that time London was considered one of the murkiest capitals in Europe. For the most part, the houses were mean, the lower stories built of plaster, and the upper, which were of timber, projecting over the lower; and, as has been observed, many of the streets were so narrow that the inhabitants, when they ascended to the roofs to breathe the fresh air, and look forth on the country, could converse with ease, and sometimes even shake hands.
Nevertheless, London was renowned for its wealth, and ever and anon the eye of a visitor was struck with some edifice rising with lofty dignity from among the dingy houses that lined the long narrow streets – the Tower Palatine, the Hospital of St. Katherine, the castles of Baynard and Montfichet, reared by Norman conquerors; the half-fortified mansions, inhabited by prelates and nobles when they were summoned to the king’s court; the residences of the richer citizens, who derived from their trade incomes that enabled them to rival the nobles in splendour; and the thirteen conventual, and the hundred and twenty-six parish churches, which studded the city, and kept alive the flames of learning and religion.
Moreover, within and without the walls, there were chapelries, and gardens, and places pleasant to the gazer’s eye. Orchards blossomed and apples grew where now are Paternoster Row and Ivy Lane, and to the north of Holborn, where, somewhat later, John de Kirkby built the palace for the Bishop of Ely; associated with the memory of John of Gaunt. Outside of Ludgate, and beyond the bridge that spanned the Fleet, and beyond the house of the Templars and Lincoln’s Inn, the town residence of the Lacies, was the Strand, overgrown with bushes and intersected with rivulets, having on one side the river, where barges floated and salmon leaped and swans glided; and on the other, gardens and fields, dotted with suburban villas, and stretching away in one direction to the chase and palace of Marylebone, and the hills of Highgate and Hampstead; and in another by Clerkenwell and Islington to the great forest of Middlesex, which was not, however, disforested till 1218, when the citizens had an opportunity of purchasing land and building houses and greatly extending the suburbs.
Many and various were the sports and recreations in which the ancient Londoners indulged on high days and holidays. It is to be feared that they did yield in some measure to the temptations of the maypole, the tavern, the cockpit, the bull-ring, and the gaming-house, and even found their way at times to “the vaulted room of gramarye,” in which the wizard exercised his art. But generally their recreations were of a manly and invigorating kind. They played football in the fields near the Holy Well, wrestled for the ram near Matilda’s Hospital, in St. Giles’s Fields, had horse-races and matches at quintain in Smithfield; and, when the Thames was frozen over, they tied sheep-bones to their feet – skates not having then come into fashion – and tilted against each other with staves in full career. Nor did they, at other times, neglect such aquatic exercises as were likely to train them to skill and hardihood. “A pole,” says the chronicler, “is set up in the middle of the river, and a shield made fast thereto. Then a young man, standing in a boat, which, being rowed by oars and driven by the tide, glides swiftly on, while he with his lance hits the target as the boat passes by, when if he breaks his lance without losing his own footing he performeth well; but if, on the contrary, the lance remains unbroken, he will be tumbled into the water, and the boat passes on. Nevertheless, there are always two boats ready to succour him.”
Around the walls of London were houses, and churches, and hospitals; and Fitzstephen, writing with the scene before his eye, tells us that “on all sides, without the suburbs, are the citizens’ gardens or orchards.” But of all the suburbs, Clerkenwell, where stood the Priory of the Knights of St. John, and the great mansion of the De Clares, was the fairest. In fact, Clerkenwell, then a village some distance from London, was one of the most picturesque places in England, having on every side but that towards the city the prospect of wooded hills and uplands, mingled with luxuriant verdure; while the river Holborn, its banks clothed with vines, wound among romantic steeps and secluded dells; and there, among glittering pebbles, was the fountain called “Fons Clericorum,” from which the village took its name, because the youths and students of the city – and the schools of London were frequented by diligent scholars – were in the habit of strolling out, on summer evenings, to take the air and taste the water.
It was at Clerkenwell, in a pleasant garden, which, however, was evidently intended more for use than ornament, and flanked by an orchard, where fruit trees grew thick, and afforded shady walks for its musing and meditative owner, that the suburban villa of Constantine Fitzarnulph was situated; and it was there that, in the spring of 1215, the season of Lent being over, the young citizen gave a supper to some of the Londoners whose wealth and influence were greatest, such as the Hardels, the Basings, and the Fitz-Peters, the kind of men of whom, thirty years later, Henry III., when advised to sell his crown jewels, and told that, if no other purchaser could be found rich enough to buy them, the citizens of London could, exclaimed, “Yes, by God’s head, I suppose that if the treasures of Augustus Cæsar were in the market, these clownish citizens, who call themselves barons, could lay down money enough to buy them.” But in one respect Henry was wrong. The citizens of London were not “clowns;” their hospitality was proverbial, and intercourse with foreigners refined their manners and enlarged their minds. Neither in point of breeding or intelligence were the guests of Fitzarnulph at all inferior to the Bigods and Bohuns who set kings at defiance, and wedded kings’ daughters.
Nor did the villa of the Fitzarnulphs lack any of the luxuries which at that period could be found in the castle of prince or feudal noble. In the hall where the guests were assembled appeared the enamelled work of Limoges, the linen of Ipres, then celebrated for its manufacture – hence “diaper” – and the products of Spain and Italy, and the spoils of Constantinople, recently seized and plundered by the crusaders under Baldwin of Flanders and Dandolo, the blind Doge of Venice. On the table, around which they sat on chairs curiously carved, were saltcellars of rare workmanship, and copper candlesticks, engraved and gilt, with enamel of seven colours let into the metal, and displaying figures of animals, and dishes, cups, and boxes ornamented like the candlesticks. The walls and wainscot were painted with subjects from history or fable; and more than one image and more than one picture recalled to memory the recent sack of that rich city on the Bosphorus to which the eye of Norman and Frank had for centuries been longingly turned.
The supper was not placed on the board, but, according to the fashion of the day, served to the guests on spits. At first the company appeared under constraint and silent; but when supper was over, and the attendants were ordered to leave the apartments, and the doors were closed, so that the conversation might be strictly private, and when Fitzarnulph had pointed significantly to the rose on the roof-tree, surrounded with the legend —
“He who doth secrets reveal
Beneath my roof shall never live;”
and when the wine, which had neither been produced on the banks of the Holborn nor in the vineyards of Gloucester, flowed freely, their tongues were loosened, and they expressed themselves without hesitation as to the crisis which public affairs had reached, not by any means sparing King John, whose character they evidently viewed in the very worst light. Two of the party, however, preserved their discretion. One was Joseph Basing, a cautious man, who had been Sheriff of London in the previous year; the other a youth of patrician aspect, in a half-martial dress, with handsome features, and a keen eye which kindled with enthusiasm when noble words were spoken, and a proud lip which curled with scorn when a mean sentiment was expressed.
“Sirs,” said Joseph Basing, after listening silently and with an air of alarm to remarks which, if repeated, might have cost ten lives, “I will not take upon me to dispute that there is some truth in much that has been said, and especially that, in the matter of taxes and imposts, the Londoners have of late had burdens laid on their shoulders which men cannot and ought not to bear with patience. Nevertheless, we must look before we leap, lest we should meet the fate of William Fitzozbert, who was hanged at the Nine Elms, in Richard’s time, for calling himself King of the Poor, and speaking ill of the powers that be. For myself, I care not to place myself in jeopardy, even for the weal of my fellow-citizens, unless I see a way of getting safely out again; and, for the king, I believe it is said in Holy Writ, ‘Curse not
