FIRST NIGHT OF THE GIANT CHRONICLES
TURNING towards his companion, the elder Giant uttered these words
in a grave, majestic tone:—
“Magog, does boisterous mirth beseem the Giant Warder of this
ancient city? Is this becoming demeanour for a watchful spirit
over whose bodiless head so many years have rolled, so many changes
swept like empty air — in whose impalpable nostrils the scent of
blood and crime, pestilence, cruelty, and horror, has been familiar
as breath to mortals — in whose sight Time has gathered in the
harvest of centuries, and garnered so many crops of human pride,
affections, hopes, and sorrows? Bethink you of our compact. The
night wanes; feasting, revelry, and music have encroached upon our
usual hours of solitude, and morning will be here apace. Ere we
are stricken mute again, bethink you of our compact.”
Pronouncing these latter words with
more of impatience than quite accorded with his apparent age and
gravity, the Giant raised a long pole (which he still bears in his hand)
and tapped his brother Giant rather smartly on the head; indeed, the
blow was so smartly administered, that the latter quickly withdrew his
lips from the cask, to which they had been applied, and, catching up his
shield and halberd, assumed an attitude of defence. His irritation was
but momentary, for he laid these weapons aside as hastily as he had
assumed them, and said as he did so:
“You know, Gog, old friend, that when we animate these shapes
which the Londoners of old assigned (and not unworthily) to the guardian
genii of their city, we are susceptible of some of the sensations which
belong to human kind. Thus when I taste wine, I feel blows; when I
relish the one, I disrelish the other. Therefore, Gog, the more
especially as your arm is none of the lightest, keep your good staff by
your side, else we may chance to differ. Peace be between us!”
“Amen!” said the other, leaning his staff in the
window-corner. “Why did you laugh just now?”
“To think” replied the Giant Magog, laying his hand upon
the cask, “of him who owned this wine, and kept it in a cellar
hoarded from the light of day, for thirty years, — ‘till it
should be fit to drink,’ quoth he. He was twoscore and ten years
old when he buried it beneath his house, and yet never thought that he
might be scarcely ‘fit to drink’ when the wine became so. I
wonder it never occurred to him to make himself unfit to be eaten.
There is very little of him left by this time.”
“The night is waning,” said Gog mournfully.
“I know it,” replied his companion, “and I see you
are impatient. But look. Through the eastern window — placed opposite
to us, that the first beams of the rising sun may every morning gild our
giant faces — the moon-rays fall upon the pavement in a stream of light
that to my fancy sinks through the cold stone and gushes into the old
crypt below. The night is scarcely past its noon, and our great charge
is sleeping heavily.”
They ceased to speak, and looked upward at the moon. The sight of
their large, black, rolling eyes filled Joe Toddyhigh with such
horror that he could scarcely draw his breath. Still they took no
note of him, and appeared to believe themselves quite alone.
“Our compact,” said Magog after a pause, “is, if I understand it,
that, instead of watching here in silence through the dreary
nights, we entertain each other with stories of our past
experience; with tales of the past, the present, and the future;
with legends of London and her sturdy citizens from the old simple
times. That every night at midnight, when St. Paul's bell tolls
out one, and we may move and speak, we thus discourse, nor leave
such themes till the first gray gleam of day shall strike us dumb.
Is that our bargain, brother?”
“Yes,” said the Giant Gog, “that is the league between us who guard
this city, by day in spirit, and by night in body also; and never
on ancient holidays have its conduits run wine more merrily than we
will pour forth our legendary lore. We are old chroniclers from
this time hence. The crumbled walls encircle us once more, the
postern-gates are closed, the drawbridge is up, and pent in its
narrow den beneath, the water foams and struggles with the sunken
starlings. Jerkins and quarter-staves are in the streets again,
the nightly watch is set, the rebel, sad and lonely in his Tower
dungeon, tries to sleep and weeps for home and children. Aloft
upon the gates and walls are noble heads glaring fiercely down upon
the dreaming city, and vexing the hungry dogs that scent them in
the air, and tear the ground beneath with dismal howlings. The
axe, the block, the rack, in their dark chambers give signs of
recent use. The Thames, floating past long lines of cheerful
windows whence come a burst of music and a stream of light, bears
suddenly to the Palace wall the last red stain brought on the tide
from Traitor's Gate. But your pardon, brother. The night wears,
and I am talking idly.”
The other Giant appeared to be entirely of this opinion, for during
the foregoing rhapsody of his fellow-sentinel he had been
scratching his head with an air of comical uneasiness, or rather
with an air that would have been very comical if he had been a
dwarf or an ordinary-sized man. He winked too, and though it could
not be doubted for a moment that he winked to himself, still he
certainly cocked his enormous eye towards the gallery where the
listener was concealed. Nor was this all, for he gaped; and when
he gaped, Joe was horribly reminded of the popular prejudice on the
subject of giants, and of their fabled power of smelling out
Englishmen, however closely concealed.
His alarm was such that he nearly swooned, and it was some little
time before his power of sight or hearing was restored. When he
recovered he found that the elder Giant was pressing the younger to
commence the Chronicles, and that the latter was endeavouring to
excuse himself, on the
ground that the night was far spent, and it
would be better to wait until the next. Well assured by this that
he was certainly about to begin directly, the listener collected
his faculties by a great effort, and distinctly heard Magog express
himself to the following effect:—
In the sixteenth century and in the reign of Queen Elizabeth of
glorious memory (albeit her golden days are sadly rusted with
blood), there lived in the city of London a bold young 'prentice
who loved his master's daughter. There were no doubt within the
walls a great many 'prentices in this condition, but I speak of
only one, and his name was Hugh Graham.
This Hugh was apprenticed to an honest Bowyer who dwelt in the ward
of Cheype, and was rumoured to possess great wealth. Rumour was
quite as infallible in those days as at the present time, but it
happened then as now to be sometimes right by accident. It
stumbled upon the truth when it gave the old Bowyer a mint of
money. His trade had been a profitable one in the time of King
Henry the Eighth, who encouraged English archery to the utmost, and
he had been prudent and discreet. Thus it came to pass that
Mistress Alice, his only daughter, was the richest heiress in all
his wealthy ward. Young Hugh had often maintained with staff and
cudgel that she was the handsomest. To do him justice, I believe
she was.
If he could have gained the heart of pretty Mistress Alice by
knocking this conviction into stubborn people's heads, Hugh would
have had no cause to fear. But though the Bowyer's daughter smiled
in secret to hear of his doughty deeds for her sake, and though her
little waiting-woman reported all her smiles (and many more) to
Hugh, and though he was at a vast expense in kisses and small coin
to recompense her fidelity, he made no progress in his love. He
durst not whisper it to Mistress Alice save on sure encouragement,
and that she never gave him. A glance of her dark eye as she sat
at the door on a summer's evening after prayer-time, while he and
the neighbouring 'prentices exercised themselves in the street with
blunted sword and buckler, would fire Hugh's blood so that none
could stand before him; but then she glanced at others quite as
kindly as on him, and where was the use of cracking crowns if
Mistress Alice smiled upon the cracked as well as on the cracker?
Still Hugh went on, and loved her more and more. He thought of her
all day, and dreamed of her all night long. He treasured up her
every word and gesture, and had a palpitation of the heart whenever
he heard her footstep on the stairs or her voice in an adjoining
room. To him, the old Bowyer's house was haunted by an angel;
there was enchantment in the air and space in which she moved. It
would have been no miracle to Hugh if flowers had sprung from the
rush-strewn floors beneath the tread of lovely Mistress Alice.
Never did 'prentice long to distinguish himself in the eyes of his
lady-love so ardently as Hugh. Sometimes he pictured to himself
the house taking fire by night, and he, when all drew back in fear,
rushing through flame and smoke, and bearing her from the ruins in
his arms. At other times he thought of a rising of fierce rebels,
an attack upon the city, a strong assault upon the Bowyer's house
in particular, and he falling on the threshold pierced with
numberless wounds in defence of Mistress Alice. If he could only
enact some prodigy of valour, do some wonderful deed, and let her
know that she had inspired it, he thought he could die contented.
Sometimes the Bowyer and his daughter would go out to supper with a
worthy citizen at the fashionable hour of six o'clock, and on such
occasions Hugh, wearing his blue 'prentice cloak as gallantly as
'prentice might, would attend with a lantern and his trusty club to
escort them home. These were the brightest moments of his life.
To hold the light while Mistress Alice picked her steps, to touch
her hand as he helped her over broken ways, to have her leaning on
his arm, — it sometimes even came to that, — this was happiness
indeed!
When the nights were fair, Hugh followed in the rear, his eyes
riveted on the graceful figure of the Bowyer's daughter as she and
the old man moved on before him. So they threaded the narrow
winding streets of the city, now passing beneath the overhanging
gables of old wooden houses whence creaking signs projected into
the street, and now emerging from some dark and frowning gateway
into the clear moonlight. At such times, or when the shouts of
straggling brawlers met her ear, the Bowyer's daughter would look
timidly back at Hugh, beseeching him to draw nearer; and then how
he grasped his club and longed to do battle with a dozen rufflers,
for the love of Mistress Alice!
The old Bowyer was in the habit of lending money on interest to the
gallants of the Court, and thus it happened that many a richly-dressed gentleman dismounted at his door. More waving plumes and
gallant steeds, indeed, were seen at the Bowyer's house, and more
embroidered silks and velvets sparkled in his dark shop and darker
private closet, than at any merchants in the city. In those times
no less than in
the present it would seem that the richest-looking
cavaliers often wanted money the most.
Of these glittering clients there was one who always came alone.
He was nobly mounted, and, having no attendant, gave his horse in
charge to Hugh while he and the Bowyer were closeted within. Once
as he sprung into the saddle Mistress Alice was seated at an upper
window, and before she could withdraw he had doffed his jewelled
cap and kissed his hand. Hugh watched him caracoling down the
street, and burnt with indignation. But how much deeper was the
glow that reddened in his cheeks when, raising his eyes to the
casement, he saw that Alice watched the stranger too!
He came again and often, each time arrayed more gaily than before,
and still the little casement showed him Mistress Alice. At length
one heavy day, she fled from home. It had cost her a hard
struggle, for all her old father's gifts were strewn about her
chamber as if she had parted from them one by one, and knew that
the time must come when these tokens of his love would wring her
heart, — yet she was gone.
She left a letter commanding her poor father to the care of Hugh,
and wishing he might be happier than ever he could have been with
her, for he deserved the love of a better and a purer heart than
she had to bestow. The old man's forgiveness (she said) she had no
power to ask, but she prayed God to bless him, — and so ended with
a blot upon the paper where her tears had fallen.
At first the old man's wrath was kindled, and he carried his wrong
to the Queen's throne itself; but there was no redress he learnt at
Court, for his daughter had been conveyed abroad. This afterwards
appeared to be the truth, as there came from France, after an
interval of several years, a letter in her hand. It was written in
trembling characters, and almost illegible. Little could be made
out save that she often thought of home and her old dear pleasant
room, — and that she had dreamt her father was dead and had not
blessed her, — and that her heart was breaking.
The poor old Bowyer lingered on, never suffering Hugh to quit his
sight, for he knew now that he had loved his daughter, and that was
the only link that bound him to earth. It broke at length and he
died, — bequeathing his old 'prentice his trade and all his wealth,
and solemnly charging him with his last breath to revenge his child
if ever he who had worked her misery crossed his path in life
again.
From the time of Alice's flight, the tilting-ground, the fields,
the fencing-school, the summer-evening sports, knew Hugh no more.
His spirit was dead within him. He rose to great eminence and
repute among the citizens, but was seldom seen to smile, and never
mingled in their revelries or rejoicings. Brave, humane, and
generous, he was beloved by all. He was pitied too by those who
knew his story, and these were so many that when he walked along
the streets alone at dusk, even the rude common people doffed their
caps and mingled a rough air of sympathy with their respect.
One night in May — it was her birthnight, and twenty years since
she had left her home — Hugh Graham sat in the room she had
hallowed in his boyish days. He was now a gray-haired man, though
still in the prime of life. Old thoughts had borne him company for
many hours, and the chamber had gradually grown quite dark, when he
was roused by a low knocking at the outer door.
He hastened down, and opening it saw by the light of a lamp which
he had seized upon the way, a female figure crouching in the
portal. It hurried swiftly past him and glided up the stairs. He
looked for pursuers. There were none in sight. No, not one.
He was inclined to think it a vision of his own brain, when
suddenly a vague suspicion of the truth flashed upon his mind. He
barred the door, and hastened wildly back. Yes, there she was, —
there, in the chamber he had quitted, — there in her old innocent,
happy home, so changed that none but he could trace one gleam of
what she had been, — there upon her knees, — with her hands clasped
in agony and shame before her burning face.
“My God, my God!” she cried, “now strike me dead! Though I have
brought death and shame and sorrow on this roof, O, let me die at
home in mercy!”
There was no tear upon her face then, but she trembled and glanced
round the chamber. Everything was in its old place. Her bed
looked as if she had risen from it but that morning. The sight of
these familiar objects, marking the dear remembrance in which she
had been held, and the blight she had brought upon herself, was
more than the woman's better nature that had carried her there
could bear. She wept and fell upon the ground.
A rumour was spread about, in a few days' time, that the Bowyer's
cruel daughter had come home, and that Master Graham had given her
lodging in his house. It was rumoured too that he had resigned her
fortune, in order that she might bestow it in acts of charity, and
that he had vowed to guard her in her solitude, but that they were
never to see each other more. These rumours greatly incensed all
virtuous wives and daughters in the ward, especially when they
appeared to receive some corroboration from the circumstance of
Master Graham taking up his abode in another tenement hard by. The
estimation in which he was held, however, forbade any questioning
on the subject; and as the Bowyer's house was close shut up, and
nobody came forth when public shows and festivities were in
progress, or to flaunt in the public walks, or to buy new fashions
at the mercers' booths, all the well-conducted females agreed among
themselves that there could be no woman there.
These reports had scarcely died away when the wonder of every good
citizen, male and female, was utterly absorbed and swallowed up by
a Royal Proclamation, in which her Majesty, strongly censuring the
practice of wearing long Spanish rapiers of preposterous length (as
being a bullying and swaggering custom, tending to bloodshed and
public disorder), commanded that on a particular day therein named,
certain grave citizens should repair to the city gates, and there,
in public, break all rapiers worn or carried by persons claiming
admission, that exceeded, though it were only by a quarter of an
inch, three standard feet in length.
Royal Proclamations usually take their course, let the public
wonder never so much. On the appointed day two citizens of high
repute took up their stations at each of the gates, attended by a
party of the city guard, the main body to enforce the Queen's will,
and take custody of all such rebels (if any) as might have the
temerity to dispute it: and a few to bear the standard measures
and instruments for reducing all unlawful sword-blades to the
prescribed dimensions. In pursuance of these arrangements, Master
Graham and another were posted at Lud Gate, on the hill before St.
Paul's.
A pretty numerous company were gathered together at this spot, for,
besides the officers in attendance to enforce the proclamation,
there was a motley crowd of lookers-on of various degrees, who
raised from time to time such shouts and cries as the circumstances
called forth. A spruce young courtier was the first who
approached: he unsheathed a weapon of burnished steel that shone
and glistened in the sun, and handed it with the newest air to the
officer, who, finding it exactly three feet long, returned it with
a bow. Thereupon the gallant raised his hat and crying, “God save
the Queen!” passed on amidst the plaudits of the mob. Then came
another
— a better courtier still — who wore a blade but two feet
long, whereat the people laughed, much to the disparagement of his
honour's dignity. Then came a third, a sturdy old officer of the
army, girded with a rapier at least a foot and a half beyond her
Majesty's pleasure; at him they raised a great shout, and most of
the spectators (but especially those who were armourers or cutlers)
laughed very heartily at the breakage which would ensue. But they
were disappointed; for the old campaigner, coolly unbuckling his
sword and bidding his servant carry it home again, passed through
unarmed, to the great indignation of all the beholders. They
relieved themselves in some degree by hooting a tall blustering
fellow with a prodigious weapon, who stopped short on coming in
sight of the preparations, and after a little consideration turned
back again. But all this time no rapier had been broken, although
it was high noon, and all cavaliers of any quality or appearance
were taking their way towards Saint Paul's churchyard.
During these proceedings, Master Graham had stood apart, strictly
confining himself to the duty imposed upon him, and taking little
heed of anything beyond. He stepped forward now as a richly-dressed gentleman on foot, followed by a single attendant, was seen
advancing up the hill.
As this person drew nearer, the crowd stopped their clamour, and
bent forward with eager looks. Master Graham standing alone in the
gateway, and the stranger coming slowly towards him, they seemed,
as it were, set face to face. The nobleman (for he looked one) had
a haughty and disdainful air, which bespoke the slight estimation
in which he held the citizen. The citizen, on the other hand,
preserved the resolute bearing of one who was not to be frowned
down or daunted, and who cared very little for any nobility but
that of worth and manhood. It was perhaps some consciousness on
the part of each, of these feelings in the other, that infused a
more stern expression into their regards as they came closer
together.
“Your rapier, worthy sir!”
At the instant that he pronounced these words Graham started, and
falling back some paces, laid his hand upon the dagger in his belt.
“You are the man whose horse I used to hold before the Bowyer's
door? You are that man? Speak!”
“Out, you 'prentice hound!” said the other.
“You are he! I know you well now!” cried Graham.
“Let no man step
between us two, or I shall be his murderer.” With that he drew his
dagger, and rushed in upon him.
The stranger had drawn his weapon from the scabbard ready for the
scrutiny, before a word was spoken. He made a thrust at his
assailant, but the dagger which Graham clutched in his left hand
being the dirk in use at that time for parrying such blows,
promptly turned the point aside. They closed. The dagger fell
rattling on the ground, and Graham, wresting his adversary's sword
from his grasp, plunged it through his heart. As he drew it out it
snapped in two, leaving a fragment in the dead man's body.
All this passed so swiftly that the bystanders looked on without an
effort to interfere; but the man was no sooner down than an uproar
broke forth which rent the air. The attendant rushing through the
gate proclaimed that his master, a nobleman, had been set upon and
slain by a citizen; the word quickly spread from mouth to mouth;
Saint Paul's Cathedral, and every book-shop, ordinary, and smoking-house in the churchyard poured out its stream of cavaliers and
their followers, who mingling together in a dense tumultuous body,
struggled, sword in hand, towards the spot.
With equal impetuosity, and stimulating each other by loud cries
and shouts, the citizens and common people took up the quarrel on
their side, and encircling Master Graham a hundred deep, forced him
from the gate. In vain he waved the broken sword above his head,
crying that he would die on London's threshold for their sacred
homes. They bore him on, and ever keeping him in the midst, so
that no man could attack him, fought their way into the city.
The clash of swords and roar of voices, the dust and heat and
pressure, the trampling under foot of men, the distracted looks and
shrieks of women at the windows above as they recognised their
relatives or lovers in the crowd, the rapid tolling of alarm-bells,
the furious rage and passion of the scene, were fearful. Those
who, being on the outskirts of each crowd, could use their weapons
with effect, fought desperately, while those behind, maddened with
baffled rage, struck at each other over the heads of those before
them, and crushed their own fellows. Wherever the broken sword was
seen above the people's heads, towards that spot the cavaliers made
a new rush. Every one of these charges was marked by sudden gaps
in the throng where men were trodden down, but as fast as they were
made, the tide swept over them, and still the multitude pressed on
again, a confused mass of swords, clubs, staves, broken plumes,
fragments of rich cloaks and doublets,
and angry, bleeding faces,
all mixed up together in inextricable disorder.
The design of the people was to force Master Graham to take refuge
in his dwelling, and to defend it until the authorities could
interfere, or they could gain time for parley. But either from
ignorance or in the confusion of the moment they stopped at his old
house, which was closely shut. Some time was lost in beating the
doors open and passing him to the front. About a score of the
boldest of the other party threw themselves into the torrent while
this was being done, and reaching the door at the same moment with
himself cut him off from his defenders.
“I never will turn in such a righteous cause, so help me
Heaven!”
cried Graham, in a voice that at last made itself heard, and
confronting them as he spoke. “Least of all will I turn upon this
threshold which owes its desolation to such men as ye. I give no
quarter, and I will have none! Strike!”
For a moment they stood at bay. At that moment a shot from an
unseen hand, apparently fired by some person who had gained access
to one of the opposite houses, struck Graham in the brain, and he
fell dead. A low wail was heard in the air, — many people in the
concourse cried that they had seen a spirit glide across the little
casement window of the Bowyer's house -
A dead silence succeeded. After a short time some of the flushed
and heated throng laid down their arms and softly carried the body
within doors. Others fell off or slunk away in knots of two or
three, others whispered together in groups, and before a numerous
guard which then rode up could muster in the street, it was nearly
empty.
Those who carried Master Graham to the bed up-stairs were shocked
to see a woman lying beneath the window with her hands clasped
together. After trying to recover her in vain, they laid her near
the citizen, who still retained, tightly grasped in his right hand,
the first and last sword that was broken that day at Lud Gate.
The Giant uttered these concluding words with sudden precipitation;
and on the instant the strange light which had filled the hall
faded away. Joe Toddyhigh glanced involuntarily at the eastern
window, and saw the first pale gleam of morning. He turned his
head again towards the other window in which the Giants had been
seated. It was empty. The cask of wine was gone, and he could
dimly make out that the two great figures stood mute and motionless
upon their pedestals.
After rubbing his eyes and wondering for full half an hour, during
which time he observed morning come creeping on apace, he yielded
to the drowsiness which overpowered him and fell into a refreshing
slumber. When he awoke it was broad day; the building was open,
and workmen were busily engaged in removing the vestiges of last
night's feast.
Stealing gently down the little stairs, and assuming the air of
some early lounger who had dropped in from the street, he walked up
to the foot of each pedestal in turn, and attentively examined the
figure it supported. There could be no doubt about the features of
either; he recollected the exact expression they had worn at
different passages of their conversation, and recognised in every
line and lineament the Giants of the night. Assured that it was no
vision, but that he had heard and seen with his own proper senses,
he walked forth, determining at all hazards to conceal himself in
the Guildhall again that evening. He further resolved to sleep all
day, so that he might be very wakeful and vigilant, and above all
that he might take notice of the figures at the precise moment of
their becoming animated and subsiding into their old state, which
he greatly reproached himself for not having done already.
