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  FIRST NIGHT OF THE GIANT CHRONICLES

  Turning towards his companion the elder Giant uttered these words in agrave, majestic tone:

  ‘Magog, does boisterous mirth beseem the Giant Warder of this ancientcity? Is this becoming demeanour for a watchful spirit over whosebodiless head so many years have rolled, so many changes swept like emptyair—in whose impalpable nostrils the scent of blood and crime,pestilence, cruelty, and horror, has been familiar as breath tomortals—in whose sight Time has gathered in the harvest of centuries, andgarnered so many crops of human pride, affections, hopes, and sorrows?Bethink you of our compact. The night wanes; feasting, revelry, andmusic have encroached upon our usual hours of solitude, and morning willbe here apace. Ere we are stricken mute again, bethink you of ourcompact.’

  Pronouncing these latter words with more of impatience than quiteaccorded with his apparent age and gravity, the Giant raised a long pole(which he still bears in his hand) and tapped his brother Giant rathersmartly on the head; indeed, the blow was so smartly administered, thatthe latter quickly withdrew his lips from the cask, to which they hadbeen applied, and, catching up his shield and halberd, assumed anattitude of defence. His irritation was but momentary, for he laid theseweapons 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 theLondoners of old assigned (and not unworthily) to the guardian genii oftheir city, we are susceptible of some of the sensations which belong tohuman 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 armis none of the lightest, keep your good staff by your side, else we maychance to differ. Peace be between us!’

  ‘Amen!’ said the other, leaning his staff in the window-corner. ‘Why didyou laugh just now?’

  ‘To think,’ replied the Giant Magog, laying his hand upon the cask, ‘ofhim who owned this wine, and kept it in a cellar hoarded from the lightof day, for thirty years,—“till it should be fit to drink,” quoth he. Hewas twoscore and ten years old when he buried it beneath his house, andyet never thought that he might be scarcely “fit to drink” when the winebecame so. I wonder it never occurred to him to make himself unfit to beeaten. There is very little of him left by this time.’

  [Picture: Gog and Magog]

  ‘The night is waning,’ said Gog mournfully.

  ‘I know it,’ replied his companion, ‘and I see you are impatient. Butlook. Through the eastern window—placed opposite to us, that the firstbeams of the rising sun may every morning gild our giant faces—themoon-rays fall upon the pavement in a stream of light that to my fancysinks through the cold stone and gushes into the old crypt below. Thenight is scarcely past its noon, and our great charge is sleepingheavily.’

  They ceased to speak, and looked upward at the moon. The sight of theirlarge, black, rolling eyes filled Joe Toddyhigh with such horror that hecould scarcely draw his breath. Still they took no note of him, andappeared 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, weentertain each other with stories of our past experience; with tales ofthe past, the present, and the future; with legends of London and hersturdy 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 thusdiscourse, nor leave such themes till the first gray gleam of day shallstrike us dumb. Is that our bargain, brother?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Giant Gog, ‘that is the league between us who guard thiscity, by day in spirit, and by night in body also; and never on ancientholidays have its conduits run wine more merrily than we will pour forthour legendary lore. We are old chroniclers from this time hence. Thecrumbled walls encircle us once more, the postern-gates are closed, thedrawbridge is up, and pent in its narrow den beneath, the water foams andstruggles with the sunken starlings. Jerkins and quarter-staves are inthe streets again, the nightly watch is set, the rebel, sad and lonely inhis Tower dungeon, tries to sleep and weeps for home and children. Aloftupon the gates and walls are noble heads glaring fiercely down upon thedreaming city, and vexing the hungry dogs that scent them in the air, andtear the ground beneath with dismal howlings. The axe, the block, therack, in their dark chambers give signs of recent use. The Thames,floating past long lines of cheerful windows whence come a burst of musicand a stream of light, bears suddenly to the Palace wall the last redstain 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 theforegoing rhapsody of his fellow-sentinel he had been scratching his headwith an air of comical uneasiness, or rather with an air that would havebeen very comical if he had been a dwarf or an ordinary-sized man. Hewinked too, and though it could not be doubted for a moment that hewinked to himself, still he certainly cocked his enormous eye towards thegallery where the listener was concealed. Nor was this all, for hegaped; and when he gaped, Joe was horribly reminded of the popularprejudice on the subject of giants, and of their fabled power of smellingout Englishmen, however closely concealed.

  His alarm was such that he nearly swooned, and it was some little timebefore his power of sight or hearing was restored. When he recovered hefound that the elder Giant was pressing the younger to commence theChronicles, and that the latter was endeavouring to excuse himself on theground that the night was far spent, and it would be better to wait untilthe next. Well assured by this that he was certainly about to begindirectly, the listener collected his faculties by a great effort, anddistinctly heard Magog express himself to the following effect:

  * * * * *

  In the sixteenth century and in the reign of Queen Elizabeth of gloriousmemory (albeit her golden days are sadly rusted with blood), there livedin the city of London a bold young ’prentice who loved his master’sdaughter. There were no doubt within the walls a great many ’prenticesin 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 ofCheype, and was rumoured to possess great wealth. Rumour was quite asinfallible in those days as at the present time, but it happened then asnow to be sometimes right by accident. It stumbled upon the truth whenit gave the old Bowyer a mint of money. His trade had been a profitableone in the time of King Henry the Eighth, who encouraged English archeryto the utmost, and he had been prudent and discreet. Thus it came topass that Mistress Alice, his only daughter, was the richest heiress inall his wealthy ward. Young Hugh had often maintained with staff andcudgel that she was the handsomest. To do him justice, I believe shewas.

  If he could have gained the heart of pretty Mistress Alice by knockingthis conviction into stubborn people’s heads, Hugh would have had nocause to fear. But though the Bowyer’s daughter smiled in secret to hearof his doughty deeds for her sake, and though her little waiting-womanreported all her smiles (and many more) to Hugh, and though he was at avast expense in kisses and small coin to recompense her fidelity, he madeno progress in his love. He durst not whisper it to Mistress Alice saveon sure encouragement, and that she never gave him. A glance of her darkeye as she sat at the door on a summer’s evening after prayer-time, whilehe and the neighbouring ’prentices exercised themselves in the streetwith blunted sword and buckler, would fire Hugh’s blood so that nonecould stand before him; but then she glanced at others quite as kindly ason him, and where was the use of cracking crowns if Mistress Alice smiledupon the cracked as well as on the cracker?

  Still Hugh went on, and loved her more and more. He thought of her allday, and dreamed of her all night long. He treasured up her every wordand gesture, and had a palpitation of the heart whenever he heard herfootstep on the stairs or her voice in an adjoining room. To him, theold Bowyer’s hou
se was haunted by an angel; there was enchantment in theair and space in which she moved. It would have been no miracle to Hughif flowers had sprung from the rush-strewn floors beneath the tread oflovely Mistress Alice.

  Never did ’prentice long to distinguish himself in the eyes of hislady-love so ardently as Hugh. Sometimes he pictured to himself thehouse taking fire by night, and he, when all drew back in fear, rushingthrough flame and smoke, and bearing her from the ruins in his arms. Atother times he thought of a rising of fierce rebels, an attack upon thecity, a strong assault upon the Bowyer’s house in particular, and hefalling on the threshold pierced with numberless wounds in defence ofMistress Alice. If he could only enact some prodigy of valour, do somewonderful deed, and let her know that she had inspired it, he thought hecould die contented.

  Sometimes the Bowyer and his daughter would go out to supper with aworthy citizen at the fashionable hour of six o’clock, and on suchoccasions Hugh, wearing his blue ’prentice cloak as gallantly as’prentice might, would attend with a lantern and his trusty club toescort them home. These were the brightest moments of his life. To holdthe light while Mistress Alice picked her steps, to touch her hand as hehelped her over broken ways, to have her leaning on his arm,—it sometimeseven came to that,—this was happiness indeed!

  When the nights were fair, Hugh followed in the rear, his eyes riveted onthe graceful figure of the Bowyer’s daughter as she and the old man movedon before him. So they threaded the narrow winding streets of the city,now passing beneath the overhanging gables of old wooden houses whencecreaking signs projected into the street, and now emerging from some darkand frowning gateway into the clear moonlight. At such times, or whenthe shouts of straggling brawlers met her ear, the Bowyer’s daughterwould look timidly back at Hugh, beseeching him to draw nearer; and thenhow 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 thegallants of the Court, and thus it happened that many a richly-dressedgentleman dismounted at his door. More waving plumes and gallant steeds,indeed, were seen at the Bowyer’s house, and more embroidered silks andvelvets sparkled in his dark shop and darker private closet, than at anymerchants in the city. In those times no less than in the present itwould seem that the richest-looking cavaliers often wanted money themost.

  [Picture: A Gallant Cavalier]

  Of these glittering clients there was one who always came alone. He wasnobly mounted, and, having no attendant, gave his horse in charge to Hughwhile he and the Bowyer were closeted within. Once as he sprung into thesaddle Mistress Alice was seated at an upper window, and before she couldwithdraw he had doffed his jewelled cap and kissed his hand. Hughwatched him caracoling down the street, and burnt with indignation. Buthow much deeper was the glow that reddened in his cheeks when, raisinghis eyes to the casement, he saw that Alice watched the stranger too!

  He came again and often, each time arrayed more gaily than before, andstill the little casement showed him Mistress Alice. At length one heavyday, she fled from home. It had cost her a hard struggle, for all herold father’s gifts were strewn about her chamber as if she had partedfrom them one by one, and knew that the time must come when these tokensof his love would wring her heart,—yet she was gone.

  She left a letter commanding her poor father to the care of Hugh, andwishing he might be happier than ever he could have been with her, for hedeserved 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 sheprayed God to bless him,—and so ended with a blot upon the paper whereher tears had fallen.

  At first the old man’s wrath was kindled, and he carried his wrong to theQueen’s throne itself; but there was no redress he learnt at Court, forhis daughter had been conveyed abroad. This afterwards appeared to bethe truth, as there came from France, after an interval of several years,a letter in her hand. It was written in trembling characters, and almostillegible. Little could be made out save that she often thought of homeand her old dear pleasant room,—and that she had dreamt her father wasdead 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 onlylink that bound him to earth. It broke at length and hedied,—bequeathing his old ’prentice his trade and all his wealth, andsolemnly charging him with his last breath to revenge his child if everhe who had worked her misery crossed his path in life again.

  From the time of Alice’s flight, the tilting-ground, the fields, thefencing-school, the summer-evening sports, knew Hugh no more. His spiritwas dead within him. He rose to great eminence and repute among thecitizens, but was seldom seen to smile, and never mingled in theirrevelries or rejoicings. Brave, humane, and generous, he was beloved byall. He was pitied too by those who knew his story, and these were somany that when he walked along the streets alone at dusk, even the rudecommon people doffed their caps and mingled a rough air of sympathy withtheir respect.

  One night in May—it was her birthnight, and twenty years since she hadleft her home—Hugh Graham sat in the room she had hallowed in his boyishdays. 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 hadgradually grown quite dark, when he was roused by a low knocking at theouter door.

  He hastened down, and opening it saw by the light of a lamp which he hadseized upon the way, a female figure crouching in the portal. It hurriedswiftly 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 avague suspicion of the truth flashed upon his mind. He barred the door,and hastened wildly back. Yes, there she was,—there, in the chamber hehad quitted,—there in her old innocent, happy home, so changed that nonebut he could trace one gleam of what she had been,—there upon herknees,—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 broughtdeath 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 roundthe chamber. Everything was in its old place. Her bed looked as if shehad risen from it but that morning. The sight of these familiar objects,marking the dear remembrance in which she had been held, and the blightshe had brought upon herself, was more than the woman’s better naturethat had carried her there could bear. She wept and fell upon theground.

  A rumour was spread about, in a few days’ time, that the Bowyer’s crueldaughter had come home, and that Master Graham had given her lodging inhis house. It was rumoured too that he had resigned her fortune, inorder that she might bestow it in acts of charity, and that he had vowedto guard her in her solitude, but that they were never to see each othermore. These rumours greatly incensed all virtuous wives and daughters inthe ward, especially when they appeared to receive some corroborationfrom the circumstance of Master Graham taking up his abode in anothertenement hard by. The estimation in which he was held, however, forbadeany questioning on the subject; and as the Bowyer’s house was close shutup, and nobody came forth when public shows and festivities were inprogress, or to flaunt in the public walks, or to buy new fashions at themercers’ booths, all the well-conducted females agreed among themselvesthat there could be no woman there.

  These reports had scarcely died away when the wonder of every goodcitizen, male and female, was utterly absorbed and swallowed up by aRoyal Proclamation, in which her Majesty, strongly censuring the practiceof wearing long Spanish rapiers of preposterous length (as being abullying and swaggering custom, tending to bloodshed and publicdisorder), commanded that on a particular day therein named, certaingrave citizens should repair to the city gates, and there, in public,break all rapiers worn or carri
ed by persons claiming admission, thatexceeded, though it were only by a quarter of an inch, three standardfeet in length.

  Royal Proclamations usually take their course, let the public wondernever so much. On the appointed day two citizens of high repute took uptheir stations at each of the gates, attended by a party of the cityguard, the main body to enforce the Queen’s will, and take custody of allsuch rebels (if any) as might have the temerity to dispute it: and a fewto bear the standard measures and instruments for reducing all unlawfulsword-blades to the prescribed dimensions. In pursuance of thesearrangements, Master Graham and another were posted at Lud Gate, on thehill 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 wasa motley crowd of lookers-on of various degrees, who raised from time totime such shouts and cries as the circumstances called forth. A spruceyoung courtier was the first who approached: he unsheathed a weapon ofburnished steel that shone and glistened in the sun, and handed it withthe 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. Thencame another—a better courtier still—who wore a blade but two feet long,whereat the people laughed, much to the disparagement of his honour’sdignity. Then came a third, a sturdy old officer of the army, girdedwith 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 (butespecially those who were armourers or cutlers) laughed very heartily atthe breakage which would ensue. But they were disappointed; for the oldcampaigner, coolly unbuckling his sword and bidding his servant carry ithome again, passed through unarmed, to the great indignation of all thebeholders. They relieved themselves in some degree by hooting a tallblustering fellow with a prodigious weapon, who stopped short on comingin sight of the preparations, and after a little consideration turnedback again. But all this time no rapier had been broken, although it washigh noon, and all cavaliers of any quality or appearance were takingtheir way towards Saint Paul’s churchyard.

  During these proceedings, Master Graham had stood apart, strictlyconfining himself to the duty imposed upon him, and taking little heed ofanything beyond. He stepped forward now as a richly-dressed gentleman onfoot, followed by a single attendant, was seen advancing up the hill.

  As this person drew nearer, the crowd stopped their clamour, and bentforward with eager looks. Master Graham standing alone in the gateway,and the stranger coming slowly towards him, they seemed, as it were, setface to face. The nobleman (for he looked one) had a haughty anddisdainful air, which bespoke the slight estimation in which he held thecitizen. The citizen, on the other hand, preserved the resolute bearingof one who was not to be frowned down or daunted, and who cared verylittle for any nobility but that of worth and manhood. It was perhapssome consciousness on the part of each, of these feelings in the other,that infused a more stern expression into their regards as they camecloser together.

  ‘Your rapier, worthy sir!’

  At the instant that he pronounced these words Graham started, and fallingback 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 stepbetween us two, or I shall be his murderer.’ With that he drew hisdagger, and rushed in upon him.

  The stranger had drawn his weapon from the scabbard ready for thescrutiny, 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 inuse at that time for parrying such blows, promptly turned the pointaside. They closed. The dagger fell rattling on the ground, and Graham,wresting his adversary’s sword from his grasp, plunged it through hisheart. As he drew it out it snapped in two, leaving a fragment in thedead man’s body.

  All this passed so swiftly that the bystanders looked on without aneffort to interfere; but the man was no sooner down than an uproar brokeforth which rent the air. The attendant rushing through the gateproclaimed that his master, a nobleman, had been set upon and slain by acitizen; the word quickly spread from mouth to mouth; Saint Paul’sCathedral, and every book-shop, ordinary, and smoking-house in thechurchyard poured out its stream of cavaliers and their followers, whomingling together in a dense tumultuous body, struggled, sword in hand,towards the spot.

  With equal impetuosity, and stimulating each other by loud cries andshouts, 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 woulddie on London’s threshold for their sacred homes. They bore him on, andever keeping him in the midst, so that no man could attack him, foughttheir 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 ofwomen at the windows above as they recognised their relatives or loversin the crowd, the rapid tolling of alarm-bells, the furious rage andpassion of the scene, were fearful. Those who, being on the outskirts ofeach crowd, could use their weapons with effect, fought desperately,while those behind, maddened with baffled rage, struck at each other overthe heads of those before them, and crushed their own fellows. Whereverthe broken sword was seen above the people’s heads, towards that spot thecavaliers made a new rush. Every one of these charges was marked bysudden gaps in the throng where men were trodden down, but as fast asthey were made, the tide swept over them, and still the multitude pressedon again, a confused mass of swords, clubs, staves, broken plumes,fragments of rich cloaks and doublets, and angry, bleeding faces, allmixed up together in inextricable disorder.

  The design of the people was to force Master Graham to take refuge in hisdwelling, and to defend it until the authorities could interfere, or theycould gain time for parley. But either from ignorance or in theconfusion of the moment they stopped at his old house, which was closelyshut. Some time was lost in beating the doors open and passing him tothe front. About a score of the boldest of the other party threwthemselves into the torrent while this was being done, and reaching thedoor 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!’ criedGraham, in a voice that at last made itself heard, and confronting themas he spoke. ‘Least of all will I turn upon this threshold which owesits desolation to such men as ye. I give no quarter, and I will havenone! Strike!’

  For a moment they stood at bay. At that moment a shot from an unseenhand, apparently fired by some person who had gained access to one of theopposite houses, struck Graham in the brain, and he fell dead. A lowwail was heard in the air,—many people in the concourse cried that theyhad seen a spirit glide across the little casement window of the Bowyer’shouse—

  A dead silence succeeded. After a short time some of the flushed andheated throng laid down their arms and softly carried the body withindoors. Others fell off or slunk away in knots of two or three, otherswhispered together in groups, and before a numerous guard which then rodeup could muster in the street, it was nearly empty.

  [Picture: Death of Master Graham]

  Those who carried Master Graham to the bed up-stairs were shocked to seea woman lying beneath the window with her hands clasped together. Aftertrying to recover her in vain, they laid her near the citizen, who stillretained, tightly grasped in his right hand, the first and last swordthat was broken that day at Lud Gate.

  * * * * *

  The Giant uttered these concluding words with sudden precipitation; andon the instant the strange light which had filled the hall faded away.Joe Toddyhigh glanced involuntarily at the easter
n window, and saw thefirst pale gleam of morning. He turned his head again towards the otherwindow in which the Giants had been seated. It was empty. The cask ofwine was gone, and he could dimly make out that the two great figuresstood mute and motionless upon their pedestals.

  After rubbing his eyes and wondering for full half an hour, during whichtime he observed morning come creeping on apace, he yielded to thedrowsiness which overpowered him and fell into a refreshing slumber.When he awoke it was broad day; the building was open, and workmen werebusily engaged in removing the vestiges of last night’s feast.

  Stealing gently down the little stairs, and assuming the air of someearly lounger who had dropped in from the street, he walked up to thefoot of each pedestal in turn, and attentively examined the figure itsupported. There could be no doubt about the features of either; herecollected the exact expression they had worn at different passages oftheir conversation, and recognised in every line and lineament the Giantsof the night. Assured that it was no vision, but that he had heard andseen with his own proper senses, he walked forth, determining at allhazards to conceal himself in the Guildhall again that evening. Hefurther resolved to sleep all day, so that he might be very wakeful andvigilant, and above all that he might take notice of the figures at theprecise moment of their becoming animated and subsiding into their oldstate, which he greatly reproached himself for not having done already.