke a long pole was pushed out of window with a box hanging at the end. “It is their almsbox,” said Skelton. “Bestow something upon them, so that they may eat and drink.”

As we stood in the gateway, looking out upon the pleasant fields and green pastures beyond, there came forth from a tavern—at the sign of the Eagle—a girl, the like of whom I had never seen for size and comeliness. She was over six feet high, and had shoulders for breadth like those of a porter, and arms—her sleeves rolled up—which belonged rather to a waterman than a maid. And at sight of her John Skelton began to laugh, and called out, “Meg! Long Meg! come hither. Let me gaze upon thee.” So the tall maid obeyed, showing by her smiles that she was willing to talk with the old man. “Look at her, I say,” said Skelton, laughing. “Saw’st ever woman so tall and strong? This is Long Meg. She is as lusty as she is tall. Let her tell how she knocked over Sir James of Castile, and cudgelled the robber, and fought the Vicar from the Abbey, so that he lay in the Infirmary for three weeks, and how she dragged the Catchpole through the pond, and how she bobbed Huffling Dick on the noll. And she is as good as she is tall and lusty. My modest Meg! my merry Meg! my valiant Meg! my pigsny Meg! Tell the gentleman, Meg.” But the girl hung her head modestly, and only said, “Nay, Sir John, it becomes me not to tell these things.” Then replied Skelton, “I will tell him for thee. And Meg, we will come presently, in the afternoon, for a flask of Malmsey. Go, sweet maid! I would I were forty years younger for thy sake. Stay! what were the verses I made upon thee when first thou didst come to Westminster?”

Meg laughed, and, folding her hands behind her like a girl that says a lesson, began:

“Right, Meg—right. But go on.”

“But I have no gray cassock now,” Meg added, laughing. “This afternoon, Sir John, Will Sommers comes. There will be merry tales and songs. Farewell, good sir.”

So, with a reverence, this comely giantess, this thumping, handsome wench, ran back to the tavern.

“Now,” said Sir John, “we will take a walk. First, I will show thee where Will Caxton put up his first printing press, at the sign of the Red Pale. ’Tis nigh on thirty years since he is dead. Ha! he printed books of mine. The printed book remains; for there are hundreds of each book, and the trade of the scrivener is well-nigh gone. So much the better for the poet. I am in good company on the shelf with Caxton’s books; in the company of Virgil and Ovid; of Boethius, Chaucer, and Gower, and Alain Chartier. I march with uplifted head in such a company. Laureate of Oxford and Louvain, friend of these immortals. My Lord the Cardinal turns green when he thinks upon it. Next,” he continued, “we will walk about the Abbey. I cannot show thee the wealth of the monks, because that is spread out over the whole country—here

a manor and there a manor; and no man, save the Abbot and the Prior, knoweth how great is their wealth; nor can I show thee the learning of the monks, because no man, not even the Abbot, my benefactor, knoweth how small that is; nor can I show thee the piety of the Brothers, since that is known only to themselves; nor their fastings and macerations, because, the better to torment themselves, they sit down every day to a table covered with rich roasts and dainty confections; nor can I show thee the monks at work at the hours when they are not in their Church, because they work no more. But I will show thee the richest monastery in England, where the Brethren toil not, nor spin, and have no cares, but that they must grow old, and so daily draw nearer to the Fires of Purgatory. I will show thee gardens beautiful as the heart of man can desire; and, for their lodgings, the house of the Abbot is finer than the Palace of the King, and the chambers of the Prior and the Sub-Prior are delicate and dainty and desirable. What! think you that so great a Lord as the Abbot of Westminster——”

But here the original of this interview breaks off abruptly—Explicit—and I know not how the afternoon was spent, nor what jests and songs they had with Will Sommers and Long Meg.