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Title: Medieval People

Author: Eileen Power

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEDIEVAL
PEOPLE ***

Medieval People
by

EILEEN POWER
M.A., D.Lit.

Late Reader in History in the University of
London and sometime Fellow and Lecturer of
Girton College, Cambridge

'I counsel thee, shut not thy heart nor thy library'
CHARLES LAMB

First published, 1924

To
my colleagues and students
at Girton College, Cambridge
1913-20

For if heuene be on this erthe . and ese to any soule,
It is in cloistere or in scole . by many skilles I fynde;
For in cloistre cometh no man . to chide ne to fizte,
But alle is buxomnesse there and bokes . to rede and
to lerne,
In scole there is scorne . but if a clerke wil lerne,
And grete loue and lykynge . for eche of hem loueth
other.

--LANGLAND, Piers Plowman

Author's Preface
Social history sometimes suffers from the reproach that it is vague and
general, unable to compete with the attractions of political history either for
the student or for the general reader, because of its lack of outstanding
personalities. In point of fact there is often as much material for
reconstructing the life of some quite ordinary person as there is for writing a
history of Robert of Normandy or of Philippa of Hainault; and the lives of
ordinary people so reconstructed are, if less spectacular, certainly not less
interesting. I believe that social history lends itself particularly to what may
be called a personal treatment, and that the past may be made to live again
for the general reader more effectively by personifying it than by presenting
it in the form of learned treatises on the development of the manor or on
medieval trade, essential as these are to the specialist. For history, after all,
is valuable only in so far as it lives, and Maeterlinck's cry, 'There are no
dead', should always be the historian's motto. It is the idea that history is
about dead people, or, worse still, about movements and conditions which
seem but vaguely related to the labours and passions of flesh and blood,
which has driven history from bookshelves where the historical novel still
finds a welcome place.
In the following series of sketches I have tried to illustrate at the same time
various aspects of social life in the Middle Ages and various classes of
historical material. Thus Bodo illustrates peasant life, and an early phase of
a typical medieval estate; Marco Polo, Venetian trade with the East;
Madame Eglentyne, monastic life; the Ménagier's wife, domestic life in a
middle-class home, and medieval ideas about women; Thomas Betson, the
wool trade, and the activities of the great English trading company of
Merchants of the Staple; and Thomas Paycocke, the cloth industry in East
Anglia. They are all quite ordinary people and unknown to fame, with the
exception of Marco Polo. The types of historical evidence illustrated are the
estate book of a manorial lord, the chronicle and traveller's tale, the bishop's
register, the didactic treatise in household management, the collection of
family letters, and houses, brasses, and wills. At the end of the book I have
added a bibliography of the sources which form the raw material for my

reconstructions, and a few additional notes and references. I hope that this
modest attempt to bring to life again some of 'our fathers that begat us', may
perhaps interest for an hour or two the general reader, or the teacher, who
wishes to make more concrete by personification some of the general facts
of medieval social and economic history.
My thanks are due to my publishers, Messrs. Methuen and Co., for allowing
me to incorporate in Chapter VI the greater part of a chapter in my book
'The Paycockes of Coggeshall', and to the Cambridge University Press for
similarly allowing me to repeat in Chapter III a few sentences from my
study of 'Medieval English Nunneries'. I have also to thank my friends Miss
M.G. Jones and Miss H.M.R. Murray of Girton College, Cambridge, for
various suggestions and criticisms, and my sister Miss Rhoda Power for
making the index.

May 1924
EILEEN POWER

London School of Economics and Political Science
University of London

Preface to the Tenth Edition
For years after the first edition of Medieval People had come out, Eileen
Power collected notes and made plans for several essays to be included in
an enlarged edition of the book. Of these essays only one, "The Precursors",
had been written out in full before she died; and it has now been added to
the present edition. In its published form it is not in every respect identical
with the author's original text.
The essay was taking shape as Munich came and went and as the war itself
was drawing near. No historian writing at that time about Rome menaced by
the barbarians--and least of all an historian as sensitive to the extra-mural
world as Eileen Power was--could have helped noting the similarities
between the Roman Empire in the fifth or sixth centuries and Europe in the
nineteen-thirties. In the end, having finished the essay, she decided to
withold it from publication for the time being and to present it instead to a
friendly audience as a tract for the times. This she did at a meeting of the
Cambridge History Club in the winter of 1938: and for that occasion she
replaced the opening and concluding pages of the original essay with
passages, or rather notes for passages, more suited to the purpose.
I am sure that she never intended these passages to be perpetuated in her
Medieval People and I have therefore done what I could to replace them
with a reconstructed version of her first draft. The reconstruction had to be
done from somewhat disjointed notes and cannot therefore be word-faithful.
The readers must therefore bear in mind that the first two and the last page
of the essay are mere approximations to what Eileen Power in fact wrote.

April, 1963
M.M. POSTAN

Peterhouse, Cambridge.

Contents
I. THE PRECURSORS
BODO, A FRANKISH PEASANT IN THE
II.
TIME OF CHARLEMAGNE
MARCO POLO, A VENETIAN
III. TRAVELLER OF THE THIRTEENTH
CENTURY
MADAME EGLENTYNE, CHAUCER'S
IV.
PRIORESS IN REAL LIFE
THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE, A PARIS
V. HOUSEWIFE IN THE FOURTEENTH
CENTURY
THOMAS BETSON, A MERCHANT OF
VI. THE STAPLE IN THE FIFTEENTH
CENTURY
THOMAS PAYCOCKE OF COGGESHALL,
VII. AN ESSEX CLOTHIER IN THE DAYS OF
HENRY VII
NOTES AND SOURCES
NOTES ON ILLUSTRATIONS
INDEX

List of Illustrations
I. BODO AT HIS WORK
From MS. Tit. B.V., Pt. I. British Museum
EMBARKATION OF THE POLOS AT
II.
VENICE
From Bodleian MS. 264. Oxford
PART OF A LANDSCAPE BY CHAO
III.
MÊNG-FU
From the original in the British Museum
IV. MADAME EGLENTYNE AT HOME
From MS. Add. 39843. British Museum
THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE HAS A GARDEN
V.
PARTY
From Harl. MS. 4425. British Museum
THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE COOKS HIS
VI.
SUPPER WITH THE AID OF HIS BOOK
From MS. Royal, 15 D. i. British Museum
CALAIS ABOUT THE TIME OF THOMAS
VII.
BETSON
From Cott. MS. Aug. i, Vol. II. British
Museum
THOMAS PAYCOCKE'S HOUSE AT
VIII.
COGGESHALL
From The Paycockes of Coggeshall by
Eileen Power (Methuen & Co. Ltd.)
A MAP OF THE JOURNEYS OF THE
POLOS

Let us now praise famous men and our fathers that begat us....
There be of them that have left a name behind them, that their praises might
be reported.
And some there be which have no memorial; who are perished, as though
they had never been; and are become as though they had never been born;
and their children after them.
But these were merciful men, whose righteousness hath not been forgotten.
With their seed shall continually remain a good inheritance, and their
children are within the covenant.
Their seed standeth fast, and their children for their sakes.
Their seed shall remain for ever, and their glory shall not be blotted out.
Their bodies are buried in peace; but their name liveth for evermore.
ECCLESIASTICUS xliv.

CHAPTER I

The Precursors

I. ROME IN DECLINE

Every schoolboy knows that the Middle Ages arose on the ruins of the
Roman Empire. The decline of Rome preceded and in some ways prepared
the rise of the kingdoms and cultures which composed the medieval system.
Yet in spite of the self-evident truth of this historical preposition we know
little about life and thought in the watershed years when Europe was
ceasing to be Roman but was not yet medieval. We do not know how it felt
to watch the decline of Rome; we do not even know whether the men who
watched it knew what they saw, though we can be quite certain that none of
them foretold, indeed could have foreseen, the shape which the world was
to take in later centuries.
Yet the tragic story, its main themes and protagonists were for all to see. No
observer should have failed to notice that the Roman Empire of the fourth
and fifth centuries was no longer the Roman Empire of the great Antonine
and Augustan age; that it had lost its hold over its territories and its
economic cohesion and was menaced by the barbarians who were in the end
to overwhelm it. The territory of the Roman Empire had at its height
stretched from the lands bordering the North Sea to the lands on the
northern fringes of the Sahara, and from the Atlantic coast of Europe to the
central Asiatic Steppes; it comprised most of the regions of the former
Hellenic, Iranian, and Phoenician empires, and it either ruled or kept in
check great clusters of peoples and principalities beyond its Gallic and
north African frontiers. From these farthest frontiers Rome of the fourth
century had retreated and was still retreating.
Within its frontiers great currents of inter-regional commerce had in earlier
centuries flowed along the routes which bound all the provinces of the

Empire to Rome and most of the provinces to each other. But from the third
century onwards the economic unity of the Empire was in dissolution, and
by the fifth century most of the great currents of inter-regional trade had
ceased to flow, and provinces and districts had been thrown upon
themselves and their own resources. And with the wealth of the provinces
reduced, their commerce restricted, the great provincial cities also declined
in population, wealth, political power.
Yet to its very last days the Empire endeavoured to defend its frontiers
against the converging barbarians. Not only did the Barbarian Conquests,
like all conquests, threaten destruction and ruin, but the way of life the
barbarians stood for was the very denial of what Roman civilization had
been, though alas, was gradually ceasing to be.
However, it was not in material things, that the contemporaries found, or
should have found the sharpest conflict between Rome and the barbarian
prospects before it. Above all Roman civilization was a civilization of the
mind. It had behind it a long tradition of thought and of intellectual
achievement, the legacy of Greece, to which it had in turn made its own
contribution. The Roman world was a world of schools and universities,
writers, and builders. The barbarian world was a world in which mind was
in its infancy and its infancy was long. The battle sagas of the race, which
have all but disappeared or have survived only as legends worked up in a
later age; the few rude laws which were needed to regulate personal
relationships, this was hardly civilization in the Roman sense. King
Chilperic, trying to make verses in the style of Sedulius, though he could
not distinguish between a long foot and a short and they all hobbled;
Charlemagne himself, going to bed with his slate under his pillow in order
to practice in the watches of the night that art of writing which he never
mastered; what have they in common with Julius Caesar and Marcus
Aurelius and that great Julian called the Apostate? They sum up in their
very persons the whole wide gulf that yawned between Germany and
Rome.
Rome and the barbarians were thus not only protagonists but two different
attitudes to life, civilization and barbarism. We cannot here discuss in detail
the question as to why, in the clash between the two, it was civilization
which perished and barbarism which prevailed. But it is important to

remember that while the Empire tried to defend its frontiers against the
barbarian hosts, it gradually opened them to barbarian settlers.
This peaceful infiltration of barbarians which altered the whole character of
the society which it invaded would have been impossible, of course, if that
society had not been stricken by disease. The disease is plain enough to see
by the third century. It shows itself in those internecine civil wars in which
civilization rends itself, province against province and army against army. It
shows itself in the great inflationary crisis from about 268 and in the
taxation which gradually crushed out the smaller bourgeoisie while the
fortunes of the rich escaped its net. It shows itself in the gradual sinking
back of an economy based upon free exchange into more and more
primitive conditions when every province seeks to be self-sufficient and
barter takes the place of trade. It shows itself in the decline of farming and
in the workless city population kept quiet by their dole of bread and their
circuses, whose life contrasted so dramatically, so terribly with that of the
haughty senatorial families and the great landowners in their palatial villas
and town houses. It shows itself in the rise of mystical faiths on the ruins of
philosophy, and of superstition (more especially astrology) on the ruins of
reason. One religion in particular grew mighty, by clasping its sacred book
and addressing itself with words of hope to the victims of social injustice,
but although it was able to bring comfort to individuals it could do nothing,
indeed it did not try, to give new strength or inspiration to the embattled
civilization. True to its own ethos it was impartial as between Barbarian and
Roman, or between the Romans who prospered and ruled and those outside
the pale.
The most obvious manifestation of Roman society in decline was the
dwindling numbers of Roman citizens. The Empire was being depopulated
long before the end of the period of peace and prosperity which stretched
from Augustus to Marcus Aurelius. Does not Augustus himself summon the
poor man of Fiesole who has a family of eight children, thirty-six
grandchildren and eighteen great grandchildren, and organize in his honour
a fête in the Capitol, accompanied by a great deal of publicity? Does not
Tacitus, half-anthropologist and half-Rousseau, describing the noble savage
with his eye on fellow citizens, remark that among the Germans it is
accounted a shameful thing to limit the number of your children? The long
duration of Augustus's legislation to raise the birthrate is significant;

successful it was not, but the fact that it was maintained on the statute book
and systematically revised and developed for three centuries shows that it
was at least accounted necessary. It is true of course that the mortality rate
was a far more important factor in those days than it is in our own, and the
mortality from pestilence and civil war from Marcus Aurelius onwards was
exceptional. And it is plain that the proportion of celibates was high in the
Roman empire and that the fall in the fertility of marriages was going on. It
is the childless marriage, the small family system that contemporary writers
deplore. In Seeley's striking phrase: 'The human harvest was bad,' It was
bad in all classes, but the decline was most marked in the upper ranks, the
most educated, the most civilized, the potential leaders of the race. In the
terrible words of Swift, facing his own madness, the Roman Empire might
have cried: 'I shall die like a tree--from the top downwards.'
Why (the insistent question forces itself) did this civilization lose the power
to reproduce itself? Was it, as Polybius said, because people preferred
amusements to children or wished to bring their children up in comfort?
Hardly, for it is more marked among the rich than the poor and the rich can
have the best of both worlds. Was it because people had grown discouraged
and disheartened, no longer believing in their own civilization and loath to
bring children into the darkness and disaster of their war-shattered world?
We do not know. But we can see the connection of the falling population
with the other evils of the empire--the heavy cost of administration
relatively heavier when the density of the population is low; the empty
fields, the dwindling legions which did not suffice to guard the frontier.
To cure this sickness of population the Roman rulers knew no other way
than to dose it with barbarian vigour. Just a small injection to begin with
and then more and more till in the end the blood that flowed in its veins was
not Roman but barbarian. In came the Germans to settle the frontier, to till
the fields, to enlist first in the auxiliaries and then in the legions, to fill the
great offices of state. The army is barbarized, and a modern writer, Mr
Moss, has quoted most effectively the complaint of the Egyptian mother
clamouring to get back her son who (as she says) has gone off with the
barbarians--he means that he has enlisted in the Roman legions. The legions
are barbarized and they barbarize the Emperor. For them he is no longer the
majestic embodiment of law, he is their leader, their Führer, and they raise
him on their shields. And side by side with the barbarization of the army

goes the barbarization of civil manners too. In 397 Honorius has to pass an
edict forbidding the wearing of German fashions within the precincts of
Rome. And in the end, half barbarian themselves, they have only barbarians
to defend them against barbarism.
Such was the general picture of the great ruin of civilization amidst which
the Romans of the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries lived. What then did it
feel like to live at a time when civilization was going down before the
forces of barbarism? Did people realize what was happening? Did the
gloom of the Dark Ages cast its shadow before? It so happens that we can
answer these questions very clearly if we fix our eyes on one particular part
of the Empire, the famous and highly civilized province of Gaul. We can
catch the decline at three points because in three consecutive centuries,
Gallo-Roman writers have left us a picture of their life and times. In the
fourth century we have Ausonius, in the fifth Sidonius Apollinarius, in the
sixth Gregory of Tours and Fortunatus, a stranger from Italy, who made his
home in Poitiers. They show us Auvergne and the Bordelais in the evening
light. The fourth, the fifth, and the sixth centuries--going, going, gone!

2. AUSONIUS

Going! This is the world of Ausonius, south-western France in the latter
half of the fourth century, 'an Indian summer between ages of storm and
wreckage'. Ausonius himself is a scholar and a gentleman, the friend alike
of the pagan Symmachus and of St Paulinus of Nela. He is for thirty years
professor of rhetoric in the university of Bordeaux, for some time tutor to a
prince, praetorian prefect of Gaul, consul, and in his last years just an old
man contentedly living on his estates. His most famous poem is a
description of the Moselle, which for all its literary affectations evokes most
magically the smiling countryside which was the background of his life.
High above the river on either bank stand the villas and country houses,
with their courts and lawns and pillared porticos, and the hot baths from
which, if you will, you can plunge into the stream. The sunny hillside is
covered with vines, and from slope to hill-top the husbandmen call to each
other and the wayfarer on the towpath or the bargemen floating by, shout
their rude jests to the loitering vinedressers. Far out in midstream the

fisherman trails his dripping net and on a rock by the shore the angler plies
his rod. And, as twilight falls, the deepening shadow of the green hillside is
reflected in the water and gazing downward the boatman can almost count
the trembling vines and almost see the swelling of the grapes.
Equally peaceful, equally pleasant is life on Ausonius' own estate in the
Bordelais, his little patrimony (he calls it) although he had a thousand acres
of vineyard and tillage and wood. Miss Waddell has reminded us, on the
authority of Saintsbury (whom else?) that 'to this day it boasts itself as
Château-Ausone, one of the two best of the St Emilion clarets.' Here he
tends his roses and sends his boy round to the neighbours to bid them to
luncheon, while he interviews the cook. Six, including the host, is the right
number--if more it is not a meal but a melée. Then there are all his relatives
to be commemorated in verse, his grandfather and his grandmother and his
sisters and his cousins and his aunts (especially his aunts).
And when the family circle palls there is the senior common room to fall
back upon and the professors of Bordeaux to be celebrated in their turn.
Professors were important people in the empire of the fourth century;
Symmachus says that it is the mark of a flourishing state that good salaries
should be paid to professors; though what exactly we are to deduce from
that in the light of history I should hesitate to say. So Ausonius writes a
collection of poems about the professors of Bordeaux. There are thirty-two
of them and all are celebrated. There is Minervius the orator, who had a
prodigious memory and after a game of backgammon was wont to conduct
a post-mortem over every move. There is Anastasius the grammarian, who
was so foolish as to leave Bordeaux for a provincial university and
thenceforth languished in well-merited obscurity. There is Attius Tiro
Delphidius, who retired from a legal career into the professorial chair, but
could never be got to take any trouble with his men, to the disappointment
of their parents. There is Jocundus the grammarian, who did not really
deserve his title, but was such a kind man that we will commemorate him
among men of worth, although he was, strictly speaking, unequal to the job.
There is Exuperius, who was very good-looking and whose eloquence
sounded superb until you examined it and found that it meant nothing.
There is Dynamius, who slipped from the paths of virtue with a married
lady in Bordeaux and left the place rather hastily, but fortunately fell on his
feet in Spain. There is Victorius the usher, who liked only the most abstruse

historical problems, such as what the pedigree of the sacrificial priest at
Cureo was long before Numa's day, or what Castor had to say on all the
shadowy kings, and who never got up as far as Tully or Virgil, though he
might have done so if he had gone on reading long enough, but death cut
him off too soon. They seem oddly familiar figures (except of course,
Dynamius) and their chronicler contrives to make them live.
Such is the world depicted for us by Ausonius. But while this pleasant
country house and senior common room life was going calmly on, what do
we find happening in the history books? Ausonius was a man of nearly fifty
when the Germans swarmed across the Rhine in 357, pillaging forty-five
flourishing cities, and pitching their camps on the banks of the Moselle. He
had seen the great Julian take up arms ('O Plato, Plato, what a task for a
philosopher') and in a series of brilliant campaigns drive them out again.
Ten years later when he was tutor to Gratian he had himself accompanied
the emperor Valentinian on another campaign against the same foes. While
he was preening himself on his consulship ten years later still, he must have
heard of the disastrous battle of Adrianople in the east, when the Goths
defeated a Roman army and slew an emperor. He died in 395 and within
twelve years of his death the host of Germans had burst across the Rhine,
'all Gaul was a smoking funeral pyre', and the Goths were at the gates of
Rome. And what have Ausonius and his correspondents to say about this?
Not a word. Ausonius and Symmachus and their set ignore the barbarians as
completely as the novels of Jane Austen ignore the Napoleonic wars.

3. SIDONIUS APOLLINARIS

Going, going.... Some thirty-five years after the death of Ausonius, in the
midst of the disastrous sixth century, was born Sidonius Apollinaris, Gallo-
Roman aristocrat, father-in-law of an emperor, sometime prefect of Rome
and in the end Bishop of Clermont. Sidonius Apollinaris, 431 (or
thereabouts) to 479 or perhaps a few years later. Much had happened
between the death of Ausonius and his birth. The lights were going out all
over Europe. Barbarian kingdoms had been planted in Gaul and Spain,
Rome herself had been sacked by the Goths; and in his lifetime the collapse
went on, ever more swiftly. He was a young man of twenty when the

ultimate horror broke upon the West, the inroad of Attila and the Huns. That
passed away, but when he was twenty-four the Vandals sacked Rome. He
saw the terrible German king-maker Ricimer throne and unthrone a series
of puppet emperors, he saw the last remnant of Gallic independence thrown
away and himself become a barbarian subject, and he saw a few years
before he died the fall of the empire in the west.
They cannot, Sidonius and his friends, ignore as Ausonius and his friends
did, that something is happening to the empire. The men of the fifth century
are concerned at these disasters and they console themselves, each
according to his kind. There are some who think it cannot last. After all,
they say, the empire has been in a tight place before and has always got out
of it in the end and risen supreme over its enemies. Thus Sidonius himself,
the very year after they sacked the city; Rome has endured as much before--
there was Porsenna, there was Brennus, there was Hannibal.... Only that
time Rome did not get over it. Others tried to use the disasters to castigate
the sins of society. Thus Salvian of Marseilles who would no doubt have
been called the gloomy dean if he had not been a bishop. For him all that
the decadent Roman civilization needs is to copy some of the virtues of
these fresh young barbarian people. There is the familiar figure of Orosius,
defending the barbarians with the argument that when the Roman empire
was founded it was founded in blood and conquest and can ill afford to
throw stones at the barbarians; and after all the barbarians are not so bad. 'If
the unhappy people they have despoiled will content themselves with the
little that is left them, their conquerors will cherish them as friends and
brothers.' Others, especially the more thoughtful churchmen are much
concerned to explain why an empire which had flourished under paganism
should be thus beset under Christianity. Others desert the Empire altogether
and (like St Augustine) put their hope in a city not made with hands--though
Ambrose, it is true, let fall the pregnant observation that it was not the will
of God that his people should be saved by logic-chopping. 'It has not
pleased God to save his people by dialectic.'
And how were they living? We have only to read the letters written by
Sidonius during the period between 460 and 470, when he was living on his
estate in Auvergne, to realize that on the surface all is going on exactly as
before. Gaul is shrunk, it is true, to a mere remnant between three barbarian
kingdoms, but save for that we might be back in the days of Ausonius.

There is the luxurious villa, with its hot baths and swimming pool, its suites
of rooms, its views over the lake; and there is Sidonius inviting his friends
to stay with him or sending round his compositions to the professors and the
bishops and the country-gentlemen. Sport and games are very popular--
Sidonius rides and swims and hunts and plays tennis. In one letter he tells
his correspondent that he has been spending some days in the country with
his cousin and an old friend, whose estates adjoin each other. They had sent
out scouts to catch him and bring him back for a week and took it in turns to
entertain him. There are games of tennis on the lawn before breakfast or
backgammon for the older men. There is an hour or two in the library
before we sit down to an excellent luncheon followed by a siesta. Then we
go out riding and return for a hot bath and a plunge in the river. I should
like to describe our luscious dinner parties, he concludes, but I have no
more paper. However, come and stay with us and you shall hear all about it.
Clearly this is no Britain, where in the sixth century half-barbarian people
camped in the abandoned villas and cooked their food on the floors of the
principal rooms.
And yet ... it had gone a long way downhill since the days of Ausonius, and
Sidonius could not now ignore the very existence of the barbarians. He has
indeed left notable protraits of them, especially of the king of the Visigoths
and of the Burgundians who ruled Lyons, where he was born. Whenever he
went to stay there, he complains, they flocked about him in embarrassing
friendliness, breathing leeks and onions and dressing their hair with rancid
butter (they were not, it appears, constrained to choose between spears and
butter). How can he compose six foot metres, he asks, with so many seven
foot patrons around him, all singing and all expecting him to admire their
uncouth stream of non-Latin words? The shrug of the shoulder, the genial
contempt of one conscious of an infinite superiority--how clear it is. One is
reminded of a verse of Verlaine

Je suis l'empire a la fin de la decadence
qui regarde passer les grands barbares blancs

But Sidonius's good nature was to be rudely shaken. All barbarians were not
friendly giants, and the Visigoths next door, under their new king Euric,
turned covetous eyes upon Auvergne. Sidonius had not been two years
bishop of Clermont before he had to organize the defence of the city against

their attack. The Avernians stood out gallantly; they would fight and they
would starve, but they would defend this last stronghold of Rome in Gaul.
But they were a small people; to resist successfully they must have help
from Rome itself. Lest anyone should suspect me of twisting the story, I
give it in the words of Sidonius's editor, writing twenty years ago.

Julius Nepos was alive to the danger that Euric might
cross the Rhône; but weak as his resources were he
could only hope to secure peace by negotiation. The
quaestor Licinianus had been sent into Gaul to
investigate the condition of affairs on the spot.... He
had now returned and it was soon only too clear that
hopes based on his intervention were not likely to be
fulfilled. We find Sidonius writing for information....
He began to fear that something was going on behind
his back, and that the real danger to Auvergne came
no longer from determined enemies but from
pusillanimous friends. His suspicions were only too
well founded. On receipt of the quaestor's report a
Council was held to determine the policy of the
Empire towards the Visigothic king.... The empire
did not feel strong enough to support Auvergne and
it was decided to cede the whole territory to Euric,
apparently without condition.

The despair of Sidonius knew no bounds and he writes a nobly indignant
letter to a bishop who had been concerned in the negotiations:

The state of our unhappy region is miserable indeed.
Everyone declares that things were better in wartime
than they are now after peace has been concluded.
Our enslavement was made the price of security for a
third party; the enslavement, ah--the shame of it!, of
those Avernians ... who in our own time stood forth
alone to stay the advance of the common enemy....
These are the men whose common soldiers were as
good as captains, but who never reaped the benefit of

their victories: that was handed over for your
consolation, while all the crushing burden of defeat
they had to bear themselves.... This is to be our
reward for braving destitution, fire, sword and
pestilence, for fleshing our swords in the enemy's
blood and going ourselves starved into battle. This is
the famous peace we dreamed of, when we tore the
grass from the crannies in the walls to eat.... For all
these proofs of our devotion, it would seem that we
are to be made a sacrifice. If it be so, may you live to
blush for a peace without either honour or advantage.

Auvergne had been sacrificed to save Rome. But Rome was not to enjoy her
peace with honour for long. These things took place in 475; and in 476 the
last emperor was desposed by his barbarian bear-leader, and the empire in
the west came to an end. As for Sidonius, the Goths imprisoned him for a
time and before he could recover his estate he had to write a panegyric for
King Euric (he who had written panegyrics for three Roman emperors). It is
clear that the old country house life went on as before, though the men who
exchanged letters and epigrams were now under barbarian rule. But in one
letter shortly before his death there breaks from Sidonius a single line in
which he unpacks his heart. O neccessitas abjecta nascendi, vivendi misera
dura moriendi. 'O humiliating necessity of birth, sad necessity of living,
hard necessity of dying.' Shortly after 479 he died and within twenty years
Clovis had embarked upon his career of conquest and Theodoric was ruler
of Italy.

4. FORTUNATUS AND GREGORY OF TOURS

Going, going, gone.... There is only the time and only the heart to look for a
moment at the Frankish kingdom which once was Gaul, and to survey the
world of Fortunatus and Gregory of Tours, born both of them just about a
century later than Sidonius, in the 530s. For a moment when you look at
Fortunatus you think the world of the sixth century is the same world as that
in which Sidonius entertained his friends with epigrams and tennis.

Fortunatus, that versatile, gentle, genial, boot-licking gourmet, who
somehow managed to write two of the most magnificent hymns of the
Christian church, came from Italy on a visit to Gaul in 565 and never left it
again. He travelled all over the Frankish lands, in what had been Germania
as well as in what had been Gaul. From Trier to Toulouse he made his way
with ease by river and by road, and it might be Ausonius again. Fortunatus
too writes a poem on the Moselle; and there is the same smiling countryside
with terraced vineyards sloping down to the quiet stream and the smoke of
villas rising from the woods. Fortunatus too made the round of the country
houses, especially of the sumptuous villas belonging to Leontius bishop of
Bordeaux, a great Gallo-Roman aristocrat, whose grandfather had been a
friend of Sidonius. The hot baths, the pillared porticos, the lawns sloping to
the river, are all there; the feasts are even more magnificent (they upset
Fortunatus's digestion badly) and the talk is still of literature. The more
intelligent of the barbarian lords have imitated this refined and luxurious
life as best they may. The Franks as well as the Gallo-Romans welcome
little eager Fortunatus; every count wants a set of Latin verses dedicated to
himself. It is plain that some of the old country house life at least has
survived. The Apollinaris set still enjoys its hot baths and its tennis; as Dill
puts it, the barbarian might rule the land, but the laws of polite society
would be administered as before.
But when you look again you realize that it is not the same. It is not merely
because we know that even these remnants of the social and material
civilization of Rome would soon themselves die away that the tragedy of
the sixth century looms so dark. It is because when we look below the
surface we see that the life has gone out of it all, the soul that inflamed it is
dead, nothing is now left but the empty shell. These men welcome
Fortunatus just because he comes from Italy, where the rot has gone less far,
where there still survives some reputation for learning and for culture. They
slake their nostalgia a little in the presence of that enfant perdue of a lost
civilization.
For this is the world of Gregory of Tours, of which you may read in his
History of the Franks. The rule under which it lives is the rule of the
horrible Merovingian kings. Side by side with the villas barbarism spreads
and flourishes like a jungle growth. Learning is dying--hardly the ghost of a
university is left--and Gregory himself who came of a great Gallo-Roman

family and was a bishop bewails his ignorance of grammar. The towns are
shrinking, crouched behind their defences. The synagogues are flaming, and
the first step has been taken in that tragic tale of proscription and tallage,
tallage and expulsion which (it seems) must never end. As to politics, the
will of the leader and his retinue is the rule of the Franks, and purge and
bloodbath mark every stage in the rivalry of the Merovingian princes. The
worst of them are devils like Chilperic and Fredegond, the best of them are
still barbarians like that King Guntram, who fills so many indulgent pages
in Gregory of Tours. He is a vaguely contemporary figure, a fat, voluble
man, now purring with jovial good nature, now bursting into explosions of
wrath and violence, a strange mixture of bonhomie and brutality. It is an
ironic commentary on what has happened to civilization that Gregory
should regard him with affection, that he should be known as 'Good King
Guntram' and that the church should actually have canonized him after his
death. Good King Guntram; Michelet has summed him up in a phrase 'Ce
bon roi à qui on ne reprochait que deux ou trois meurtres.'

CONCLUSION

These were the men who lived through the centuries of Roman fall and
Barbarian triumph, and who by virtue of their elevated position, their
learning, and talents, should have seen, if not foretold, the course of events.
And yet as one contemplates the world of Ausonius and Sidonius (for by the
time of Gregory of Tours it was already dead) one is, I think, impelled to
ask oneself the question why they were apparently so blind to what was
happening. The big country houses go on having their luncheon and tennis
parties, the little professors in the universities go on giving their lectures
and writing their books; games are increasingly popular and the theatres are
always full. Ausonius has seen the Germans overrun Gaul once, but he
never speaks of a danger that may recur. Sidonius lives in a world already
half barbarian, yet in the year before the Western Empire falls he is still

dreaming of the consulship for his son. Why did they not realize the
magnitude of the disaster that was befalling them? This is indeed a question
almost as absorbing as the question why their civilization fell, for au fond it
is perhaps the same question. Several answers may be suggested in
explanation.
In the first place the process of disintegration was a slow one, for the whole
tempo of life was slow and what might take decades in our own time took
centuries then. It is only because we can look back from the vantage point
of a much later age that we can see the inexorable pattern which events are
forming, so that we long to cry to these dead people down the corridor of
the ages, warning them to make a stand before it is too late, hearing no
answering echo, 'Physician, heal thyself!' They suffered from the fatal
myopia of contemporaries. It was the affairs of the moment that occupied
them; for them it was the danger of the moment that must be averted and
they did not recognize that each compromise and each defeat was a link in
the chain dragging them over the abyss.
At what point did barbarism within become a wasting disease? Yet from the
first skinclad German taken into a legion to the great barbarian patricians of
Italy, making and unmaking emperors, the chain is unbroken. At what point
in the assault from without did the attack become fatal? Was it the
withdrawal from Dacia in 270--allow the barbarians their sphere of
influence in the east of Europe, fling them the last-won recruit to Romania
and they will be satiated and leave the west alone? Was it the settlement of
the Goths as foederati within the Empire in 382 and the beginning of that
compromise between the Roman empire and the Germans which, as Bury
says, masked the transition from the rule of one to the rule of the other,
from federate states within the Empire to independent states replacing it?
Was this policy of appeasement the fatal error? Was it the removal of the
legions from Britain, a distant people (as a Roman senator might have said)
of whom we know nothing? Or was it that fatal combination of Spain and
Africa, when the Vandals ensconced themselves in both provinces by 428
and the Vandal fleet (with Majorca and the islands for its bases) cut off
Rome from her corn supplies and broke the backbone of ancient
civilization, which was the Mediterranean sea? Not once alone in the
history of Europe has the triumph of a hostile rule in Africa and Spain spelt
disaster to our civilization.

But if the gradualness of this process misled the Romans there were other
and equally potent reasons for their blindness. Most potent of all was the
fact that they mistook entirely the very nature of civilization itself. All of
them were making the same mistake. People who thought that Rome could
swallow barbarism and absorb it into her life without diluting her own
civilization; the people who ran about busily saying that the barbarians were
not such bad fellows after all, finding good points in their regime with
which to castigate the Romans and crying that except ye become as little
barbarians ye shall not attain salvation; the people who did not observe in
476 that one half of the Respublica Romanorum had ceased to exist and
nourished themselves on the fiction that the barbarian kings were exercising
a power delegated from the Emperor. All these people were deluded by the
same error, the belief that Rome (the civilization of their age) was not a
mere historical fact with a beginning and an end, but a condition of nature
like the air they breathed and the earth they tread Ave Roma immortalis,
most magnificent most disastrous of creeds!
The fact is that the Romans were blinded to what was happening to them by
the very perfection of the material culture which they had created. All
around them was solidity and comfort, a material existence which was the
very antithesis of barbarism. How could they foresee the day when the
Norman chronicler would marvel over the broken hypocausts of Caerleon?
How could they imagine that anything so solid might conceivably
disappear? Their roads grew better as their statesmanship grew worse and
central heating triumphed as civilization fell.
But still more responsible for their unawareness was the educational system
in which they were reared. Ausonius and Sidonius and their friends were
highly educated men and Gaul was famous for its schools and universities.
The education which these gave consisted in the study of grammar and
rhetoric, which was necessary alike for the civil service and for polite
society; and it would be difficult to imagine an education more entirely out
of touch with contemporary life, or less suited to inculcate the qualities
which might have enabled men to deal with it. The fatal study of rhetoric,
its links with reality long since severed, concentrated the whole attention of
men of intellect on form rather than on matter. The things they learned in
their schools had no relation to the things that were going on in the world

outside and bred in them the fatal illusion that tomorrow would be as
yesterday, that everything was the same, whereas everything was different.
So we take our leave of them. Going ... going ... gone! Gone altogether?
Perhaps not. Hundreds of years of barbarism were to elapse before a new
society arose capable of matching or even excelling Rome in material
wealth, in arts, in sciences, and in gentler modes of existence--the douceur
de la vie. We cannot say what date marked the moment of final recovery, or
who were the men who were to represent advancing civilization as fully as
Ausonius or Gregory of Tours represented civilization in retreat: Dante,
Shakespeare, Capernicus, Newton? But for many centuries, perhaps a
whole millennium, before western Europe scaled the heights on which these
men now stood, it had been gradually raising itself from the depths of post-
Roman decline. The ascent was not only slow but also discontinuous, yet it
was sufficient to establish within a few centuries of Gregory of Tours a
social order different from Rome and less glorious to behold across a
thousand years of history, but nevertheless sufficiently exalted to draw the
interest, and even to command the admiration of other still later ages. In
that culture and in that social order much of what Ausonius and Sidonius
and even Fortunatus represented was brought to life again, albeit in a form
they would not always have recognized as their own. To this extent, at least,
they were not only the epigones of Rome but the true precursors of the
Middle Ages.

CHAPTER II

THE PEASANT BODO

LIFE ON A COUNTRY ESTATE IN THE TIME OF
CHARLEMAGNE

Three slender things that best support the world: the
slender stream of milk from the cow's dug into the
pail; the slender blade of green corn upon the
ground; the slender thread over the hand of a skilled
woman.

Three sounds of increase: the lowing of a cow in
milk; the din of a smithy; the swish of a plough.

--From The Triads of Ireland (9th century)

Economic history, as we know it, is the newest of all the branches of
history. Up to the middle of the last century the chief interest of the
historian and of the public alike lay in political and constitutional history, in
political events, wars, dynasties, and in political institutions and their
development. Substantially, therefore, history concerned itself with the
ruling classes. 'Let us now praise famous men,' was the historian's motto.
He forgot to add 'and our fathers that begat us'. He did not care to probe the
obscure lives and activities of the great mass of humanity, upon whose slow
toil was built up the prosperity of the world and who were the hidden
foundation of the political and constitutional edifice reared by the famous
men he praised. To speak of ordinary people would have been beneath the
dignity of history. Carlyle struck a significant note of revolt: 'The thing I
want to see,' he said, 'is not Red-book lists and Court Calendars and

Parliamentary Registers, but the Life of Man in England: what men did,
thought, suffered, enjoyed.... Mournful, in truth, it is to behold what the
business called "History" in these so enlightened and illuminated times still
continues to be. Can you gather from it, read till your eyes go out, any
dimmest shadow of an answer to that great question: How men lived and
had their being; were it but economically, as, what wages they got and what
they bought with these? Unhappily you cannot.... History, as it stands all
bound up in gilt volumes, is but a shade more instructive than the wooden
volumes of a backgammon-board.'
Carlyle was a voice crying in the wilderness. Today the new history, whose
way he prepared, has come. The present age differs from the centuries
before it in its vivid realization of that much-neglected person the man in
the street; or (as it was more often in the earliest ages) the man with the hoe.
Today the historian is interested in the social life of the past and not only in
the wars and intrigues of princes. To the modern writer, the fourteenth
century, for instance, is not merely the century of the Hundred Years' War
and of the Black Prince and Edward III; more significantly it is for him the
era of the slow decay of villeinage in England, a fact more epoch-making,
in the long run, than the struggle over our French provinces. We still praise
famous men, for he would be a poor historian who could spare one of the
great figures who have shed glory or romance upon the page of history; but
we praise them with due recognition of the fact that not only great
individuals, but people as a whole, unnamed and undistinguished masses of
people, now sleeping in unknown graves, have also been concerned in the
story. Our fathers that begat us have come to their own at last. As Acton put
it, 'The great historian now takes his meals in the kitchen.'
This book is chiefly concerned with the kitchens of History, and the first
which we shall visit is a country estate at the beginning of the ninth century.
It so happens that we know a surprising amount about such an estate, partly
because Charlemagne himself issued a set of orders instructing the Royal
stewards how to manage his own lands, telling them everything it was
necessary for them to know, down to the vegetables which they were to
plant in the garden. But our chief source of knowledge is a wonderful estate
book which Irminon, the Abbot of St Germain des Prés near Paris, drew up
so that the abbey might know exactly what lands belonged to it and who
lived on those lands, very much as William I drew up an estate book of his

whole kingdom and called it Domesday Book. In this estate book is set
down the name of every little estate (or fisc as it was called) belonging to
the abbey, with a description of the land which was worked under its
steward to its own profit, and the land which was held by tenants, and the
names of those tenants and of their wives and of their children, and the
exact services and rents, down to a plank and an egg, which they had to do
for their land. We know today the name of almost every man, woman, and
child who was living on those little fiscs in the time of Charlemagne, and a
great deal about their daily lives.
Consider for a moment how the estate upon which they lived was
organized. The lands of the Abbey of St Germain were divided into a
number of estates, called fiscs, each of a convenient size to be administered
by a steward. On each of these fiscs the land was divided into seigniorial
and tributary lands; the first administered by the monks through a steward
or some other officer, and the second possessed by various tenants, who
received and held them from the abbey. These tributary lands were divided
into numbers of little farms, called manses, each occupied by one or more
families. If you had paid a visit to the chief or seigniorial manse, which the
monks kept in their own hands, you would have found a little house, with
three or four rooms, probably built of stone, facing an inner court, and on
one side of it you would have seen a special group of houses hedged round,
where the women serfs belonging to the house lived and did their work; all
round you would also have seen little wooden houses, where the household
serfs lived, workrooms, a kitchen, a bakehouse, barns, stables, and other
farm buildings, and round the whole a hedge carefully planted with trees, so
as to make a kind of enclosure or court. Attached to this central manse was
a considerable amount of land--ploughland, meadows, vineyards, orchards,
and almost all the woods or forests on the estate. Clearly a great deal of
labour would be needed to cultivate all these lands. Some of that labour was
provided by servile workers who were attached to the chief manse and lived
in the court. But these household serfs were not nearly enough to do all the
work upon the monks' land, and far the greater part of it had to be done by
services paid by the other landowners on the estate.

I. BODO AT HIS WORK.

II. EMBARKATION OF THE POLOS AT VENICE.

Beside the seigniorial manse, there were a number of little dependent
manses. These belonged to men and women who were in various stages of
freedom, except for the fact that all had to do work on the land of the chief
manse. There is no need to trouble with the different classes, for in practice
there was very little difference between them, and in a couple of centuries
they were all merged into one common class of medieval villeins. The most
important people were those called coloni, who were personally free (that is
to say, counted as free men by the law), but bound to the soil, so that they
could never leave their farms and were sold with the estate, if it were sold.
Each of the dependent manses was held either by one family or by two or
three families which clubbed together to do the work; it consisted of a
house or houses, and farm buildings, like those of the chief manse, only
poorer and made of wood, with ploughland and a meadow and perhaps a
little piece of vineyard attached to it. In return for these holdings the owner
or joint owners of every manse had to do work on the land of the chief

manse for about three days in the week. The steward's chief business was to
see that they did their work properly, and from every one he had the right to
demand two kinds of labour. The first was field work: every year each man
was bound to do a fixed amount of ploughing on the domain land (as it was
called later on), and also to give what was called a corvée, that is to say, an
unfixed amount of ploughing, which the steward could demand every week
when it was needed; the distinction corresponds to the distinction between
week work and boon work in the later Middle Ages. The second kind of
labour which every owner of a farm had to do on the monks' land was
called handwork, that is to say, he had to help repair buildings, or cut down
trees, or gather fruit, or make ale, or carry loads--anything, in fact, which
wanted doing and which the steward told him to do. It was by these services
that the monks got their own seigniorial farm cultivated. On all the other
days of the week these hard-worked tenants were free to cultivate their own
little farms, and we may be sure that they put twice as much elbow grease
into the business.
But their obligation did not end here, for not only had they to pay services,
they also had to pay certain rents to the big house. There were no State
taxes in those days, but every man had to pay an army due, which
Charlemagne exacted from the abbey, and which the abbey exacted from its
tenants; this took the form of an ox and a certain number of sheep, or the
equivalent in money: 'He pays to the host two shillings of silver' comes first
on every freeman's list of obligations. The farmers also had to pay in return
for any special privileges granted to them by the monks; they had to carry a
load of wood to the big house, in return for being allowed to gather
firewood in the woods, which were jealously preserved for the use of the
abbey; they had to pay some hogsheads of wine for the right to pasture their
pigs in the same precious woods; every third year they had to give up one of
their sheep for the right to graze upon the fields of the chief manse; they
had to pay a sort of poll-tax of 4d. a head. In addition to these special rents
every farmer had also to pay other rents in produce; every year he owed the
big house three chickens and fifteen eggs and a large number of planks, to
repair its buildings; often he had to give it a couple of pigs; sometimes corn,
wine, honey, wax, soap, or oil. If the farmer were also an artisan and made
things, he had to pay the produce of his craft; a smith would have to make
lances for the abbey's contingent to the army, a carpenter had to make

barrels and hoops and vine props, a wheelwright had to make a cart. Even
the wives of the farmers were kept busy, if they happened to be serfs; for
the servile women were obliged to spin cloth or to make a garment for the
big house every year.
All these things were exacted and collected by the steward, whom they
called Villicus, or Major (Mayor). He was a very hard-worked man, and
when one reads the seventy separate and particular injunctions which
Charlemagne addressed to his stewards one cannot help feeling sorry for
him. He had to get all the right services out of the tenants, and tell them
what to do each week and see that they did it; he had to be careful that they
brought the right number of eggs and pigs up to the house, and did not foist
off warped or badly planed planks upon him. He had to look after the
household serfs too, and set them to work. He had to see about storing, or
selling, or sending off to the monastery the produce of the estate and of the
tenants' rents; and every year he had to present a full and detailed account
of his stewardship to the abbot. He had a manse of his own, with services
and rents due from it, and Charlemagne exhorted his stewards to be prompt
in their payments, so as to set a good example. Probably his official duties
left him very little time to work on his own farm, and he would have to put
in a man to work it for him, as Charlemagne bade his stewards do. Often,
however, he had subordinate officials called deans under him, and
sometimes the work of receiving and looking after the stores in the big
house was done by a special cellarer.
That, in a few words, is the way in which the monks of St Germain and the
other Frankish landowners of the time of Charlemagne managed their
estates. Let us try, now, to look at those estates from a more human point of
view and see what life was like to a farmer who lived upon them. The abbey
possessed a little estate called Villaris, near Paris, in the place now occupied
by the park of Saint Cloud. When we turn up the pages in the estate book
dealing with Villaris, we find that there was a man called Bodo living there.
[1] He had a wife called Ermentrude and three children called Wido and
Gerbert and Hildegard; and he owned a little farm of arable and meadow
land, with a few vines. And we know very nearly as much about Bodo's
work as we know about that of a smallholder in France today. Let us try and
imagine a day in his life. On a fine spring morning towards the end of
Charlemagne's reign Bodo gets up early, because it is his day to go and

work on the monks' farm, and he does not dare to be late, for fear of the
steward. To be sure, he has probably given the steward a present of eggs
and vegetables the week before, to keep him in a good temper; but the
monks will not allow their stewards to take big bribes (as is sometimes done
on other estates), and Bodo knows that he will not be allowed to go late to
work. It is his day to plough, so he takes his big ox with him and little Wido
to run by its side with a goad, and he joins his friends from some of the
farms near by, who are going to work at the big house too. They all
assemble, some with horses and oxen, some with mattocks and hoes and
spades and axes and scythes, and go off in gangs to work upon the fields
and meadows and woods of the seigniorial manse, according as the steward
orders them. The manse next door to Bodo is held by a group of families:
Frambert and Ermoin and Ragenold, with their wives and children. Bodo
bids them good morning as he passes. Frambert is going to make a fence
round the wood, to prevent the rabbits from coming out and eating the
young crops; Ermoin has been told off to cart a great load of firewood up to
the house; and Ragenold is mending a hole in the roof of a barn. Bodo goes
whistling off in the cold with his oxen and his little boy; and it is no use to
follow him farther, because he ploughs all day and eats his meal under a
tree with the other ploughmen, and it is very monotonous.
Let us go back and see what Bodo's wife, Ermentrude, is doing. She is busy
too; it is the day on which the chicken-rent is due--a fat pullet and five eggs
in all. She leaves her second son, aged nine, to look after the baby
Hildegard and calls on one of her neighbours, who has to go up to the big
house too. The neighbour is a serf and she has to take the steward a piece of
woollen cloth, which will be sent away to St Germain to make a habit for a
monk. Her husband is working all day in the lord's vineyards, for on this
estate the serfs generally tend the vines, while the freemen do most of the
ploughing. Ermentrude and the serf's wife go together up to the house.
There all is busy. In the men's workshop are several clever workmen--a
shoemaker, a carpenter, a blacksmith, and two silversmiths; there are not
more, because the best artisans on the estates of St Germain live by the
walls of the abbey, so that they can work for the monks on the spot and save
the labour of carriage. But there were always some craftsmen on every
estate, either attached as serfs to the big house, or living on manses of their
own, and good landowners tried to have as many clever craftsmen as

possible. Charlemagne ordered his stewards each to have in his district
'good workmen, namely, blacksmiths, goldsmiths, silversmiths,
shoemakers, turners, carpenters, swordmakers, fishermen, foilers,
soapmakers, men who know how to make beer, cider, perry, and all other
kinds of beverages, bakers to make pasty for our table, netmakers who
know how to make nets for hunting, fishing, and fowling, and others too
many to be named'.[2] And some of these workmen are to be found working
for the monks in the estate of Villaris.
But Ermentrude does not stop at the men's workshop. She finds the steward,
bobs her curtsy to him, and gives up her fowl and eggs, and then she hurries
off to the women's part of the house, to gossip with the serfs there. The
Franks used at this time to keep the women of their household in a separate
quarter, where they did the work which was considered suitable for women,
very much as the Greeks of antiquity used to do. If a Frankish noble had
lived at the big house, his wife would have looked after their work, but as
no one lived in the stone house at Villaris, the steward had to oversee the
women. Their quarter consisted of a little group of houses, with a
workroom, the whole surrounded by a thick hedge with a strong bolted
gate, like a harem, so that no one could come in without leave. Their
workrooms were comfortable places, warmed by stoves, and there
Ermentrude (who, being a woman, was allowed to go in) found about a
dozen servile women spinning and dyeing cloth and sewing garments.
Every week the harassed steward brought them the raw materials for their
work and took away what they made. Charlemagne gives his stewards
several instructions about the women attached to his manses, and we may
be sure that the monks of St Germain did the same on their model estates.
'For our women's work,' says Charlemagne, 'they are to give at the proper
time the materials, that is linen, wool, woad, vermilion, madder, wool
combs, teasels, soap, grease, vessels, and other objects which are necessary.
And let our women's quarters be well looked after, furnished with houses
and rooms with stoves and cellars, and let them be surrounded by a good
hedge, and let the doors be strong, so that the women can do our work
properly.'[3] Ermentrude, however, has to hurry away after her gossip, and
so must we. She goes back to her own farm and sets to work in the little
vineyard; then after an hour or two goes back to get the children's meal and
to spend the rest of the day in weaving warm woollen clothes for them. All

her friends are either working in the fields on their husbands' farms or else
looking after the poultry, or the vegetables, or sewing at home; for the
women have to work just as hard as the men on a country farm. In
Charlemagne's time (for instance) they did nearly all the sheep shearing.
Then at last Bodo comes back for his supper, and as soon as the sun goes
down they go to bed; for their hand-made candle gives only a flicker of
light, and they both have to be up early in the morning. De Quincey once
pointed out, in his inimitable manner, how the ancients everywhere went to
bed, 'like good boys, from seven to nine o'clock'. 'Man went to bed early in
those ages simply because his worthy mother earth could not afford him
candles. She, good old lady ... would certainly have shuddered to hear of
any of her nations asking for candles. "Candles indeed!" she would have
said; "who ever heard of such a thing? and with so much excellent daylight
running to waste, as I have provided gratis! What will the wretches want
next?"'[4] Something of the same situation prevailed even in Bodo's time.
This, then, is how Bodo and Ermentrude usually passed their working day.
But, it may be complained, this is all very well. We know about the estates
on which these peasants lived and about the rents which they had to pay,
and the services which they had to do. But how did they feel and think and
amuse themselves when they were not working? Rents and services are
only outside things; an estate book only describes routine. It would be idle
to try to picture the life of a university from a study of its lecture list, and it
is equally idle to try and describe the life of Bodo from the estate book of
his masters. It is no good taking your meals in the kitchen if you never talk
to the servants. This is true, and to arrive at Bodo's thoughts and feelings
and holiday amusements we must bid goodbye to Abbot Irminon's estate
book, and peer into some very dark corners indeed; for though by the aid of
Chaucer and Langland and a few Court Rolls it is possible to know a great
deal about the feelings of a peasant six centuries later, material is scarce in
the ninth century, and it is all the more necessary to remember the secret of
the invisible ink.
Bodo certainly had plenty of feelings, and very strong ones. When he got
up in the frost on a cold morning to drive the plough over the abbot's acres,
when his own were calling out for work, he often shivered and shook the
rime from his beard, and wished that the big house and all its land were at
the bottom of the sea (which, as a matter of fact, he had never seen and

could not imagine). Or else he wished he were the abbot's huntsman,
hunting in the forest; or a monk of St Germain, singing sweetly in the abbey
church; or a merchant, taking bales of cloaks and girdles along the high
road to Paris; anything, in fact, but a poor ploughman ploughing other
people's land. An Anglo-Saxon writer has imagined a dialogue with him:

'Well, ploughman, how do you do your work?' 'Oh,
sir, I work very hard. I go out in the dawning, driving
the oxen to the field and I yoke them to the plough.
Be the winter never so stark, I dare not stay at home
for fear of my lord; but every day I must plough a
full acre or more, after having yoked the oxen and
fastened the share and coulter to the plough!' 'Have
you any mate?' 'I have a boy, who drives the oxen
with a goad, who is now hoarse from cold and
shouting,' (Poor little Wido!) 'Well, well, it is very
hard work?' 'Yes, indeed it is very hard work.'[5]

Nevertheless, hard as the work was, Bodo sang lustily to cheer himself and
Wido; for is it not related that once, when a clerk was singing the 'Allelulia'
in the emperor's presence, Charles turned to one of the bishops, saying, 'My
clerk is singing very well,' whereat the rude bishop replied, 'Any clown in
our countryside drones as well as that to his oxen at their ploughing'?[6] It
is certain too that Bodo agreed with the names which the great Charles gave
to the months of the year in his own Frankish tongue; for he called January
'Winter-month', February 'Mud-month', March 'Spring-month', April
'Easter-month', May 'Joy-month', June 'Plough-month', July 'Hay-month',
August 'Harvest-month', September 'Wind-month', October 'Vintage-month',
November 'Autumn-month', and December 'Holy-month'.[7]
And Bodo was a superstitious creature. The Franks had been Christian now
for many years, but Christian though they were, the peasants clung to old
beliefs and superstitions. On the estates of the holy monks of St Germain
you would have found the country people saying charms which were hoary
with age, parts of the lay sung by the Frankish ploughman over his
bewitched land long before he marched southwards into the Roman Empire,
or parts of the spell which the bee-master performed when he swarmed his
bees on the shores of the Baltic Sea. Christianity has coloured these charms,

but it has not effaced their heathen origin; and because the tilling of the soil
is the oldest and most unchanging of human occupations, old beliefs and
superstitions cling to it and the old gods stalk up and down the brown
furrows, when they have long vanished from houses and roads. So on Abbot
Irminon's estates the peasant-farmers muttered charms over their sick cattle
(and over their sick children too) and said incantations over the fields to
make them fertile. If you had followed behind Bodo when he broke his first
furrow you would have probably seen him take out of his jerkin a little
cake, baked for him by Ermentrude out of different kinds of meal, and you
would have seen him stoop and lay it under the furrow and sing:

Earth, Earth, Earth! O Earth, our
mother!
May the All-Wielder, Ever-Lord
grant thee
Acres a-waxing, upwards a-growing,
Pregnant with corn and plenteous in
strength;
Hosts of grain shafts and of glittering
plants!
Of broad barley the blossoms,
And of white wheat ears waxing,
Of the whole land the harvest....

Acre, full-fed, bring forth fodder for men!
Blossoming brightly, blessed become!
And the God who wrought with earth grant us gift of
growing
That each of all the corns may come unto our need.
[8]

Then he would drive his plough through the acre.

The Church wisely did not interfere with these old rites. It taught Bodo to
pray to the Ever-Lord instead of to Father Heaven, and to the Virgin Mary
instead of to Mother Earth, and with these changes let the old spell he had
learned from his ancestors serve him still. It taught him, for instance, to call
on Christ and Mary in his charm for bees. When Ermentrude heard her bees
swarming, she stood outside her cottage and said this little charm over
them:

Christ, there is a swarm of bees
outside,
Fly hither, my little cattle,
In blest peace, in God's protection,
Come home safe and sound.
Sit down, sit down, bee,
St Mary commanded thee.

Thou shalt not have leave,
Thou shalt not fly to the wood.
Thou shalt not escape me,
Nor go away from me.
Sit very still,
Wait God's will![9]

And if Bodo on his way home saw one of his bees caught in a brier bush, he
immediately stood still and wished--as some people wish today when they
go under a ladder. It was the Church, too, which taught Bodo to add 'So be
it, Lord', to the end of his charm against pain. Now, his ancestors for
generations behind him had believed that if you had a stitch in your side, or
a bad pain anywhere, it came from a worm in the marrow of your bones,
which was eating you up, and that the only way to get rid of that worm was
to put a knife, or an arrow-head, or some other piece of metal to the sore
place, and then wheedle the worm out on to the blade by saying a charm.
And this was the charm which Bodo's heathen ancestors had always said
and which Bodo went on saying when little Wido had a pain: 'Come out,
worm, with nine little worms, out from the marrow into the bone, from the
bone into the flesh, from the flesh into the skin, from the skin into this
arrow.' And then (in obedience to the Church) he added 'So be it, Lord'.[10]

But sometimes it was not possible to read a Christian meaning into Bodo's
doings. Sometimes he paid visits to some man who was thought to have a
wizard's powers, or superstitiously reverenced some twisted tree, about
which there hung old stories never quite forgotten. Then the Church was
stern. When he went to confession the priest would ask him: 'Have you
consulted magicians and enchanters, have you made vows to trees and
fountains, have you drunk any magic philtre?'[11] And he would have to
confess what he did last time his cow was sick. But the Church was kind as
well as stern. 'When serfs come to you,' we find one bishop telling his
priests, 'you must not give them as many fasts to perform as rich men. Put
upon them only half the penance.'[12] The Church knew well enough that
Bodo could not drive his plough all day upon an empty stomach. The
hunting, drinking, feasting Frankish nobles could afford to lose a meal.
It was from this stern and yet kind Church that Bodo got his holidays. For
the Church made the pious emperor decree that on Sundays and saints' days
no servile or other works should be done. Charlemagne's son repeated his
decree in 827. It runs thus:

We ordain according to the law of God and to the
command of our father of blessed memory in his
edicts, that no servile works shall be done on
Sundays, neither shall men perform their rustic
labours, tending vines, ploughing fields, reaping corn
and mowing hay, setting up hedges or fencing
woods, cutting trees, or working in quarries or
building houses; nor shall they work in the garden,
nor come to the law courts, nor follow the chase. But
three carrying-services it is lawful to do on Sunday,
to wit carrying for the army, carrying food, or
carrying (if need be) the body of a lord to its grave.
Item, women shall not do their textile works, nor cut
out clothes, nor stitch them together with the needle,
nor card wool, nor beat hemp, nor wash clothes in
public, nor shear sheep: so that there may be rest on
the Lord's day. But let them come together from all
sides to Mass in the Church and praise God for all
the good things He did for us on that day![13]

Unfortunately, however, Bodo and Ermentrude and their friends were not
content to go quietly to church on saints' days and quietly home again. They
used to spend their holidays in dancing and singing and buffoonery, as
country folk have always done until our own gloomier, more self-conscious
age. They were very merry and not at all refined, and the place they always
chose for their dances was the churchyard; and unluckily the songs they
sang as they danced in a ring were old pagan songs of their forefathers, left
over from old Mayday festivities, which they could not forget, or ribald
love-songs which the Church disliked. Over and over again we find the
Church councils complaining that the peasants (and sometimes the priests
too) were singing 'wicked songs with a chorus of dancing women,' or
holding 'ballads and dancings and evil and wanton songs and such-like lures
of the devil';[14] over and over again the bishops forbade these songs and
dances; but in vain. In every country in Europe, right through the Middle
Ages to the time of the Reformation, and after it, country folk continued to
sing and dance in the churchyard. Two hundred years after Charlemagne's
death there grew up the legend of the dancers of Kölbigk, who danced on
Christmas Eve in the churchyard, in spite of the warning of the priest, and
all got rooted to the spot for a year, till the Archbishop of Cologne released
them. Some men say that they were not rooted standing to the spot, but that
they had to go on dancing for the whole year; and that before they were
released they had danced themselves waist-deep into the ground. People
used to repeat the little Latin verse which they were singing:

Equitabat Bovo per silvam
frondosam
Ducebat sibi Merswindem
formosam.
Quid stamus? Cur non imus?[15]

Through the leafy forest, Bovo went a-riding
And his pretty Merswind trotted on beside him--
Why are we standing still? Why can't we go away?

Another later story still is told about a priest in Worcestershire who was
kept awake all night by the people dancing in his churchyard and singing a
song with the refrain 'Sweetheart have pity', so that he could not get it out of
his head, and the next morning at Mass, instead of saying 'Dominus
vobiscum', he said 'Sweetheart have pity', and there was a dreadful scandal
which got into a chronicle.[16]
Sometimes our Bodo did not dance himself, but listened to the songs of
wandering minstrels. The priests did not at all approve of these minstrels,
who (they said) would certainly go to hell for singing profane secular songs,
all about the great deeds of heathen heroes of the Frankish race, instead of
Christian hymns. But Bodo loved them, and so did Bodo's betters; the
Church councils had sometimes even to rebuke abbots and abbesses for
listening to their songs. And the worst of it was that the great emperor
himself, the good Charlemagne, loved them too. He would always listen to
a minstrel, and his biographer, Einhard, tells us that 'He wrote out the
barbarous and ancient songs, in which the acts of the kings and their wars
were sung, and committed them to memory';[17] and one at least of those
old sagas, which he liked men to write down, has been preserved on the
cover of a Latin manuscript, where a monk scribbled it in his spare time.
His son, Louis the Pious, was very different; he rejected the national poems,
which he had learnt in his youth, and would not have them read or recited
or taught; he would not allow minstrels to have justice in the law courts,
and he forbade idle dances and songs and tales in public places on Sundays;
but then he also dragged down his father's kingdom into disgrace and ruin.
The minstrels repaid Charlemagne for his kindness to them. They gave him
everlasting fame; for all through the Middle Ages the legend of
Charlemagne grew, and he shares with our King Arthur the honour of being
the hero of one of the greatest romance-cycles of the Middle Ages. Every
different century clad him anew in its own dress and sang new lays about
him. What the monkish chroniclers in their cells could never do for
Charlemagne, these despised and accursed minstrels did for him: they gave
him what is perhaps more desirable and more lasting than a place in history-
they gave him a place in legend. It is not every emperor who rules in those
realms of gold of which Keats spoke, as well as in the kingdoms of the
world; and in the realms of gold Charlemagne reigns with King Arthur, and
his peers joust with the Knights of the Round Table. Bodo, at any rate,

benefited by Charles's love of minstrels, and it is probable that he heard in
the lifetime of the emperor himself the first beginnings of those legends
which afterwards clung to the name of Charlemagne. One can imagine him
round-eyed in the churchyard, listening to fabulous stories of Charles's Iron
March to Pavia, such as a gossiping old monk of St Gall afterwards wrote
down in his chronicle.[18]
It is likely enough that such legends were the nearest Bodo ever came to
seeing the emperor, of whom even the poor serfs who never followed him
to court or camp were proud. But Charles was a great traveller: like all the
monarchs of the early Middle Ages he spent the time, when he was not
warring, in trekking round his kingdom, staying at one of his estates, until
he and his household had literally eaten their way through it, and then
passing on to another. And sometimes he varied the procedure by paying a
visit to the estates of his bishops or nobles, who entertained him royally. It
may be that one day he came on a visit to Bodo's masters and stopped at the
big house on his way to Paris, and then Bodo saw him plain; for
Charlemagne would come riding along the road in his jerkin of otter skin,
and his plain blue cloak (Einhard tells us that he hated grand clothes and on
ordinary days dressed like the common people);[19] and after him would
come his three sons and his bodyguard, and then his five daughters. Einhard
has also told us that:

He had such care of the upbringing of his sons and
daughters that he never dined without them when he
was at home and never travelled without them. His
sons rode along with him and his daughters followed
in the rear. Some of his guards, chosen for this very
purpose, watched the end of the line of march where
his daughters travelled. They were very beautiful and
much beloved by their father, and, therefore, it is
strange that he would give them in marriage to no
one, either among his own people or of a foreign
state. But up to his death he kept them all at home
saying he could not forgo their society.[20]

Then, with luck, Bodo, quaking at the knees, might even behold a portent
new to his experience, the emperor's elephant. Haroun El Raschid, the great

Sultan of the 'Arabian Nights' had sent it to Charles, and it accompanied
him on all his progresses. Its name was 'Abu-Lubabah', which is an Arabic
word and means 'the father of intelligence[A]', and it died a hero's death on
an expedition against the Danes in 810.[21] It is certain that ever afterwards
Ermentrude quelled little Gerbert, when he was naughty, with the threat,
'Abu-Lubabah will come with his long nose and carry you off.' But Wido,
being aged eight and a bread-winner, professed to have felt no fear on being
confronted with the elephant; but admitted when pressed, that he greatly
preferred Haroun El Raschid's other present to the emperor, the friendly
dog, who answered to the name of 'Becerillo'.

[A] Abu-Lubabah.--It is remarkable that the name
should have suffered no corruption in the chronicles.

It would be a busy time for Bodo when all these great folk came, for
everything would have to be cleaned before their arrival, the pastry cooks
and sausage-makers summoned and a great feast prepared; and though the
household serfs did most of the work, it is probable that he had to help. The
gossipy old monk of St Gall has given us some amusing pictures of the
excitement when Charles suddenly paid a visit to his subjects:

There was a certain bishopric which lay full in
Charles's path when he journeyed, and which indeed
he could hardly avoid: and the bishop of this place,
always anxious to give satisfaction, put everything
that he had at Charles's disposal. But once the
Emperor came quite unexpectedly and the bishop in
great anxiety had to fly hither and thither like a
swallow, and had not only the palaces and houses but
also the courts and squares swept and cleaned: and
then, tired and irritated, came to meet him. The most
pious Charles noticed this, and after examining all
the various details, he said to the bishop: 'My kind
host, you always have everything splendidly cleaned
for my arrival.' Then the bishop, as if divinely
inspired, bowed his head and grasped the king's
never-conquered right hand, and hiding his irritation,

kissed it and said: 'It is but right, my lord, that,
wherever you come, all things should be thoroughly
cleansed.' Then Charles, of all kings the wisest,
understanding the state of affairs said to him: 'If I
empty I can also fill.' And he added: 'You may have
that estate which lies close to your bishopric, and all
your successors may have it until the end of time.' In
the same journey, too, he came to a bishop who lived
in a place through which he must needs pass. Now
on that day, being the sixth day of the week, he was
not willing to eat the flesh of beast or bird; and the
bishop, being by reason of the nature of the place
unable to procure fish upon the sudden, ordered
some excellent cheese, rich and creamy, to be placed
before him. And the most self-restrained Charles,
with the readiness which he showed everywhere and
on all occasions, spared the blushes of the bishop
and required no better fare; but taking up his knife
cut off the skin, which he thought unsavoury and fell
to on the white of the cheese. Thereupon the bishop,
who was standing near like a servant, drew closer
and said: 'Why do you do that, lord emperor? You
are throwing away the very best part.' Then Charles,
who deceived no one, and did not believe that
anyone would deceive him, on the persuasion of the
bishop put a piece of the skin in his mouth, and
slowly ate it and swallowed it like butter. Then
approving of the advice of the bishop, he said: 'Very
true, my good host,' and he added: 'Be sure to send
me every year to Aix two cartloads of just such
cheeses.' And the bishop was alarmed at the
impossibility of the task and, fearful of losing both
his rank and his office, he rejoined: 'My lord, I can
procure the cheeses, but I cannot tell which are of
this quality and which of another. Much I fear lest I
fall under your censure.' Then Charles, from whose
penetration and skill nothing could escape, however

new or strange it might be, spoke thus to the bishop,
who from childhood had known such cheeses and
yet could not test them: 'Cut them in two,' he said,
'then fasten together with a skewer those that you
find to be of the right quality and keep them in your
cellar for a time and then send them to me. The rest
you may keep for yourself and your clergy and your
family.' This was done for two years, and the king
ordered the present of cheeses to be taken in without
remark: then in the third year the bishop brought in
person his laboriously collected cheeses. But the
most just Charles pitied his labour and anxiety and
added to the bishopric an excellent estate whence he
and his successors might provide themselves with
corn and wine.[22]

We may feel sorry for the poor flustered bishop collecting his two cartloads
of cheeses; but it is possible that our real sympathy ought to go to Bodo,
who probably had to pay an extra rent in cheeses to satisfy the emperor's
taste, and got no excellent estate to recompense him.
A visit from the emperor, however, would be a rare event in his life, to be
talked about for years and told to his grandchildren. But there was one other
event, which happened annually, and which was certainly looked for with
excitement by Bodo and his friends. For once a year the king's itinerant
justices, the Missi Dominici, came round to hold their court and to see if the
local counts had been doing justice. Two of them would come, a bishop and
a count, and they would perhaps stay a night at the big house as guests of
the abbot, and the next day they would go on to Paris, and there they would
sit and do justice in the open square before the church and from all the
district round great men and small, nobles and freemen and coloni, would
bring their grievances and demand redress. Bodo would go too, if anyone
had injured or robbed him, and would make his complaint to the judges. But
if he were canny he would not go to them empty-handed, trusting to justice
alone. Charlemagne was very strict, but unless the missi were exceptionally
honest and pious they would not be averse to taking bribes. Theodulf,
Bishop of Orleans, who was one of the Emperor's missi, has left us a most
entertaining Latin poem, in which he describes the attempts of the clergy

and laymen, who flocked to his court, to buy justice.[23] Every one
according to his means brought a present; the rich offered money, precious
stones, fine materials, and Eastern carpets, arms, horses, antique vases of
gold or silver chiselled with representations of the labours of Hercules. The
poor brought skins of Cordova leather, tanned and untanned, excellent
pieces of cloth and linen (poor Ermentrude must have worked hard for the
month before the justices came!), boxes, and wax. 'With this battering-ram,'
cries the shocked Bishop Theodulf, 'they hope to break down the wall of my
soul. But they would not have thought that they could shake me, if they had
not so shaken other judges before,' And indeed, if his picture be true, the
royal justices must have been followed about by a regular caravan of carts
and horses to carry their presents. Even Theodulf has to admit that, in order
not to hurt people's feelings, he was obliged to accept certain unconsidered
trifles in the shape of eggs and bread and wine and chickens and little birds,
'whose bodies' (he says, smacking his lips) 'are small, but very good to eat.'
One seems to detect the anxious face of Bodo behind those eggs and little
birds.
Another treat Bodo had which happened once a year; for regularly on the
ninth of October there began the great fair of St Denys, which went on for a
whole month, outside the gates of Paris.[24] Then for a week before the fair
little booths and sheds sprang up, with open fronts in which the merchants
could display their wares, and the Abbey of St Denys, which had the right
to take a toll of all the merchants who came there to sell, saw to it that the
fair was well enclosed with fences, and that all came in by the gates and
paid their money, for wily merchants were sometimes known to burrow
under fences or climb over them so as to avoid the toll. Then the streets of
Paris were crowded with merchants bringing their goods, packed in carts
and upon horses and oxen; and on the opening day all regular trade in Paris
stopped for a month, and every Parisian shopkeeper was in a booth
somewhere in the fair, exchanging the corn and wine and honey of the
district for rarer goods from foreign parts. Bodo's abbey probably had a stall
in the fair and sold some of those pieces of cloth woven by the serfs in the
women's quarter, or cheeses and salted meat prepared on the estates, or
wine paid in rent by Bodo and his fellow-farmers. Bodo would certainly
take a holiday and go to the fair. In fact, the steward would probably have
great difficulty in keeping his men at work during the month; Charlemagne

had to give a special order to his stewards that they should 'be careful that
our men do properly the work which it is lawful to exact from them, and
that they do not waste their time in running about to markets and fairs'.
Bodo and Ermentrude and the three children, all attired in their best, did not
consider it waste of time to go to the fair even twice or three times. They
pretended that they wanted to buy salt to salt down their winter meat, or
some vermilion dye to colour a frock for the baby. What they really wanted
was to wander along the little rows of booths and look at all the strange
things assembled there; for merchants came to St Denys to sell their rich
goods from the distant East to Bodo's betters, and wealthy Frankish nobles
bargained there for purple and silken robes with orange borders, stamped
leather jerkins, peacock's feathers, and the scarlet plumage of flamingos
(which they called 'phoenix skins'), scents and pearls and spices, almonds
and raisins, and monkeys for their wives to play with.[25] Sometimes these
merchants were Venetians, but more often they were Syrians or crafty Jews,
and Bodo and his fellows laughed loudly over the story of how a Jewish
merchant had tricked a certain bishop, who craved for all the latest
novelties, by stuffing a mouse with spices and offering it for sale to him,
saying that 'he had brought this most precious never-before-seen animal
from Judea,' and refusing to take less than a whole measure of silver for it.
[26] In exchange for their luxuries these merchants took away with them
Frisian cloth, which was greatly esteemed, and corn and hunting dogs, and
sometimes a piece of fine goldsmith's work, made in a monastic workshop.
And Bodo would hear a hundred dialects and tongues, for men of Saxony
and Frisia, Spain and Provence, Rouen and Lombardy, and perhaps an
Englishman or two, jostled each other in the little streets; and from time to
time there came also an Irish scholar with a manuscript to sell, and the
strange, sweet songs of Ireland on his lips:

A hedge of trees surrounds me,
A blackbird's lay sings to me;
Above my lined booklet
The thrilling birds chant to me.

In a grey mantle from the top of
bushes
The cuckoo sings:

Verily--may the Lord shield me!--
Well do I write under the greenwood.
[27]

Then there were always jugglers and tumblers, and men with performing
bears, and minstrels to wheedle Bodo's few pence out of his pocket. And it
would be a very tired and happy family that trundled home in the cart to
bed. For it is not, after all, so dull in the kitchen, and when we have quite
finished with the emperor, 'Charlemagne and all his peerage', it is really
worth while to spend a few moments with Bodo in his little manse. History
is largely made up of Bodos.

CHAPTER III

Marco Polo
A VENETIAN TRAVELLER OF THE THIRTEENTH
CENTURY

Et por ce, veul ie que un et autre sachent a tos iors mais les euvres des
Veneciens, et qui il furent, et dont il vindrent, et qui il sont, et comment il
firent la noble Cite que l'en apele Venise, qui est orendroit la plus bele dou
siecle.... La place de Monseignor Saint Marc est orendroit la plus bele place
qui soit en tot li monde; que de vers li soleil levant est la plus bele yglise
qui soit el monde, c'est l'Yglise de Monseignor Saint Marc. Et de les cele
Yglise est li paleis de Monseignor li Dus, grant e biaus a mervoilles.
--MARTINO DA CANALE
And Kinsai [Hangchow] is the greatest city in the whole world, so great
indeed that I should scarcely venture to tell of it, but that I have met at
Venice people in plenty who have been there.... And if anyone should desire
to tell of all the vastness and great marvels of this city, a good quire of
paper would not hold the matter, I trow. For 'tis the greatest and noblest city,
and the finest for merchandise, that the whole world containeth.
--ODORIC OF PORDENONE
Let us go back in mind--as would that we could go back in body--to the
year 1268. It is a year which makes no great stir in the history books, but it
will serve us well. In those days, as in our own, Venice lay upon her
lagoons, a city (as Cassiodurus long ago saw her[B]) like a sea-bird's nest
afloat on the shallow waves, a city like a ship, moored to the land but only
at home upon the seas, the proudest city in all the Western world. For only
consider her position. Lying at the head of the Adriatic, half-way between
East and West, on the one great sea thoroughfare of medieval commerce, a
Mediterranean seaport, yet set so far north that she was almost in the heart
of Europe, Venice gathered into her harbour all the trade routes overland

and overseas, on which pack-horses could travel or ships sail. Merchants
bringing silk and spices, camphor and ivory, pearls and scents and carpets
from the Levant and from the hot lands beyond it, all came to port in
Venice. For whether they came by way of Egypt sailing between the low
banks of the Nile and jolting on camels to Alexandria, or whether they came
through the rich and pleasant land of Persia and the Syrian desert to Antioch
and Tyre, or whether they slowly pushed their way in a long, thin caravan
across the highlands of Central Asia, and south of the Caspian Sea to
Trebizond, and so sailed through the Black Sea and the Dardanelles, Venice
was their natural focus. Only Constantinople might have rivalled her, and
Constantinople she conquered. To Venice, therefore, as if drawn by a
magnet, came the spoils of the East, and from Venice they went by horse
across the Alps by the Brenner and St Gothard passes to Germany and
France, or in galleys by way of the Straits of Gibraltar to England and
Flanders;[1] and the galleys and pack-horses came back again to Venice,
laden with the metals of Germany, the furs of Scandinavia, the fine wools of
England, the cloth of Flanders, and the wine of France.

[B] 'Hic vobis, aquatilium avium more, domus est.'

But if geography gave Venice an unrivalled site, the Venetians did the rest.
Through all the early years of their history they defied Constantinople to the
east of them, and Pope and Holy Roman Emperor to the west; sometimes
turning to one, sometimes to the other, but stubbornly bent all the while
upon independence, replying, when invited to become subjects: 'God, Who
is our help and protector has saved us to dwell upon these waters. This
Venice, which we have raised in the lagoons, is our mighty habitation, no
power of emperor or of prince can touch us'; apt, if threatened, to retire to
their islands and derisively to fire cannon balls of bread into the mainland
force, which sought to starve them out.[2] Always they were conscious that
their future lay upon the waters, and in that East, whose colour had crept
into their civilization and warmed their blood. They were eastern and
western both, the Venetians, hot hearts for loving and conquering, icy heads
for scheming and ruling. Bit by bit they secured the ring of mainland behind
them, all the while keeping at bay the Saracen and Slav sea rovers, whose
ships were the terror of the Mediterranean. Then they descended upon the
pirates of Dalmatia, who thus harassed their trading vessels, and took all the

Dalmatian coast. The Doge of Venice became Duke of Dalmatia. 'True it is,'
says their chronicles, 'that the Adriatic Sea is in the duchy of Venice,'[3] and
they called it the 'Gulf of Venice'. Now it was that there was first instituted
the magnificent symbolical ceremony of wedding the sea, with the proud
words 'Desponsamus te mare in signum veri perpetuique domini'![4]

She was a maiden city, bright and free,
No guile seduced, no force could violate,
And when she took unto herself a mate
She must espouse the everlasting sea.

And truly it seemed as though the very sea had sworn to honour and obey
her.
Then came the Crusades, when Europe forgot its differences and threw
itself upon the paynim who held the holy places of its faith, when men from
all lands marched behind the banner of the Cross and the towers of
Jerusalem were more real than the Tower of Babel. Now, at last, Venice saw
her dream within her hand. It was Venice who provided galleys and Venice
who provided convoys and commissariat and soldiers, at a good round sum;
and when time came for the division of the spoil, Venice demanded in every
captured town of Palestine and Syria a church, a counting-house and the
right to trade without tolls. Her great chance came in the Fourth Crusade,
when her old blind Doge Enrico Dandolo (whose blindness had the Nelson
touch) upon the pretext that the Crusaders could not pay the transport fees
agreed upon, turned the whole Crusade to the use of Venice, and conquered
first Zara, which had dared to revolt from her, and then her ancient--her
only--rival, the immortal Byzantium itself. It is true that the Pope
excommunicated the Venetians when they first turned the armies against
Zara, but what matter? They looted Constantinople and brought back the
four great gilded horses to St Mark's--St Mark's, which has been compared
to a robbers' cave crowded with the booty of the Levant, and which held the
sacred body of the saint, stolen from Alexandria by the Venetians, nearly
four centuries before, concealed in a tub of pickled pork, in order to elude
the Moslems. A Venetian patriarch now said Mass in St Sophia. Venice
received the proud title of 'Ruler of a half and a quarter of the Roman
Empire,' ('quartæ partis et dimidiæ totius imperii Romaniæ'--the words have
a ring of trumpets), and the Doge, buskined in scarlet like the ancient

Roman emperors, now ruled supreme over four seas--the Adriatic, the
Aegean, the Sea of Marmora, and the Black Sea. Venetian factories studded
all the Levantine coasts, in Tripoli and Tyre, Salonica, Adrianople, and
Constantinople, in Trebizond on the Black Sea, even at Caffa in the far
Crimea, whence ran the mysterious road into Russia. Crete and Rhodes and
Cyprus were hers; her galleys swept the pirates from the seas and brooked
no rivals; all trade with the East must pass through Venice, and Venice only.
The other trading cities of Italy struggled against her, and Genoa came near
to rivalling her, but in 1258, and again in 1284, she utterly defeated the
Genoese fleet. Not for the city of 'sea without fish, mountains without
woods, men without faith, and women without shame' was it to bit the
horses on St Mark's.[5] In 1268 Venice seemed supreme. Byzantium was
her washpot and over the Levant she had cast her shoe. Truly her chronicler
might write of her:
Dalmatia, Albania, Rumania, Greece, Trebizond, Syria, Armenia, Egypt,
Cyprus, Candia, Apulia, Sicily, and other countries, kingdoms and islands
were the fruitful gardens, the proud castles of our people, where they found
again pleasure, profit, and security.... The Venetians went about the sea,
here and there and across the sea, and in all places wheresoever water runs,
and bought merchandise and brought it to Venice from every side. Then
there came to Venice Germans and Bavarians, French and Lombards,
Tuscans and Hungarians, and every people that lives by merchandise and
they took it to their countries.
Small wonder that (as a later traveller observed) the Venetians were proud
of their great rule, and when a son was born to a Venetian were wont to say
among themselves, 'A Signor is born into the world.'
Is it not true to say that Venice was the proudest city on earth, la noble cite
que l'en apele Venise, qui est orendroit la plus bele dou siecle?[6] Life was
a fair and splendid thing for those merchant princes, who held the gorgeous
East in fee in the year of grace 1268. In that year traders in great stone
counting-houses, lapped by the waters of the canals, were checking, book in
hand, their sacks of cloves, mace and nutmegs, cinnamon and ginger from
the Indies, ebony chessmen from Indo China, ambergris from Madagascar,
and musk from Tibet. In that year the dealers in jewels were setting prices
upon diamonds from Golconda, rubies and lapis lazuli from Badakhshan,

and pearls from the fisheries of Ceylon; and the silk merchants were
stacking up bales of silk and muslin and brocade from Bagdad and Yezd
and Malabar and China. In that year young gallants on the Rialto (scented
gallants, but each, like Shakespeare's Antonio, with a ship venturing into
port somewhere in the Levant) rubbed elbows with men of all nations,
heard travellers' tales of all lands, and at dawn slipped along the canals in
gondolas (not black in those days, but painted and hung with silk), saluting
the morning with songs; and the red-haired ladies of Venice whom centuries
later Titian loved to paint, went trailing up and down the marble steps of
their palaces, with all the brocades of Persia on their backs and all the
perfumes of Arabia to sweeten their little hands.
It was in that year, too, that one Martino da Canale, a clerk in the customs
house, began to busy himself (like Chaucer after him) less with his accounts
than with writing in the delectable French language ('por ce que lengue
franceise cort parmi le monde, et est la plus delitable a lire et a oir que nule
autre') a chronicle of Venice. It is of the water, watery, Canale's chronicle,
like Ariel's dirge; he has indeed, 'that intenseness of feeling which seems to
resolve itself into the elements which it contemplates.' Here is nothing
indeed, of 'the surge and thunder of the Odyssey', but the lovely words
sparkle like the sun on the waters of the Mediterranean, and like a refrain,
singing itself in and out of the narrative, the phrase recurs, 'Li tens estoit
clers et biaus ... et lors quant il furent en mer, li mariniers drecerent les
voiles au vent, et lesserent core a ploine voiles les mes parmi la mer a la
force dou vent';[7] for so much of the history of Venice was enacted upon
deck. It is a passing proud chronicle, too, for Canale was, and well he knew
it, a citizen of no mean city.

'Now would I,' he says, 'that every one and all know
for ever the works of the Venetians, who they were
and whence they came and what they are, and how
they made the noble city which is called Venice,
which is this day the fairest in the world. And I
would that all those who are now living and those
who are to come know how the noble city is builded
and how all good things abound in her, and how the
sire of the Venetians, the noble Doge, is powerful,
and what nobility is found therein and the prowess of

the Venetian people, and how they are all perfect in
the faith of Jesu Christ and obedient to holy Church,
and how they never disobey the commandment of
holy Church. Within this noble Venice there dares to
dwell neither heretic, nor usurer, murderer, thief nor
robber. And I will tell you the names of all the Doges
that have been in Venice, one after the other, and
what they did to the honour of holy Church and of
their noble City. And I will tell you the names of the
noble captains whom the noble Doges sent in their
time to lay low their enemies, and concerning the
victories that they won I will have you know, for it is
fitting.... In the year of the incarnation of our Lord
Jesu Christ MCCLXVII years, in the time of Milord
Renier Zeno, the high Doge of Venice, I laboured
and strove until I found the ancient history of the
Venetians, whence they came first and how they
builded the noble city called Venice, which is today
the fairest and the pleasantest in the world, full of
beauty and of all good things. Merchandise flows
through this noble city even as water flows from the
fountains, and the salt water runs through it and
round it and in all places save in the houses and the
streets; and when the citizens go abroad they can
return to their houses by land or by water, as they
will. From all parts there come merchandise and
merchants, who buy merchandise as they will and
take it back to their own countries. Within this town
is found food in great plenty, bread and wine, land
fowl and river fowl, fresh meat and salt, and sea fish
and river fish.... You may find within this fair town
many men of gentle birth, both old men and young
damoisaus in plenty, and merchants with them, who
buy and sell, and money changers and citizens of all
crafts, and therewith mariners of all sorts, and ships
to carry them to all lands and galleys to lay low their
enemies. And in this fair town is also great plenty of

ladies and damsels and maidens, very richly
apparelled.'[8]

It happened that there was a new Doge that year, our year 1268, Lorenzo
Tiepolo by name, and a great procession of the gilds took place before the
palace on the Piazza of St Mark to welcome his accession. Martino da
Canale was watching it and wrote it all down in his chronicle. First came
the navy sailing past in the harbour, fifty galleys and other ships, with their
crews cheering and shouting on deck. Then came the gilds on foot: first the
master smiths, with garlands on their heads and banners and trumpets; then
the furriers apparelled in samite and scarlet silk, with mantles of ermine and
vair; then the weavers richly bedight, and the ten master tailors in white
with crimson stars. Then the master clothworkers passed, carrying boughs
of olive and wearing crowns of olive on their heads; then the fustian makers
in furred robes of their own weaving, and the quilt makers with garlands of
gilt beads and white cloaks sewn with fleurs-de-lis, marching two by two,
with little children singing chansonettes and cobles before them. Then came
the makers of cloth of gold, all in cloth of gold, and their servants in cloth
of gold or of purple, followed by the mercers in silk and the butchers in
scarlet, the fish sellers robed and furred and garlanded, and the master
barbers, having with them two riders attired as knights-errant, and four
captive damsels, strangely garbed. Then came the glass-workers in scarlet
furred with vair, and gold-fringed hoods, and rich garlands of pearls,
carrying flasks and goblets of the famous Venetian glass before them, and
the comb and lantern makers, with a lantern full of birds to let loose in the
Doge's presence, and the goldsmiths wearing wreaths and necklaces of gold
and silver beads and sapphires, emeralds, diamonds, topazes, jacinths,
amethysts, rubies, jasper, and carbuncles. Master and servants alike were
sumptuously clad, and almost all wore gold fringes on their hoods, and
garlands of gilded beads. Each craft was accompanied by its band of divers
instruments, and bore with it silver cups and flagons of wine, and all
marched in fair order, singing ballads and songs of greeting, and saluted the
Doge and Dogaressa in turn, crying 'Long live our lord, the noble Doge
Lorenzo Tiepolo!' Gild after gild they marched in their splendour, lovely
alike to ear and eye; and a week fled before the rejoicings were ended and
all had passed in procession. Canale surpasses himself here, for he loved
State ceremonies; he gives a paragraph to the advance of each gild, its

salutation and withdrawal, and the cumulative effect of all the paragraphs is
enchanting, like a prose ballade, with a repeated refrain at the end of every
verse.[9]

What, they lived once thus in Venice, where the
merchants were the kings,
Where St Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the
sea with rings?

Listening to the magnificent salutation of the Doge by the priests of St
Mark's, 'Criste, vince, Criste regne, Criste inpere. Notre signor Laurens
Teuples, Des gracie, inclit Dus de Venise, Dalmace atque Groace, et
dominator de la quarte partie et demi de tot l'enmire de Romanie,
sauvement, honor, vie, et victoire. Saint Marc, tu le aie,'[10] who, hearing,
could have doubted that Venice, defier of Rome and conqueror of
Constantinople, was the finest, richest, most beautiful, and most powerful
city in the world?
But was she? Listen and judge. Thousands of miles away from Venice,
across the lands and seas of Asia, a little south of the Yangtze River and
close to the sea stood the city of Kinsai or Hangchow, the capital of the
Sung emperors, who ruled Southern China, not yet (in 1268) conquered by
the Tartars.[11] Like Venice, Kinsai stood upon lagoons of water and was
intersected by innumerable canals. It was a hundred miles in circuit, not
counting the suburbs which stretched round it, and there was not a span of
ground which was not well peopled. It had twelve great gates, and each of
the twelve quarters which lay within the gates was greater than the whole of
Venice. Its main street was two hundred feet wide, and ran from end to end
of the city, broken every four miles by a great square, lined with houses,
gardens, palaces, and the shops of the artisans, who were ruled by its twelve
great craft gilds. Parallel with the main street was the chief canal, beside
which stood the stone warehouses of the merchants who traded with India.
Twelve thousand stone bridges spanned its waterways, and those over the
principal canals were high enough to allow ships with their tapering masts
to pass below, while the carts and horses passed overhead. In its market-
places men chaffered for game and peaches, sea-fish, and wine made of rice
and spices; and in the lower part of the surrounding houses were shops,
where spices and drugs and silk, pearls and every sort of manufactured

article were sold. Up and down the streets of Kinsai moved lords and
merchants clad in silk, and the most beautiful ladies in the world swayed
languidly past in embroidered litters, with jade pins in their black hair and
jewelled earrings swinging against their smooth cheeks.[12]
On one side of this city lay a beautiful lake (famous in Chinese history, and
still one of the fairest prospects upon earth), studded with wooded islands,
on which stood pavilions with charming names: 'Lake Prospect', 'Bamboo
Chambers', 'The House of the Eight Genii', and 'Pure Delight'. Here, like the
Venetians, the men of Kinsai came for pleasure parties in barges, nobly
hung and furnished, the cabins painted with flowers and mountain
landscapes, and looking out they saw on one side the whole expanse of the
city, its palaces, temples, convents, and gardens, and on the other the stretch
of clear water, crowded with coloured pleasure boats, over which came
echoing the high, clear voices and the tinkling instruments of the revellers.
There is no space in which to tell of the King's palace, with its gardens and
orchards, its painted pavilions, and the groves where the palace ladies
coursed the game with dogs, and, tired of the pastime, flung off their robes
and ran to the lake, where they disported themselves like a shoal of silver
fishes. But a word must be said of the junks, which came sailing into the
harbour four and twenty miles away, and up the river to the city; and of the
great concourse of ships which came to Zaiton (perhaps the modern Amoy),
the port of the province. Here every year came a hundred times more
pepper than came to the whole of Christendom through the Levantine ports.
Here from Indo China and the Indies came spices and aloes and
sandalwood, nutmegs, spikenard and ebony, and riches beyond mention.
Big junks laded these things, together with musk from Tibet, and bales of
silk from all the cities of Mansi[C], and sailed away in and out of the East
India Archipelago, with its spice-laden breezes billowing their sails, to
Ceylon. There merchants from Malabar and the great trading cities of
southern India took aboard their cargoes and sold them in turn to Arab
merchants, who in their turn sold them to the Venetians in one or other of
the Levantine ports. Europeans who saw Zaiton and the other Chinese
seaports in after years were wont to say that no one, not even a Venetian,
could picture to himself the multitude of trading vessels which sailed upon
those eastern seas and crowded into those Chinese harbours. They said also
with one accord that Kinsai was without doubt the finest and richest and

noblest city in the world. To the men of Kinsai, Venice would have been a
little suburb and the Levant a backyard. The whole of the east was their
trading field, and their wealth and civilization were already old when
Venice was a handful of mud huts peopled by fishermen.

[C] Mansi or Manji was southern China and Cathay
was northern China, the boundary between them
lying along the River Hoang-Ho on the east and the
southern boundary of Shensi on the west.

Nor was Kinsai alone and unmatched in all its wonder and beauty, for a
three days' journey from it stood Sugui, which today we call Suchow, lying
also on the great canal, with its circumference of twenty miles, its
prodigious multitudes swarming the streets, its physicians, philosophers,
and magicians; Sugui, with the ginger which was so common that forty
pounds of it might be bought for the price of a Venetian silver groat, the silk
which was manufactured in such vast quantities that all the citizens were
dressed in it and still ships laden with it sailed away; Sugui under whose
jurisdiction were sixteen wealthy cities, where trade and the arts flourished.
If you had not seen Hangchow, you would have said that there was no city
in the world, not Venice nor Constantinople nor another worthy to be named
in the same breath with Sugui. The Chinese indeed, seeing the riches and
beauty of these two cities, doubted whether even the pleasant courts of
heaven could show their equal and proudly quoted the proverb:

Shang yeu t'ien t'ang,
Hia yeu Su Hang.

(There's Paradise above, 'tis true,
But here below we've Hang and Su.)[13]

Kinsai seems far enough away in all conscience from Venice in the year
1268, and Venice was all unwitting of its existence, far beyond the sunrise.
Yet there was in the city of the lagoons that year, watching the same
procession of the gilds which Canale watched, a boy who was destined to
link them for ever in the minds of men--a lean lad of fourteen, Marco Polo
by name, who was always kicking his heels on the quay and bothering
foreign sailors for tales of distant lands. He heard all they had to tell him

very willingly, storing it up in that active brain of his, for his curiosity was
insatiable; but always the tales that he heard most willingly were about the
Tartars.
At this time the Tartars were at the height of their power in the West and the
East. Tartars ruled at Peking all over northern China, Corea, Mongolia,
Manchuria, and Tibet, and took tribute from Indo-China and Java. Tartars
were spread over central Asia, holding sway in Turkestan and Afghanistan.
The Golden Horde ruled the Caucasus, a large part of Russia, and a piece of
Siberia. Tartars held sway in Persia, Georgia, Armenia, and a part of Asia
Minor. When the great Mangu Khan died in 1259, one empire lay spread
across Asia and Europe, from the Yellow River to the Danube. There had
been nothing like it in the world before, and there was nothing like it again,
until the Russian Empire of modern times. By 1268 it was beginning to split
up into the four kingdoms of China, central Asia, Russia, and Persia, but
still it was one people. Now, the attitude of the West to the Tartars at this
time was very interesting. At first it feared them as a new scourge of God,
like Attila and his Huns; they overran Poland, ravaged Hungary, and
seemed about to break like a great flood upon the West, and overwhelm it
utterly. Then the tide rolled back. Gradually the West lost its first
stupefaction and terror and began to look hopefully towards the Tartars as a
possible ally against its age-old foe, the Moslem. The Christians of the West
knew that the Tartars had laid the Moslem power low through the length
and breadth of Asia, and they knew too, that the Tartars had no very sharply
defined faith and were curious of all beliefs that came their way. Gradually
the West became convinced that the Tartars might be converted to
Christianity, and fight side by side beneath the Cross against the hated
Crescent. There grew up the strange legend of Prester John, a Christian
priest-king, ruling somewhere in the heart of Asia; and indeed little groups
of Nestorian Christians did still survive in eastern Asia at this time.[14]
Embassies began to pass between Tartar khans and western monarchs, and
there began also a great series of missions of Franciscan friars to Tartary,
men who were ethnologists and geographers at heart as well as
missionaries, and have left us priceless accounts of the lands which they
visited. In the year of grace 1268, much was known about central Asia, for
in 1245 the Pope had sent the Italian friar John of Plano Carpini thither, and
in 1251 another friar, William of Rubruck, a French Fleming, had been sent

by the saintly Louis, King of France. Both got as far as Karakorum, the
Tartar camp on the borders of northern China, though they did not enter
China itself. They had brought back innumerable stories about the nomad
conquerors, who carried their tents on carts, and drank fermented mares'
milk, about the greatness of the khan and his welcome to the strangers from
the West, and the interest with which he listened to their preaching.[15]
These tales were common property now, and Marco Polo must have
listened to them.
Marco Polo was always talking of the Tartars, always asking about them.
Indeed, he had reason to be interested in them. This (as we have said) was
the year of grace 1268, and eight years before (some, indeed, say fifteen
years) his father, Nicolo Polo, and his uncle Maffeo had vanished into
Tartary. They were rich merchants, trading with their own ship to
Constantinople, and there they had decided to go on a commercial venture
into the lands of the Golden Horde, which lay to the north of the Black Sea.
So they had sailed over to the Crimea, where they had a counting-house at
Soldaia, and taking with them a store of costly jewels, for they were jewel
merchants, they had set off on horseback to visit the Khan of the West
Tartars. So much the Venetians knew, for word had come back from Soldaia
of their venture; but they had never returned. And so Marco, kicking his
heels upon the quay, caught sailor-men by the sleeve and asked them about
those wild horsemen with their mares' milk and their magicians and their
droves of cattle; and as he asked he wondered about his father and his
uncle, and whether they were dead and lost for ever in the wilds of Tartary.
But even while he asked and wondered and kicked his heels on the quay,
while the Doge Tiepolo was watching the procession of the gilds and the
clerk Canale was adding up customs dues or writing the ancient history of
the Venetians, at that very moment the two Polos were slowly and wearily
making their way across the heights of central Asia with a caravan of mules
and camels, drawing near to golden Samarcand with its teeming bazaars,
coming nearer and nearer to the West; and in the following year, 1269, they
reached Acre, and took ship there for Venice, and so at last came home.
They had a strange story to tell, stranger and better than anything the lean,
inquisitive boy had heard upon the quays. They had soon disposed of their
jewels and they had spent a year at the camp of the Khan of the Golden
Horde of Kipchak on the mighty River Volga. Then war broke out between

that ruler and the Khan who ruled the Persian Khanate, and it cut off their
way back. But Marco's curiosity was inherited; and no Venetian was ever
averse to seeing strange lands and seeking out new opportunities for trade;
so the Polos decided to go on and visit the Khan of central Asia or Chagatai,
and perhaps make their way back to Constantinople by some unfrequented
route. They struggled over plains peopled only by tent-dwelling Tartars and
their herds, until at last they reached the noble city of Bokhara. They must
have followed the line of the Oxus River, and if we reverse the marvellous
description which Matthew Arnold wrote of that river's course in Sohrab
and Rustum, we shall have a picture of the Polos' journey:

But the majestic River floated on,
Out of the mist and hum of that low land,
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved,
Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste
Under the solitary moon; he flow'd
Right for the Polar Star, past Orgunjè,
Brimming and bright and large: then sands begin
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams,
And split his currents; that for many a league
The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles--
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere,
A foil'd circuitous wanderer:--till at last
The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide
His luminous home of waters opens, bright
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars
Emerge and shine upon the Aral Sea.

For three years the Polos remained at Bokhara, until one day it happened
that an embassy came to the city, on its way back from the khan in Persia to
the great Khan Kublai, who ruled in far-off China, and to whom all the
Tartar rulers owed allegiance. The chief ambassador was struck with the
talents and charm of the brothers, who had now become proficient in the
Tartar language, and persuaded them to accompany him on his journey to
the presence of the Great Khan, who had never yet set eyes on a man of the
West, and would, he assured them, receive them honourably. They would
not have been Venetians had they refused such an opportunity, and, taking
their Venetian servants with them, they journeyed for a year with the Tartar
embassy across the heart of Asia, and so reached the great Kublai Khan.
Many years later Marco himself described their reception, as they had told
it to him:

Being introduced to the presence of the Grand Khan
Kublai, the travellers were received by him with the
condescension and affability that belonged to his
character, and as they were the first Latins who had
made their appearance in that country, they were
entertained with feasts and honoured with other
marks of distinction. Entering graciously into
conversations with them, he made earnest inquiries
on the subject of the western parts of the world, of
the Emperor of the Romans, and of other Christian
kings and princes ... and above all he questioned
them particularly respecting the Pope, the affairs of
the Church, and the religious worship and doctrine of
the Christians. Being well instructed and discreet
men, they gave appropriate answers upon all these
points, and as they were perfectly acquainted with
the Tartar language, they expressed themselves
always in becoming terms; insomuch that the Grand
Khan, holding them in high estimation, frequently
commanded their attendance.[16]

III. PART OF A LANDSCAPE BY CHAO MÊNG-FU.

The Great Khan finally decided to send these two intelligent strangers back
to their own land on a mission from himself to the Pope, asking for a
hundred men of learning to be sent to teach and preach to his Tartars, and
for some holy oil from the lamp which burned over Christ's sepulchre in
Jerusalem. He provided them with a golden tablet of honour, which acted as
a passport and secured that they should be entertained and their journey
facilitated from city to city in all his dominions, and so they set forth once
more upon their homeward journey, But they were delayed by the dangers
and difficulties of travel, 'the extreme cold, the snow, the ice, and the
flooding of the rivers', and it was three years before they at last reached
Acre in the April of 1269, and finding that the Pope had died the year
before, and that no election had yet been made, so that they could not
immediately accomplish their mission, they decided to visit their home
again, and so went back to Venice. There Nicolo found that his wife, who
had been with child at his departure, was dead, leaving behind her a son
Marco, our young haunter of quays.

IV. MADAME EGLENTYNE AT HOME.

This was the marvellous tale which the same Marco drank in from the lips
of his new-found father and uncle. But more marvels were to come. For two
years the Venetians remained at home, awaiting the election of a Pope in
order to deliver the Great Khan's letters; but no election was made, and at
last, fearing that Kublai might suspect them of playing him false, they
decided to return to the East, and this time they took with them Marco, now
a well-grown lad of sixteen or seventeen years with a bright eye that looked
everywhere and took in everything, observant and sober beyond his age.
But when they got as far as Ayas on the Gulf of Scanderoon, news was
brought them of the election of Tebaldo di Piacenza as Pope Gregory X, and
as Tebaldo had already interested himself in their mission, they returned
with all speed to Acre, and obtained from him letters to the Khan (they had
already visited Jerusalem and provided themselves with some of the holy
oil), and two Dominican friars, 'men of letters and science as well as
profound theologians,' though not the hundred men of learning for whom

the Khan had asked; and so they set out again from Acre in November
1271. The Dominicans may have been profound theologians, but they were
somewhat chicken-hearted adventurers, and when rumours reached them of
wars in the district of Armenia, through which they had to pass, they hastily
handed over their letters to the Venetians, put themselves under the
protection of the Knights Templars, and scuttled back to the coast and
safety as fast as they could go, leaving the Polos, 'undismayed by perils and
difficulties, to which they had long been inured,' to proceed alone.
Assuredly, St Francis crows over St Dominic somewhere in the courts of
Heaven; his friars never feared for their skins, as they travelled blithely into
the heat of India and the cold of central Asia; and it is easy to imagine the
comments of fat William of Rubruck upon the flight of the profound
theologians.
The account of this second journey of the Polos may be read in the
wonderful book which Marco afterwards wrote to describe the wonders of
the world. They went from Lajazzo through Turcomania, past Mount
Ararat, where Marco heard tell that Noah's ark rested, and where he first
heard also of the oil wells of Baku and the great inland sea of Caspian. Past
Mosul and Bagdad they went, through Persia, where brocades are woven
and merchants bring caravan after caravan of treasures, to Hormuz, on the
Persian Gulf, into which port put the ships from India, laden with spices,
drugs, scented woods, and jewels, gold tissues and elephants' teeth. Here
they meant to take ship, but they desisted, perhaps because they feared to
trust themselves to the flimsy nailless vessels in which the Arabs braved the
dangers of the Indian Ocean. So they turned north again and prepared to
make the journey by land. They traversed the salt desert of Kerman, through
Balk and Khorassan to Badakhshan, where there are horses bred from
Alexander the Great's steed Bucephalus, and ruby mines and lapis lazuli. It
is a land of beautiful mountains and wide plains, of trout streams and good
hunting, and here the brothers sojourned for nearly a year, for young Marco
had fallen ill in the hot plains: a breath of mountain air blows through the
page in which he describes how amid the clean winds his health came back
to him. When he was well, they went on again, and ascended the upper
Oxus to the highlands of Pamir, 'the roof of the world' as it has been called
in our own time, a land of icy cold, where Marco saw and described the
great horned sheep which hunters and naturalists still call after him the Ovis

Poli,[17] a land which no traveller (save Benedict Goës, about 1604)
described again, until Lieutenant John Wood of the Indian Navy went there
in 1838. Thence they descended upon Kashgar, Yarkand, and Khotan, where
jade is found, regions which no one visited again until 1860. From Khotan
they pushed on to the vicinity of Lake Lob, never to be reached again until
a Russian explorer got there in 1871. They halted there to load asses and
camels with provisions, and then, with sinking hearts, they began the
terrible thirty days' journey across the Gobi Desert. Marco gives a vivid
description of its terrors, voices which seem to call the traveller by name,
the march of phantom cavalcades, which lures them off the road at night,
spirits which fill the air with sounds of music, drums and gongs and the
clash of arms--all those illusions which human beings have heard and seen
and feared in every desert and in every age.

What might this be? A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men's names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.

At last they arrived safely at Tangut in the extreme north-west of China,
and, skirting the frontier across the great steppes of Mongolia, they were
greeted by the Khan's people, who had been sent forward to meet them at
the distance of forty days' journey, and so at last they reached his presence
in the May of 1275, having journeyed for three years and a half.
The Great Khan received the Polos kindly, listened attentively to the
account which they gave of their mission, commended them for their zeal
and fidelity, and received the holy oil and the Pope's gifts with reverence.
He then observed the boy Marco, now a 'young gallant' and personable
enough, no doubt, and inquired who he was, and Nicolo made answer, 'Sire,
this is your servant, and my son,' to which the Khan replied, 'He is
welcome, and much it pleases me,' and enrolled Marco among his own
attendants. It was the beginning of a long and close association, for Kublai
Khan soon found that Marco Polo was both discreet and intelligent, and
began to employ him on various missions. Moreover, Marco, for his part,
found that the Great Khan was always desirous of learning the manners and
customs of the many tribes over whom he ruled. Kublai had to the full that

noble curiosity which is the beginning of wisdom, and it irked him
exceedingly that his envoys, good conscientious men, followed their noses
upon his business, looking neither to right nor to left, and as like as not
never even noticed that among the aboriginal hill tribes of the interior called
Miaotzu there prevailed the peculiar and entertaining custom of the
couvade, wherein

Chinese go to bed
And lie in, in their ladies' stead.[18]

'The Prince, in consequence,' says Marco, 'held them for no better than fools
and dolts and would say, "I had far liever hearken about the strange things
and the manners of the different countries you have seen than merely be
told of the business you went upon,"'
Very different was the habit of the Venetian, who as a lad, had lent ear so
readily to swarthy sailors on the Rialto. He quickly picked up several of the
languages current in the Great Khan's empire, and here is his account of his
proceedings when on a mission to foreign parts:

Perceiving that the Great Khan took a pleasure in
hearing accounts of whatever was new to him
respecting the customs and manners of people, and
the peculiar circumstances of distant countries, he
endeavoured, wherever he went, to obtain correct
information on these subjects and made notes of all
he saw and heard, in order to gratify the curiosity of
his master. In short, during seventeen years that he
continued in his service, he rendered himself so
useful, that he was employed on confidential
missions to every part of the empire and its
dependencies; and sometimes also he travelled on his
own private account, but always with the consent
and sanctioned by the authority of the Grand Khan.
In such circumstances it was that Marco Polo had the
opportunity of acquiring a knowledge, either by his
own observation or by what he collected from others,
of so many things until his time unknown, respecting

the Eastern parts of the world, and these he diligently
and regularly committed to writing.... And by this
means he obtained so much honour that he provoked
the jealousy of other officers of the court.[19]

It is small wonder that when first the lad came back with his reports the
Great Khan and his courtiers marvelled and exclaimed, 'If this young man
live he will assuredly be a person of great worth and ability.'
It was while on these various public missions that Marco Polo journeyed
through the provinces of Shansi, Shensi, and Szechuen, and skirted the edge
of Tibet to Yunnan, and entered Northern Burma, lands unknown again to
the West until after 1860. For three years he was himself governor of the
great city of Yangchow, which had twenty-four towns under its jurisdiction,
and was full of traders and makers of arms and military accoutrements.[20]
He visited Karakorum in Mongolia, the old Tartar capital, and with his
Uncle Maffeo spent three years in Tangut. On another occasion he went on
a mission to Cochin China, and by sea to the southern states of India, and he
has left a vivid picture of the great trading cities of Malabar. He might
indeed have pondered with Ulysses,

I am become a name
For always roaming with a hungry heart,
Much have I seen and known, cities of men,
And manners, climates, countries, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all.

He describes the great capital Cambaluc (Peking) in the north, and the
beautiful Kinsai (Hangchow) in the south. He describes the Khan's summer
palace at Shandu, with its woods and gardens, its marble palace, its bamboo
pavilion swung like a tent from two hundred silken cords, its stud of white
mares, and its wonder-working magicians. Indeed his description of the
summer palace is better known to Englishmen than any other part of his
work, for Shandu is Xanadu, which Coleridge saw in a dream after he had
been reading Marco's book and wove into wonderful verse:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree,

Where Alph the sacred river ran,
Past caverns measureless to man,
Down to a sunless sea.

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree,
And here were forests, ancient as the hills
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

Nor is it only palaces which Marco Polo describes, for he tells of the great
canal and inland river trade of China, the exports and imports at its
harbours, the paper money, the system of posts and caravanserais, which
linked it together. He gives an unsurpassed picture of that huge, rich,
peaceful empire, full of wealth and commerce and learned men and
beautiful things, and of its ruler Kublai Khan, one of the noblest monarchs
who ever sat upon a throne, who, since 'China is a sea that salts all the
rivers that flow into it,'[21] was far more than a barbarous Mongol khan,
was in very truth a Chinese emperor, whose house, called by the Chinese
the 'Yuan Dynasty', takes its place among the great dynasties of China.
Even more than Marco Polo tells us he must, indeed, have seen. The
impersonality of the greater part of the book is its one blemish, for we
would fain know more of how he lived in China. There is some evidence
that he consorted with the Mongol conquerors rather than with the Chinese,
and that Chinese was not one of the languages which he learned. He makes
no mention of several characteristic Chinese customs, such as the
compressed feet of the women, and fishing with cormorants (both of which
are described by Ordoric of Pordenone after him); he travelled through the
tea districts of Fo-kien, but he never mentions tea-drinking, and he has no
word to say even of the Great Wall.[22] And how typical a European he is,
in some ways, for all his keen interest in new and strange things. 'They are,'
he says of the peaceful merchants and scholars of Suchow, 'a pusillanimous
race and solely occupied with their trade and manufactures. In these indeed
they display considerable ability, and if they were as enterprising, manly,
and warlike as they are ingenious, so prodigious is their number that they
might not only subdue the whole of the province, but carry their rule further
still.'[23] Nearly five hundred years later we find the same judgement
expressed in different words: 'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of

Cathay.' The answer is a question: Would you rather be the pusillanimous
Chinese, who painted the landscape roll of which a portion is reproduced
opposite page 52, or the enterprising, manly, and warlike European of the
same period, whose highest achievement in pictorial art is the picture of
Marco Polo's embarkation, reproduced opposite page 21? What is
civilization and what progress? Yet Marco Polo shows himself throughout
his book far from unable to appreciate other standards than those of his own
land and religion, for of Sakya-muni Buddha he says that, 'had he been a
Christian he would have been a great saint of our Lord Jesus Christ,' and he
could honour Kublai as that great Khan deserved.
Nevertheless, although Marco Polo shows less knowledge of the Chinese
than one might expect from the extraordinary detail and fidelity of his
observation in other directions, he must have known many of these
charming and cultivated people, at Kinsai or Cambaluc, or at the city which
he governed. Among others, he must have known the great artist who
painted the roll mentioned above, Chao Mêng-fu, whom the Chinese called
'Sung ksüeh Tao jen' or the 'Apostle of Pine Trees and Snow'. He was a
lineal descendant of the founder of the Sung dynasty and a hereditary
official. When that dynasty at last fell before the Tartars, he and his friend
Ch'ien Hsüan, 'the Man of the Jade Pool and Roaring Torrent', retired into
private life. But in 1286 Chao Mêng-fu was summoned to court by Kublai
Khan, and, to the indignation of his friend, returned and became secretary in
the Board of War, occupying his time in this post (what must Marco Polo
have thought of him!) in painting his marvellous pictures. He became a
great favourite of the Khan and was always about the court, and Marco Polo
must have known him well and perhaps have watched him at work painting
those matchless landscapes, and those pictures of horses and men for which
he was famous. Marco loved horses, as, indeed, he loved all kinds of sport
(of which he had plenty, for the Khan was a great hunter and hawker), and
he has left a word picture of the white brood mares at Shansi, which may be
set beside Chao Mêng-fu's brush picture of the 'Eight Horses in the Park of
Kublai Khan'.[24] He knew, too, perhaps Chao Mêng-fu's wife, the Lady
Kuan, who painted most exquisitely the graceful bamboo and the peony, so
loved by Chinese artists, and of whom it is related that 'she would watch the
moving shadows of the sprays thrown by the moon on the paper windows,
and transfer the fugitive outlines to paper with a few strokes of her supple

brush, so that every smallest scrap of her work was mounted in albums as
models for others to copy'.[25] Chao Mêng-fu and the Lady Kuan had a
son, Chao Yung, who is of special interest to us, for he painted a picture of a
Tangut hunter, and Marco Polo has also given a description of the Tartar
horsemen and of the province of Tangut, where he saw and described the
musk deer and the yak.
But we must return to the history of the Polos in China. From time to time
in Marco's book we hear also of his father and uncle, travelling about the
empire, growing rich by trade, and amassing a store of those jewels, in the
value of which they were so skilled, even helping the Khan to reduce a
rebel town, by constructing siege engines for him on the European model,
handy Venetians that they were, who could lay their hands to anything.[27]
Without doubt they were proud of their Marco, who from an inquisitive lad
had grown to so wise and observant a man, and had risen to so high a
position. So for seventeen years the three Polos abode in the Khan's service
in China. The long months slipped by; and at last they began to feel upon
them a longing to see Venice and the lagoons again, and to hear Mass once
more beneath the majestic roof of St Mark's before they died. Moreover,
Kublai Khan was growing old himself, and the favour which he had always
shown to them had excited some jealousy among his own people, and they
feared what might happen when he died. But the old Khan was adamant to
all their prayers; wealth and honours were theirs for the asking, but he
would not let them go. They might, indeed, have died in China, and we of
the West might never have heard of Marco Polo or of Kublai Khan, but for
a mere accident, a stroke of fate, which gave them their chance. In 1286
Arghun, the Khan of Persia, lost by death his favourite wife Bolgana, and,
according to her dying wish, he sent ambassadors to the Court of Peking to
ask for another bride from her own Mongol tribe. Their overland route
home again was endangered by a war, and they therefore proposed to return
by sea. Just at that moment, Marco Polo happened to return from a voyage
on which he had been sent, and spoke with such assurance of the ease with
which it had been accomplished, that the three ambassadors conceived a
strong desire to take with them all three of these ingenious Venetians, who
seemed to know so much about ships. Thus it was that the great Khan was
prevailed upon, very reluctantly, to let them go.

Early in 1292 they set sail from the busy port of Zaiton in fourteen big
Chinese junks (of which Marco, writing of the shipping of the Indian and
China seas, has left an excellent description),[28] with the three envoys, the
princess, a beautiful girl of seventeen, 'moult bèle dame at avenant,' says
Marco, who had an eye for pretty ladies, and a large suite of attendants. One
version of Marco's book says that they took with them also the daughter of
the king of Mansi, one of those Sung princesses who in happier days had
wandered beside the lake in Hangchow, and who had no doubt been brought
up at Cambaluc by the care of Kublai Khan's favourite queen, the Lady
Jamui. The voyage was a long and difficult one; they suffered lengthy
delays in Sumatra, Ceylon, and Southern India, occupied by Marco in
studying the sea charts of the coast of India which the Arab pilots showed
him, and adding to his knowledge of these parts, which he had already
visited. Thus it was over two years before the junks reached Persia, and two
of the three envoys and a large number of their suite had died by the way.
When at last they landed, it was found that Arghun, the prospective
bridegroom, had meanwhile died too, leaving his throne in the charge of a
regent for his young son. But on the regent's advice a convenient solution of
the difficulty was found by handing the princess over to this prince, and
Marco and his uncles duly conducted her to him in the province of
Timochain, where Marco Polo noticed that the women were 'in my opinion
the most beautiful in the world', where stood the famed and solitary arbor
secco, and where men still told tales of great Alexander and Darius. There
they took leave of their princess, who had come on the long voyage to love
them like fathers, so Marco says, and wept sorely when they parted. It was
while they were still in Persia, where they stayed for nine months after
handing over the princess, that the Polos received news of the death of the
Great Khan whom they had served so faithfully for so many years. He died
at the ripe age of eighty, and with his death a shadow fell over central Asia,
darkening the shining yellow roofs of Cambaluc,

the barren plains
Of Sericana, where Chineses drive
With sails and wind their cany waggons light,

the minarets of Persia, and the tents of wild Kipchak Tartars, galloping over
the Russian steppes. So wide had been the sway of Kublai Khan. A shadow

fell also upon the heart of Marco Polo. It was as though a door had clanged
to behind him, never to open again. 'In the course of their journey,' he says,
'our travellers received intelligence of the Great Khan having departed this
life, which entirely put an end to all prospects of their revisiting those
regions.' So he and his elders went on by way of Tabriz, Trebizond, and
Constantinople to Venice, and sailed up to the city of the lagoons at long
last at the end of 1295.
A strange fairy-tale legend has come down to us about the return of the
Polos. 'When they got thither,' says Ramusio, who edited Marco's book in
the fifteenth century, 'the same fate befell them as befell Ulysses, who when
he returned after his twenty years' wanderings to his native Ithaca was
recognized by nobody.' When, clad in their uncouth Tartar garb, the three
Polos knocked at the doors of the Ca' Polo, no one recognized them, and
they had the greatest difficulty in persuading their relatives and fellow-
Venetians that they were indeed those Polos who had been believed dead
for so many years. The story goes that they satisfactorily established their
identity by inviting all their kinsmen to a great banquet, for each course of
which they put on a garment more magnificent than the last, and finally,
bringing in their coarse Tartar coats, they ripped open the seams and the
lining thereof, 'upon which there poured forth a great quantity of precious
stones, rubies, sapphires, carbuncles, diamonds, and emeralds, which had
been sewn into each coat with great care, so that nobody could have
suspected that anything was there.... The exhibition of such an extraordinary
and infinite treasure of jewels and precious stones, which covered the table,
once more filled all present with such astonishment that they were dumb
and almost beside themselves with surprise: and they at once recognized
these honoured and venerated gentlemen in the Ca' Polo, whom at first they
had doubted and received them with the greatest honour and reverence.[29]
Human nature has changed little since the thirteenth century. The precious
stones are a legend, but no doubt the Polos brought many with them, for
they were jewel merchants by trade; they had had ample opportunities for
business in China, and the Great Khan had loaded them with 'rubies and
other handsome jewels of great value' to boot. Jewels were the most
convenient form in which they could have brought home their wealth. But
the inquiring Marco brought other things also to tickle the curiosity of the
Venetians, as he lets fall from time to time in his book. He brought, for

example, specimens of the silky hair of the Tangut yak, which his
countrymen much admired, the dried head and feet of a musk deer, and the
seeds of a dye plant (probably indigo) from Sumatra, which he sowed in
Venice, but which never came up, because the climate was not sufficiently
warm.[30] He brought presents also for the Doge; for an inventory made in
1351 of things found in the palace of Marino Faliero includes among others
a ring given by Kublai Khan, a Tartar collar, a three-bladed sword, an
Indian brocade, and a book 'written by the hand of the aforesaid Marco,'
called De locis mirabilibus Tartarorum.[31]
The rest of Marco Polo's life is quickly told. The legend goes that all the
youth of Venice used to resort to the Ca' Polo in order to hear his stories, for
not even among the foreign sailors on the quays, where once the boy Marco
had wandered and asked about the Tartars, were stories the like of his to be
heard. And because he was always talking of the greatness of Kublai Khan's
dominions, the millions of revenue, the millions of junks, the millions of
riders, the millions of towns and cities, they gave him a nickname and
jestingly called him Marco Milione, or Il Milione, which is, being
interpreted, 'Million Marco'; and the name even crept into the public
documents of the Republic, while the courtyard of his house became known
as the Corte Milione. To return from legend to history, the ancient rivalry
between Venice and Genoa had been growing during Marco Polo's absence,
nor had Venice always prevailed. Often as her galleys sailed,

dipping deep
For Famagusta and the hidden sun
That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire, ...
Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,
The pirate Genoese
Hell raked them till they rolled
Blood, water, fruit, and corpses up the hold.

At last in 1298, three years after Marco's return, a Genoese fleet under
Lamba Doria sailed for the Adriatic, to bate the pride of Venice in her own
sea. The Venetians fitted out a great fleet to meet it, and Marco Polo, the
handy man who knew so much about navigation, albeit more skilled with
Chinese junks than with western ships, went with it as gentleman
commander of a galley. The result of the encounter was a shattering victory

for the Genoese off Curzola. Sixty-eight Venetian galleys were burnt, and
seven thousand prisoners were haled off to Genoa, among them Marco
Polo, who had now a taste of the results of that enterprise, manliness, and
warfare, whose absence he so deprecated in the men of Suchow.
But soon there began to run through the streets and courtyards of Genoa a
rumour that in prison there lay a certain Venetian captain, with tales so
wonderful to beguile the passing hours that none could tire of hearing them;
and anon the gallants and sages and the bold ladies of Genoa were flocking,
just as the men of the Rialto had flocked before, to hear his stories of
Kublai Khan.

Lord of the fruits of Tartary
Her rivers silver-pale,
Lord of the hills of Tartary,
Glen, thicket, wood, and dale,
Her flashing stars, her scented breeze,
Her trembling lakes, like foamless seas,
Her bird-delighting citron-trees
In every purple vale.

'Messer Marco,' so runs Ramusio's account of the tradition which lingered
in Venice in his day, 'finding himself in this position, and witnessing the
general eagerness to hear all about Cathay and the Great Khan, which
indeed compelled him daily to repeat his story till he was weary, was
advised to put the matter in writing, so he found means to get a letter
written to his father in Venice, in which he desired the latter to send those
notes and memoranda which he had brought home with him.'
It happened that in prison with Marco Polo there lay a certain Pisan writer
of romances, Rusticiano by name,[32] who had probably been taken
prisoner before at the battle of Melaria (1284), when so many Pisan
captives had been carried to Genoa, that the saying arose 'He who would
see Pisa let him go to Genoa.' Rusticiano was skilled in the writing of
French, the language par excellence of romances, in which he had written
versions of the Round Table Tales, and in him Marco Polo found a ready
scribe, who took down the stories as he told them, in the midst of the crowd
of Venetian prisoners and Genoese gentlemen, raptly drinking in all the

wonders of Kublai Khan. It was by a just instinct that, when all was written,
Rusticiano prefixed to the tale that same address to the lords and gentlemen
of the world, bidding them to take heed and listen, which he had been wont
to set at the beginning of his tales of Tristan and Lancelot and King Arthur:
'Ye Lords, Emperors and Kings, Dukes and Marquises, Counts, Knights and
Burgesses and all ye men who desire to know the divers races of men and
the diversities of the different regions of the world, take ye this book and
cause it to be read, and here shall ye find the greatest marvels.' But he adds,
'Marco Polo, a wise and learned citizen of Venice, states distinctly what
things he saw and what things he heard from others, for this book will be a
truthful one.' Marco Polo's truthful marvels were more wonderful even than
the exploits of Arthur's knights, and were possibly better suited to the
respectable Rusticiano's pen, for his only other claim to distinction in the
eyes of posterity seems to be that in his abridgment of the Romance of
Lancelot he entirely omits the episode (if episode it can be called) of the
loves of Lancelot and Guinevere. 'Alas,' remarks his French editor, 'that the
copy of Lancelot which fell into the hands of poor Francesca of Rimini was
not one of those expurgated by Rusticiano!' [33]
Marco Polo was released from prison (there must have been mourning in
the palaces of Genoa) and returned to Venice at the end of a year.
Sometimes hereafter his name occurs in the records of Venice, as he moves
about on his lawful occasions.[34] In 1305 we find 'Nobilis Marchus Polo
Milioni' standing surety for a wine smuggler; in 1311 he is suing a
dishonest agent who owes him money on the sale of musk (he, Marco, had
seen the musk deer in its lair); and in 1323 he is concerned in a dispute
about a party wall. We know too, from his will, that he had a wife named
Donata, and three daughters, Fantina, Bellela, and Moreta. Had he loved
before, under the alien skies where his youth was spent, some languid,
exquisite lady of China, or hardy Tartar maid? Had he profited himself from
the strange marriage customs of Tibet, of which he remarks (with one of his
very rare gleams of humour), 'En cele contree aurent bien aler les jeume de
seize anz en vingt quatre'? Had Fantina, Bellela, and Moreta half-brothers,
flying their gerfalcons at the quails by the shores of the 'White Lake' where
the Khan hunted, and telling tales of the half legendary father, who sailed
away for ever when they were boys in the days of Kublai Khan? These
things we cannot know, nor can we ever guess whether he regretted that

only daughters sprang from his loins in the city of the lagoons, and no
Venetian son to go venturing again to the far-distant country where
assuredly he had left a good half of his heart. Perhaps he talked of it
sometimes to Peter, his Tartar servant, whom he freed at his death 'from all
bondage as completely as I pray God to release mine own soul from all sin
and guilt'. Some have thought that he brought Peter the Tartar with him
from the East, and the thought is a pleasant one; but it is more likely that he
bought him in Italy, for the Venetians were inveterate slave-owners, and
captive Tartars were held of all the slaves the strongest and best. So his life
passed; and in 1324 Marco Polo died, honoured much by his fellow-
citizens, after making a will which is still preserved in the library of St
Mark's.
A characteristic story of his death-bed is related by a Dominican friar, one
Jacopo of Acqui, who wrote some time later. 'What he told in the book,'
says Jacopo, 'was not as much as he had really seen, because of the tongues
of detractors, who being ready to impose their own lies on others, are over
hasty to set down as lies what they in their perversity disbelieve or do not
understand. And because there are many great and strange things in that
book, which are reckoned past all credence, he was asked by his friends on
his death-bed to correct the book, by removing everything that went beyond
the facts. To which his reply was that he had not told one half of what he
had really seen.'[35] How well one can see that last indignant flash of the
dying observer, who in the long years of his youth had taken notes of
strange tribes and customs for the wise and gracious Kublai Khan, and
whom little men now dared to doubt. Indeed, modern discovery has entirely
confirmed the exactitude of Marco Polo's observation. It is true that he
sometimes repeated some very tall stories which had been told to him, of
dog-faced men in the Andaman Islands and of the 'male and female islands'
so beloved of medieval geographers. These were sailors' yarns, and where
Marco Polo reports what he has seen with his own eyes, he reports with
complete accuracy, nor does he ever pretend to have seen a place which he
had not visited. The explorers of our own day, Aurel Stein, Ellsworth
Huntington, and Sven Hedin, travelling in central Asia, have triumphantly
vindicated him. 'It is,' says an eminent French historian, 'as though the
originals of very old photographs had been suddenly rediscovered: the old
descriptions of things which were unchanged could be perfectly

superimposed upon present reality,'[36] and Huntington and Aurel Stein
took with them to the inaccessible districts of central Asia as guide-books
the book of the Chinese pilgrim Hiwen Thsang (seventh century) and the
book of Marco Polo, and over and over again found how accurate were
their descriptions.
It is indeed almost impossible to exaggerate the extent of Marco Polo's
accomplishment. It is best estimated in the often-quoted words of Sir Henry
Yule, whose edition of his book is one of the great works of English
scholarship:

He was the first traveller to trace a route across the
whole longitude of Asia, naming and describing
kingdom after kingdom, which he had seen with his
own eyes, the desert of Persia, the flowering
plateaux and wild gorges of Badakhshan, the jade-
bearing rivers of Khotan, the Mongol steppes, cradle
of the power that had so lately threatened to swallow
up Christendom, the new and brilliant court that had
been established at Cambaluc: the first Travellers to
reveal China in all its wealth and vastness, its mighty
rivers, its huge cities, its rich manufactures, its
swarming population, the inconceivably vast fleets
that quickened its seas and inland waters; to tell us of
the nations on its borders with all their eccentricities
of manners and worship; of Tibet with its sordid
devotees; of Burma with its golden pagodas and their
tinkling crowns; of Laos, of Siam, of Cochin China,
of Japan, the Eastern Thule, with its rosy pearls and
golden-roofed palaces; the first to speak of that
Museum of Beauty and Wonder, still so imperfectly
ransacked, the Indian Archipelago, source of those
aromatics then so highly prized and whose origin
was so dark; of Java the Pearl of Islands; of Sumatra
with its many kings, its strange costly products, and
its cannibal races; of the naked savages of Nicobar
and Andaman; of Ceylon, the Isle of Gems, with its
Sacred Mountain and its Tomb of Adam; of India the

Great, not as a dreamland of Alexandrian fables, but
as a country seen and partially explored, with its
virtuous Brahmans, its obscene ascetics, its
diamonds and the strange tales of their acquisition,
its sea-beds of pearl and its powerful sun; the first in
modern times to give any distinct account of the
secluded Christian Empire of Abyssinia, to speak,
though indeed dimly, of Zanzibar with its negroes
and its ivory and of the vast and distant Madagascar,
bordering on the Dark Ocean of the South, with its
Ruc and other monstrosities; and in a remotely
opposite region, of Siberia and the Arctic Ocean, of
dog-sledges, white bears and reindeer-riding
Tunguses.[37]

A MAP OF THE JOURNEYS OF THE POLOS.

The knowledge which Marco Polo had thus brought to Europe, the
intercourse between East and West which his experience had shown to be so
desirable, continued to grow after him. Merchants and missionaries alike
travelled by land or sea eastward to Cathay.[38] Another of those
indomitable Franciscan friars, John of Monte Corvino, went out at the age
of fifty and became Archbishop of Peking. Churches and houses of friars
were founded in some of the Chinese cities. Odoric of Pordenone, another
friar, and a very good observer too, set forth in 1316 and sailed round India
and through the Spice Islands by the same sea route by which the Polos had
brought their Tartar princess back to Persia, and so reached Canton, 'a city
as big as three Venices ... and all Italy hath not the amount of craft that this
one city hath.' He left a wonderful account of his travels in China, including
descriptions of Peking and Hangchow, and ends his stories with the words,
'As for me, from day to day I prepare myself to return to those countries, in
which I am content to die, if it pleaseth Him from whom all good things do
come'--no doubt where he had left his heart, but he died at Udine in Italy.
Later there went out another friar, John Marignolli, who was Papal Legate
to Peking from 1342 to 1346.
Nor was it only missionaries who went to Cathay. Odoric, speaking of the
wonders of Hangchow, refers for confirmation to Venetian traders who have
visited it: ''Tis the greatest city in the whole world, so great indeed that I
should scarcely venture to tell of it, but that I have met at Venice people in
plenty who have been there'; John of Monte Corvino was accompanied by
Master Peter of Lucolongo, 'a great merchant,' and John Marignolli
mentions a fondaco for the use of Christian merchants, which was attached
to one of the Franciscan convents at Zaiton. Above all, there is Francis
Balducci Pegolotti, that intrepid factor who served the great commercial
house of the Bardi of Florence, and who wrote a priceless handbook for the
use of merchants about 1340. In this he gives detailed instructions for the
guidance of a merchant, who wishes to proceed from Tana on the Black Sea
by the overland route across Asia to Cathay and back again with £12,000
worth of silk in his caravan, and remarks casually, in passing, 'The road you
travel from Tana to Cathay is perfectly safe, whether by day or night,
according to what merchants say who have used it'--'il chanmino dandare
dana Tana al Ghattajo è sichurissimo![39] Think only of what it all means.

Marco Polo travelling where no man set foot again till the twentieth
century. The bells of the Christian church ringing sweetly in the ears of the
Great Khan in Peking. The long road across central Asia perfectly safe for
merchants. The 'many persons at Venice' who have walked in the streets of
Hangchow. This is in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, in
the despised and hidebound Middle Ages. È sichurissimo! It takes some of
the gilt off Columbus and Vasco da Gama and the age (forsooth) of
'discovery'.
But a change came over everything in the middle of the fourteenth century.
Darkness fell again and swallowed up Peking and Hangchow, the great
ports, the crowding junks, the noble civilization. No longer was the great
trade route sichurissimo, and no longer did Christian friars chant their
Masses in Zaiton. The Tartar dynasty fell and the new rulers of China
reverted to the old anti-foreign policy; moreover, Islam spread its conquests
all over central Asia and lay like a rampart between the far east and west, a
great wall of intolerance and hatred stronger by far than the great wall of
stone which the Chinese had once built to keep out the Tartars. All Marco
Polo's marvels became no more than a legend, a traveller's tale.
But that great adventurer was not done for yet. Nearly a century and a half
after Marco's death a Genoese sea captain sat poring over one of the new
printed books, which men were beginning to buy and to hand about among
themselves. The book which he was reading was the Latin version of Marco
Polo's travels. He was reading it with intentness and indeed with passion.
As he read he made notes in the margin; on over seventy pages he made his
notes.[40] From time to time he frowned and turned back and read again the
tale of those great ports of Cathay and the gold-roofed palaces of Cipangu;
and always he wondered how those lands might be reached, now that the
wall of darkness covered central Asia, and anarchy blocked the road to the
Persian Gulf. One day (may we not see him?) he lifted his head and smote
his hand upon the table. 'I will sail west', he said. 'Maybe I shall find the lost
island of Antilha in the western ocean, but maybe on its far rim I shall
indeed come to Cipangu, for the world is round, and somewhere in those
great seas beyond the coast of Europe must lie Marco Polo's rich Cathay. I
will beseech the kings of England and of Spain for a ship and a ship's
company, and the silk and the spices and the wealth shall be theirs. I will
sail west,' said the Genoese sea captain, and he smote his thigh. 'I will sail

west, west, west!' And this was the last of Messer Marco's marvels; he
discovered China in the thirteenth century, when he was alive, and in the
fifteenth, when he was dead, he discovered America!

CHAPTER IV

Madame Eglentyne
CHAUCER'S PRIORESS IN REAL LIFE

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse,
That of her smyling was ful simple
and coy;
Hir grettest ooth was ne but by sëynt
Loy;
And she was cleped madame
Eglentyne.
Ful wel she song the service divyne,
Entuned in hir nose ful semely;
And Frensh she spak ful faire and
fetisly,
After the scole of Stratford atte
Bowe,
For Frensh of Paris was to hir
unknowe.
At mete wel y-taught was she with-
alle;
She leet no morsel from hir lippes
falle,
Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce
depe.
Wel coude she carie a morsel and
wel kepe,
That no drope ne fille up-on hir
brest.
In curteisye was set ful muche hir
lest.
Hir over lippe wyped she so clene,

That in hir coppe was no ferthing
sene
Of grece, whan she dronken haddie
hir draughte
Ful semely after hir mete she
raughte,
And sikerly she was of greet disport,
And ful plesaunt and amiable of
port,
And peyned hir to countrefete chere
Of court, and been estatlich of
manere,
And to be holden digne of reverence.
But, for to speken of hir conscience,
She was so charitable and so pitous,
She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a
mous
Caught in a trap, if it were deed or
bledde.
Of smale houndes had she, that she
fedde
With rosted flesh, or milk and
wastel-breed.
But sore weep she if oon of hem
were deed,
Or if men smoot it with a yerde
smerte:
And al was conscience and tendre
herte
Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was:
Hir nose tretys; her eyen greye as
glas;
Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe
and reed;
But sikerly she hadde a fair
foreheed;
It was almost a spanne brood, I

trowe;
For, hardily, she was nat
undergrowe.
Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war.
Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar
A peire of bedes, gauded al with
grene;
And ther-on heng a broche of gold
ful shene,
On which ther was first write a
crowned A,
And after, Amor vincit omnia!

--GEOFFREY CHAUCER

Prologue to the Canterbury Tales

Every one knows Chaucer's description of the Prioress, Madame Eglentyne,
who rode with that very motley and talkative company on the way to
Canterbury. There is no portrait in his gallery which has given rise to more
diverse comment among critics. One interprets it as a cutting attack on the
worldliness of the Church; another thinks that Chaucer meant to draw a
charming and sympathetic picture of womanly gentleness; one says that it is
a caricature, another an ideal; and an American professor even finds in it a
psychological study of thwarted maternal instinct, apparently because
Madame Eglentyne was fond of little dogs and told a story about a
schoolboy. The mere historian may be excused from following these
vagaries. To him Chaucer's Prioress, like Chaucer's monk and Chaucer's
friar, will simply be one more instance of the almost photographic accuracy
of the poet's observation. The rippling undercurrent of satire is always
there; but it is Chaucer's own peculiar satire--mellow, amused,
uncondemning, the most subtle kind of satire, which does not depend upon
exaggeration. The literary critic has only Chaucer's words and his own
heart, or sometimes (low be it spoken) his own desire to be original, by
which to guide his judgement. But the historian knows; he has all sorts of
historical sources in which to study nunneries, and there he meets Chaucer's
Prioress at every turn. Above all, he has the bishop's registers.

For a long time historians foolishly imagined that kings and wars and
parliaments and the jury system alone were history; they liked chronicles
and Acts of Parliament, and it did not strike them to go and look in dusty
episcopal archives for the big books in which medieval bishops entered up
the letters which they wrote and all the complicated business of running
their dioceses. But when historians did think of looking there, they found a
mine of priceless information about almost every side of social and
ecclesiastical life. They had to dig for it of course, for almost all that is
worth knowing has to be mined like precious metals out of a rock; and for
one nugget the miner often has to grub for days underground in a mass of
dullness; and when he has got it he has to grub in his own heart, or else he
will not understand it. The historians found fine gold in the bishops'
registers, when once they persuaded themselves that it was not beneath their
dignity to grub there. They found descriptions of vicarages, with all their
furniture and gardens; they found marriage disputes; they found wills full of
entertaining legacies to people dead hundreds of years ago; they found
excommunications; they found indulgences to men for relieving the poor,
repairing roads, and building bridges, long before there was any poor law,
or any county council; they found trials for heresy and witchcraft; they
found accounts of miracles worked at the tombs of saints and even of some
quite unsaintly people, such as Thomas of Lancaster, and Edward II, and
Simon de Montfort; they found lists of travelling expenses when the
bishops rode round their dioceses; in one they even found a minute account
of the personal appearance of Queen Philippa, then a little girl at her father's
Court at Hainault, whom the Bishop of Exeter had been sent to inspect, in
order to see if she were pretty and good enough to marry Edward III: she
was nine years old, and the bishop said that her second teeth were whiter
than her first teeth and that her nose was broad but not snub, which was
reassuring for Edward.[1] Last, but not least, the historians found a
multitude of documents about monasteries, and among these documents
they found visitation records, and among visitation records they found
Chaucer's Prioress, smiling full simple and coy, fair forehead, well-pinched
wimple, necklace, little dogs, and all, as though she had stepped into a
stuffy register by mistake for the Canterbury Tales and was longing to get
out again.

This was the reason that Madame Eglentyne got into the register. In the
Middle Ages all the nunneries of England, and a great many of the
monasteries, used to be visited at intervals by the bishop of their diocese--or
by somebody sent by him--in order to see whether they were behaving
properly. It was rather like the periodical visitation of a school by one of
Her Majesty's inspectors, only what happened was very different. When Her
Majesty's inspector comes he does not sit in state in the hall, and call all the
inmates in front of him one after another, from the head mistress to the
smallest child in the first form, and invite them to say in what way they
think the school is not being properly run, and what complaints they have to
make against their mistresses and which girl habitually breaks the rules--all
breathed softly and privately into his ear, with no one to overhear them. But
when the bishop came to visit a nunnery, that is precisely what happened.
First of all, he sent a letter to say he was coming, and to bid the nuns
prepare for him. Then he came, with his clerks and a learned official or two,
and was met solemnly by the prioress and all the nuns, and preached a
sermon in their church, and was entertained, perhaps, to dinner. And then he
prepared to examine them, and one by one they came before him, in order
of rank, beginning with the prioress, and what they had to do was to tell
tales about each other. He wanted to find out if the prioress were ruling
well, and if the services were properly performed, and if the finances were
in good order, and if discipline were maintained; and if any nun had a
complaint, then was the time to make it.
And the nuns were full of complaints. A modern schoolgirl would go pale
with horror over their capacity for tale-bearing. If one nun had boxed her
sister's ears, if another had cut church, if another were too much given to
entertaining friends, if another went out without a licence, if another had
run away with a wandering fluteplayer, the bishop was sure to hear about it;
that is, unless the whole convent were in a disorderly state, and the nuns
had made a compact to wink at each other's peccadilloes; and not to betray
them to the bishop, which occasionally happened. And if the prioress were
at all unpopular he was quite certain to hear all about her. 'She fares
splendidly in her own room and never invites us,' says one nun; 'She has
favourites,' says another, 'and when she makes corrections she passes lightly
over those whom she likes, and speedily punishes those whom she dislikes';
'She is a fearful scold,' says a third; 'She dresses more like a secular person

than a nun, and wears rings and necklaces,' says a fourth; 'She goes out
riding to see her friends far too often,' says a fifth; 'She-is-a-very-bad-
business-woman-and-she-has-let-the-house-get-into-debt-and-the-church-
is-falling about-our-ears-and-we-don't-get-enough-food-and-she-hasn't-
given-us-any-clothes-for-two-years-and-she-has-sold-woods-and farms-
without-your-licence-and-she-has-pawned-our-best-set-of spoons; and no
wonder, when she never consults us in any business as she ought to do.'
They go on like that for pages, and the bishop must often have wanted to
put his fingers in his ears and shout to them to stop; especially as the
prioress had probably spent half an hour, for her part, in telling him how
disobedient and ill-tempered, and thoroughly badly behaved the nuns were.
All these tales the bishop's clerk solemnly wrote down in a big book, and
when the examination was over the bishop summoned all the nuns together
again. And if they had answered 'All is well', as they sometimes did, or only
mentioned trivial faults, he commended them and went his way; and if they
had shown that things really were in a bad way, he investigated particular
charges and scolded the culprits and ordered them to amend, and when he
got back to his palace, or the manor where he was staying, he wrote out a
set of injunctions, based on the complaints, and saying exactly how things
were to be improved; and of these injunctions one copy was entered in his
register and another was sent by hand to the nuns, who were supposed to
read it aloud at intervals and to obey everything in it. We have in many
bishops' registers these lists of injunctions, copied into them by the bishops'
clerks, and in some, notably in a splendid fifteenth-century Lincoln register,
belonging to the good bishop Alnwick, we have also the evidence of the
nuns, just as it was taken down from their chattering mouths, and these are
the most human and amusing of all medieval records. It is easy to see what
important historical documents visitation reports are, especially in a diocese
like Lincoln, which possesses an almost unbroken series of registers,
ranging over the three centuries before the Dissolution, so that one can trace
the whole history of some of the nunneries by the successive visitations.
Let us see what light the registers will throw upon Madame Eglentyne,
before Chaucer observed her mounting her horse outside the Tabard Inn.
Doubtless she first came to the nunnery when she was quite a little girl,
because girls counted as grown up when they were fifteen in the Middle
Ages; they could be married out of hand at twelve, and they could become

nuns for ever at fourteen. Probably Eglentyne's father had three other
daughters to marry, each with a dowry, and a gay young spark of a son, who
spent a lot of money on fashionable suits.

Embroidered ... as it were a mede
All ful of fresshe flowers white and rede.

So he thought he had better settle the youngest at once; and he got together
a dowry (it was rarely possible to get into a nunnery without one, though
Church law really forbade anything except voluntary offerings), and, taking
Eglentyne by the hand one summer day, he popped her into a nunnery a few
miles off, which had been founded by his ancestors. We may even know
what it cost him; it was rather a select, aristocratic house, and he had to pay
an entrance fee of £200 in modern money; and then he had to give
Eglentyne her new habit and a bed, and some other furniture; and he had to
make a feast on the day she became a nun, and invite all the nuns and all his
own friends; and he had to tip the friar, who preached the sermon; and,
altogether, it was a great affair.[2] But the feast would not come at once,
because Eglentyne would have to remain a novice for some years, until she
was old enough to take the vows. So she would stay in the convent and be
taught how to sing and to read, and to talk French of the school of Stratford-
atte-Bowe with the other novices. Perhaps she was the youngest, for girls
often did not enter the convent until they were old enough to decide for
themselves whether they wanted to be nuns; but there were certainly some
other quite tiny novices learning their lessons; and occasionally there would
be a little girl like the one whose sad fate is recorded in a dull law-book,
shut up in a nunnery by a wicked stepfather who wanted her inheritance (a
nun could not inherit land, because she was supposed to be dead to the
world), and told by the nuns that the devil would fly away with her if she
tried to set foot outside the door.[3] However, Eglentyne had a sunny
disposition and liked life in the nunnery, and had a natural aptitude for the
pretty table manners which she learnt there, as well as for talking French,
and though she was not at all prim and liked the gay clothes and pet dogs
which she used to see at home in her mother's bower, still she had no
hesitation at all about taking the veil when she was fifteen, and indeed she
rather liked the fuss that was made of her, and being called Madame or
Dame, which was the courtesy title always given to a nun.

The years passed and Eglentyne's life jogged along peacefully enough
behind the convent walls. The great purpose for which the nunneries
existed, and which most of them fulfilled not unworthily, was the praise of
God. Eglentyne spent a great deal of her time singing and praying in the
convent church, and, as we know,

Ful wel she song the service divyne,
Entuned in hir nose ful semely.

The nuns had seven monastic offices to say every day. About 2 a.m. the
night office was said; they all got out of bed when the bell rang, and went
down in the cold and the dark to the church choir and said Matins, followed
immediately by Lauds. Then they went back to bed, just as the dawn was
breaking in the sky, and slept again for three hours, and then got up for
good at six o'clock and said Prime. After that there followed Tierce, Sext,
None, Vespers, and Compline, spread at intervals through the day. The last
service, compline, was said at 7 p.m. in winter, and at 8 p.m. in summer,
after which the nuns were supposed to go straight to bed in the dorter, in
which connexion one Nun's Rule ordains that 'None shall push up against
another wilfully, nor spit upon the stairs going up and down, but if they
tread it out forthwith'![4] They had in all about eight hours' sleep, broken in
the middle by the night service. They had three meals, a light repast of
bread and beer after prime in the morning, a solid dinner to the
accompaniment of reading aloud in the middle of the day, and a short
supper immediately after vespers at 5 or 6 p.m.
From 12 to 5 p.m. in winter and from 1 to 6 p.m. in summer Eglentyne and
her sisters were supposed to devote themselves to manual or brain work,
interspersed with a certain amount of sober and godly recreation. She would
spin, or embroider vestments with the crowned monogram M of the Blessed
Virgin in blue and gold thread, or make little silken purses for her friends
and finely sewn bands for them to bind round their arms after a bleeding.
She would read too, in her psalter or in such saints' lives as the convent
possessed, written in French or English; for her Latin was weak, though she
could construe Amor vincit omnia. Perhaps her convent took in a few little
schoolgirls to learn their letters and good manners with the nuns, and when
she grew older she helped to teach them to read and sing; for though they
were happy, they did not receive a very extensive education from the good

sisters. In the summer Eglentyne was sometimes allowed to work in the
convent garden, or even to go out haymaking with the other nuns; and came
back round-eyed to confide in her confessor that she had seen the cellaress
returning therefrom seated behind the chaplain on his nag,[5] and had
thought what fun it must be to jog behind stout Dan John.
Except for certain periods of relaxation strict silence was supposed to be
observed in the convent for a large part of the day, and if Eglentyne desired
to communicate with her sisters, she was urged to do so by means of signs.
The persons who drew up the lists of signs which were in use in medieval
monastic houses, however, combined a preternatural ingenuity with an
extremely exiguous sense of humour, and the sort of dumb pandemonium
which went on at Eglentyne's dinner table must often have been more
mirth-provoking than speech. The sister who desired fish would 'wag her
hands displayed sidelings in manner of a fish tail'; she who wanted milk
would 'draw her left little finger in manner of milking'; for mustard one
would 'hold her nose in the upper part of her right fist and rub it'; another
for salt would 'fillip with her right thumb and forefinger over the left
thumb'; another desirous of wine would 'move her forefinger up and down
the end of her thumb afore her eye'; and the guilty sacristan, struck by the
thought that she had not provided incense for the Mass, would 'put her two
fingers into her nostrils'. In one such table drawn up for nuns there are no
less than 106 signs, and on the whole it is not surprising that the rule of the
same nuns enjoins that 'it is never lawful to use them without some reason
and profitable need, for oft-times more hurt hath an evil word, and more
offence it may be to God'.[6]
The nuns, of course, would not have been human if they had not sometimes
grown a little weary of all these services and this silence; for the religious
life was not, nor was it intended to be, an easy one. It was not a mere means
of escape from work and responsibility. In the early golden age of
monasticism only men and women with a vocation, that is to say a real
genius for monastic life, entered convents. Moreover, when there they
worked very hard with hand and brain, as well as with soul, and so they got
variety of occupation, which is as good as a holiday. The basis of wise St
Benedict's Rule was a nicely adjusted combination of variety with
regularity; for he knew human nature. Thus monks and nuns did not find the
services monotonous, and indeed regarded them as by far the best part of

the day. But in the later Middle Ages, when Chaucer lived, young people
had begun to enter monastic houses rather as a profession than as a
vocation. Many truly spiritual men and women still took the vows, but with
them came others who were little suited to monastic life, and who lowered
its standard, because it was hard and uncongenial to them. Eglentyne
became a nun because her father did not want the trouble and expense of
finding her a husband, and because being a nun was about the only career
for a well-born lady who did not marry. Moreover, by this time, monks and
nuns had grown more lazy, and did little work with their hands and still less
with their heads, particularly in nunneries, where the early tradition of
learning had died out and where many nuns could hardly understand the
Latin in which their services were written. The result was that monastic life
began to lose that essential variety which St Benedict had designed for it,
and as a result the regularity sometimes became irksome, and the series of
services degenerated into a mere routine of peculiar monotony, which many
of the singers could no longer keep alive with spiritual fervour. Thus
sometimes (it must not be imagined that this happened in all or even in the
majority of houses) the services became empty forms, to be hurried through
with scant devotion and occasionally with scandalous irreverence. It was
the almost inevitable reaction from too much routine.
Carelessness in the performance of the monastic hours was an exceedingly
common fault during the later Middle Ages, though the monks were always
worse about it than the nuns. Sometimes they 'cut' the services. Sometimes
they behaved with the utmost levity, as at Exeter in 1330, where the canons
giggled and joked and quarrelled during the services and dropped hot
candle wax from the upper stalls on to the shaven heads of the singers in the
stalls below![7] Sometimes they came late to matins, in the small hours
after midnight. This fault was common in nunneries, for the nuns always
would insist on having private drinkings and gossipings in the evening after
compline, instead of going straight to bed, as the rule demanded--a habit
which did not conduce to wakefulness at 1 a.m. Consequently they were
somewhat sleepy at matins and found an almost Johnsonian difficulty in
getting up early. Wise St Benedict foresaw the difficulty, when he wrote in
his rule: 'When they rise for the Divine Office, let them gently encourage
one another, because of the excuses made by those that are drowsy.'[8] At
the nunnery of Stainfield in 1519 the bishop discovered that half an hour

sometimes elapsed between the last stroke of the bell and the beginning of
the service, and that some of the nuns did not sing, but dozed, partly
because they had not enough candles, but chiefly because they went late to
bed;[9] and whoever is without sin among us, let him cast the first stone!
There was a tendency also among both monks and nuns to slip out before
the end of the service on any good or bad excuse: they had to see after the
dinner or the guest-house, their gardens needed weeding, or they did not
feel well. But the most common fault of all was to gabble through the
services as quickly as they could in order to get them over. They left out the
syllables at the beginning and end of words, they omitted the dipsalma or
pause between two verses, so that one side of the choir was beginning the
second half before the other side had finished the first; they skipped
sentences, they mumbled and slurred what should have been 'entuned in
their nose ful semely', and altogether they made a terrible mess of the
stately plainsong. So prevalent was the fault of gabbling that the Father of
Evil was obliged to charter a special Devil called Tittivillus, whose sole
business it was to collect all these dropped syllables and carry them back to
his master in a big bag. In one way or another, we have a good deal of
information about him, for he was always letting himself be seen by holy
men, who generally had a sharp eye for devils. One Latin rhyme
distinguishes carefully between the contents of his sack: 'These are they
who wickedly corrupt the holy psalms: the dangler, the gasper, the leaper,
the galloper, the dragger, the mumbler, the fore-skipper, the fore-runner and
the over-leaper: Tittivillus collecteth the fragments of these men's
words.'[10] Indeed, a holy Cistercian abbot once interviewed the poor little
devil himself and heard about his alarming industry; this is the story as it is
told in The Myroure of Oure Ladye, written for the delectation of the nuns
of Syon in the fifteenth century: 'We read of a holy Abbot of the order of
Citeaux that while he stood in the choir at matins he saw a fiend that had a
long and great poke hanging about his neck and went about the choir from
one to another and waited busily after all letters and syllables and words
and failings that any made; and them he gathered diligently and put them in
his poke. And when he came before the Abbot, waiting if aught had escaped
him that he might have gotten and put in his bag, the Abbot was astonied
and afeard of the foulness and misshape of him and said unto him: What art
thou? And he answered and said, I am a poor devil and my name is
Tittivillus and I do mine office that is committed unto me. And what is thine

office? said the Abbot. He answered: I must each day, he said, bring my
master a thousand pokes full of failings and of negligences and syllables
and words, that are done in your order in reading and singing and else I
must be sore beaten.'[11] But there is no reason to suppose that he often got
his beating, though one may be sure that Madame Eglentyne, busily
chanting through her nose, never gave him the slightest help. In his spare
moments, when he was not engaged in picking up those unconsidered trifles
which the monks let fall from the psalms, Tittivillus used to fill up odd
corners of his sack with the idle talk of people who gossiped in church; and
he also sat up aloft and collected all the high notes of vain tenors, who sang
to their own glory, instead of to the glory of God, and pitched the chants
three notes higher than the cracked voices of their elders could rise.
But the monotony of convent life sometimes did more than make the nuns
unconscious contributors to Tittivillus's sack. It sometimes played havoc
with their tempers. The nuns were not chosen for convent life because they
were saints. They were no more immune from tantrums than was the Wife
of Bath, who was out of all charity when other village wives went into
church before her; and sometimes they got terribly on each others' nerves.
Readers of Piers Plowman will remember that when the seven deadly sins
come in, Wrath tells how he was cook to the prioress of a convent and, says
he,

Of wycked wordes I, Wrath ... here wordes imade,
Til 'thow lixte' and 'thow lixte' ... lopen oute at ones,
And eyther hitte other ... vnder the cheke;
Hadde thei had knyves, by Cryst ... her eyther had
killed other.

To be sure, it is not often that we hear of anything so bad as that fifteenth-
century prioress, who used to drag her nuns round the choir by their veils in
the middle of the service, screaming 'Liar!' and 'Harlot!' at them;[12] or that
other sixteenth-century lady who used to kick them and hit them on the
head with her fists and put them in the stocks.[13] All prioresses were not
'ful plesaunt and amiable of port', or stately in their manner. The records of
monastic visitations show that bad temper and petty bickering sometimes
broke the peace of convent life.

But we must be back at Eglentyne. She went on living for ten or twelve
years as a simple nun, and she sang the services very nicely and had a sweet
temper and pretty manners and was very popular. Moreover, she was of
good birth; Chaucer tells us a great deal about her beautiful behaviour at
table and her courtesy, which shows that she was a lady born and bred;
indeed, his description of this might have been taken straight out of one of
the feudal books of deportment for girls; even her personal beauty--straight
nose, grey eyes, and little red mouth--conforms to the courtly standard. The
convents were apt to be rather snobbish; ladies and rich burgesses'
daughters got into them, but poor and low-born girls never. So the nuns
probably said to each other that what with her pretty ways and her good
temper and her aristocratic connexions, wouldn't it be a good thing to
choose her for prioress when the old prioress died? And so they did, and she
had been a prioress for some years when Chaucer met her. At first it was
very exciting, and Eglentyne liked being called 'Mother' by nuns who were
older than herself, and having a private room to sit in and all the visitors to
entertain. But she soon found that it was not by any means all a bed of
roses; for there was a great deal of business to be done by the head of a
house--not only looking after the internal discipline of the convent, but also
superintending money matters and giving orders to the bailiffs on her
estates, and seeing that the farms were paying well, and the tithes coming in
to the churches which belonged to the nunnery, and that the Italian
merchants who came to buy the wool off her sheeps' backs gave a good
price for it. In all this business she was supposed to take the advice of the
nuns, meeting in the chapter-house, where all business was transacted. I am
afraid that sometimes Eglentyne used to think that it was much better to do
things by herself, and so she would seal documents with the convent seal
without telling them. One should always distrust the head of an office or
school or society who says, with a self-satisfied air, that it is much more
satisfactory to do the thing herself than to depute it to the proper
subordinates; it either means that she is an autocrat, or else that she cannot
organize. Madame Eglentyne was rather an autocrat, in a good-natured sort
of way, and besides she hated bother. So she did not always consult the
nuns; and I fear too (after many researches into that past of hers which
Chaucer forgot to mention) that she often tried to evade rendering an
account of income and expenditure to them every year, as she was supposed
to do.

The nuns, of course, objected to this; and the first time the bishop came on
his rounds they complained about it to him. They said, too, that she was a
bad business woman and got into debt; and that when she was short of
money she used to sell woods belonging to the convent, and promise annual
pensions to various people in return for lump sums down, and lease out
farms for a long time at low rates, and do various other things by which the
convent would lose in the long run. And besides, she had let the roof of the
church get into such ill repair that rain came through the holes on to their
heads when they were singing; and would my lord bishop please to look at
the holes in their clothes and tell her to provide them with new ones? Other
wicked prioresses used sometimes even to pawn the plate and jewels of the
convent, to get money for their own private purposes. But Eglentyne was
not at all wicked or dishonest, though she was a bad manager; the fact was
that she had no head for figures. I am sure that she had no head for figures;
you have only got to read Chaucer's description of her to know that she was
not a mathematician. Besides the nuns were exaggerating: their clothes
were not in holes, only just a little threadbare. Madame Eglentyne was far
too fastidious to allow ragged clothes about her; and as to the roof of the
church, she had meant to save enough money to have some tiles put on to it,
but it really was very hard to make two ends meet in a medieval nunnery,
especially if (as I repeat) you had no head for figures. Probably the bishop
saw how the land lay, so he ordered her never to do anything without
consulting the convent, and he shut up the common seal in a box with three
different sorts of locks, to which Madame Eglentyne and two of the senior
nuns had the keys, so that she could not open it alone and so could not seal
any business agreement without their consent. And he ordered her to keep
accounts and present them every year (there are bundles of her accounts
still preserved in the Record Office). Finally he deputed a neighbouring
rector to act as custodian of the business affairs of the house so that she
should always have his help. Things went better after that.
Eglentyne, it seems, was never really interested in business, and was quite
pleased to have her time taken up with looking after internal affairs and
entertaining visitors, with an occasional jaunt outside to see how the estates
were getting on. And she began to find that she could lead a much freer and
gayer life now that she was a prioress; for the prioress of a convent had
rooms of her own, instead of sharing the common dormitory and refectory;

sometimes she even had a sort of little house with a private kitchen. The
abbess of one great nunnery at Winchester in the sixteenth century had her
own staff to look after her, a cook, and an under cook, and a housemaid and
a gentlewoman to wait upon her, like any great lady in the world, and never
dined with the nuns except on state occasions. But a superior generally had
with her one nun to act as her companion and assist her in the choir and be a
witness to her good behaviour; this nun was called her chaplain, and was
supposed to be changed every year, to prevent favouritism. It will be
remembered that when Madame Eglentyne went on her pilgrimage she took
her nun chaplain with her, as well as three priests; that was because no nun
was ever allowed to go out alone. One of Madame Eglentyne's duties as
prioress was to entertain visitors with her celebrated cheer of court, and we
may be sure that she had a great many. Her sisters, who were now grand
ladies with husbands and manors of their own, and her old father, and all
the great people of the county came to congratulate her; and after that they
used often to drop in for a dinner of chickens and wine and wastel bread if
they passed the house on a journey, and sometimes they spent the night
there. One or two ladies, whose husbands were away at the wars or on a
pilgrimage to Rome, even came as paying guests to the convent and lived
there for a whole year, for nothing pleased the country gentlemen or
wealthy burgesses better than to use nunneries as boarding-houses for their
women-kind.
All this was very disturbing to the peace and quiet of the nuns, and
especially disturbing were the boarders, for they wore gay clothes, and had
pet dogs and callers, and set a very frivolous example to the nuns. At one
nunnery we find a bishop ordering: 'Let Felmersham's wife, with her whole
household and other women, be utterly removed from your monastery
within one year, seeing that they are a cause of disturbance to the nuns and
an occasion to bad example, by reason of their attire and of those who come
to visit them.'[14] It can be easily imagined why the bishops objected so
much to the reception of these worldly married women as boarders. Just
substitute for 'Felmersham's wife' 'the Wife of Bath' and all is explained.
That lady was not a person whom a prioress would lightly refuse; the list of
her pilgrimages alone would give her the entrée into any nunnery. Smiling
her gap-toothed smile and riding easily upon her ambler, she would enter
the gates, and what a month of excitement would pass before she rode away

again. I am sure that it was she who taught Madame Eglentyne the most
fashionable way to pinch a wimple; and she certainly introduced hats 'as
broad as is a buckler or a targe' and scarlet stockings into some nunneries.
The bishops disliked it all very much, but they never succeeded in turning
the boarders out for all their efforts, because the nuns always needed the
money which they paid for their board and lodging.
It is easy to understand that this constant intercourse with worldly visitors
would give rise to the spread of worldly habits in Madame Eglentyne's
nunnery. Nuns, after all, were but women, and they had the amiable vanities
of their sex. But Authority (with a large A) did not consider their vanities
amiable at all. It was the view of Authority that the Devil had dispatched
three lesser D's to be the damnation of nuns, and those three D's were
Dances, Dresses, and Dogs. Medieval England was famous for dancing and
mumming and minstrelsy; it was Merry England because, however plague
and pestilence and famine and the cruelties of man to man might darken
life, still it loved these things. But there were no two views possible about
what the Church thought of dancing; it was accurately summed up by one
moralist in the aphorism, 'The Devil is the inventor and governor and
disposer of dances and dancing.' Yet when we look into those accounts
which Madame Eglentyne rendered (or did not render) to her nuns at the
end of every year, we shall find payments for wassail at New Year and
Twelfth Night, for May games, for bread and ale on bonfire nights, for
harpers and players at Christmas, for a present to the Boy Bishop on his
rounds, and perhaps for an extra pittance when the youngest schoolgirl was
allowed to dress up and act as abbess of the convent for the whole of
Innocents' Day. And when we look in the bishops' registers we shall find
Madame Eglentyne forbidden 'all manner of minstrelsy, interludes, dancing
or revelling within your holy place'; and she would be fortunate indeed if
her bishop would make exception for Christmas, 'and other honest times of
recreation among yourselves used in absence of seculars in all wise'.
Somehow one feels an insistent conviction that her cheer of court included
dancing.[15]
Then, again, there were the fashionable dresses which the visitors
introduced into nunneries. It is quite certain that Madame Eglentyne was
not unmoved by them; and it is a sad fact that she began to think the
monastic habit very black and ugly, and the monastic life very strict; and to

decide that if some little amenities were imported into it no one would be a
penny the worse, and perhaps the bishop would not notice. That is why,
when Chaucer met her,

Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war,
Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar
A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene,
And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene.

Unfortunately, however, the bishop did notice; the registers are indeed full
of those clothes of Madame Eglentyne's, and of the even more frivolous
ones which she wore in the privacy of the house. For more than six weary
centuries the bishops waged a holy war against fashion in the cloister, and
waged it in vain; for as long as nuns mingled freely with secular women, it
was impossible to prevent them from adopting secular modes. Occasionally
a wretched bishop would find himself floundering unhandily, in masculine
bewilderment, through something like a complete catalogue of
contemporary fashions, in order to specify what the nuns were not to wear.
Synods sat solemnly, bishops and archbishops shook their grey heads, over
golden hairpins and silver belts, jewelled rings, laced shoes, slashed tunics,
low necks and long trains, gay colours, costly cloth, and valuable furs. The
nuns were supposed to wear their veils pinned tightly down to their
eyebrows, so that their foreheads were completely hidden; but high
foreheads happened to be fashionable among worldly ladies, who even
shaved theirs to make them higher, and the result was that the nuns could
not resist lifting up and spreading out their veils, for how otherwise did
Chaucer know that Madame Eglentyne had such a fair forehead ('almost a
spanne broad, I trowe')? If she had been wearing her veil properly, it would
have been invisible, and the father of English poetry may be observed
discreetly but plainly winking the other eye when he puts in that little touch;
his contemporaries would see the point very quickly. And that brooch and
that fetis cloak of hers.... Here is what some tale-bearing nuns told the
Bishop of Lincoln about their Prioress, fifty years after Chaucer wrote the
Canterbury Tales. 'The Prioress,' they said with their most sanctimonious
air, wears golden rings exceeding costly, with divers precious stones and
also girdles silvered and gilded over and silken veils and she carries her veil
too high above her forehead, so that her forehead, being entirely uncovered,

can be seen of all, and she wears furs of vair. Also she wears shifts of cloth
of Rennes, which costs sixteen pence the ell. Also she wears kirtles laced
with silk and tiring pins of silver and silver gilt and has made all the nuns
wear the like. Also she wears above her veil a cap of estate, furred with
budge. Item, she has on her neck a long silken band, in English a lace,
which hangs down below her breast and there on a golden ring with one
diamond.[16] Is it not Madame Eglentyne to the life? Nothing escaped our
good Dan Chaucer's eye, for all that he rode always looking on the ground.
Moreover, it was not only in her dress that the Prioress and her sister nuns
aped the fashions of the world. Great ladies of the day loved to amuse
themselves with pet animals; and nuns were quick to follow their example.
So,

Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde
With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed.
But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed,
Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte.

The visitation reports are full of those little dogs and other animals; and
how many readers of the Prologue know that the smale houndes, like the
fair forehead and the brooch of gold full sheen, were strictly against the
rules? For the bishops regarded pets as bad for discipline, and century after
century they tried to turn the animals out of the convents, without the
slightest success. The nuns just waited till the bishop had gone and then
whistled their dogs back again. Dogs were easily the favourite pets, though
monkeys, squirrels, rabbits, birds and (very rarely) cats were also kept. One
archbishop had to forbid an abbess whom he visited to keep monkeys and a
number of dogs in her own chamber and charged her at the same time with
stinting her nuns in food; one can guess what became of the roasted flesh or
milk and wastel-breed! It was a common medieval practice to bring animals
into church, where ladies often attended service with dog in lap and men
with hawk on wrist; just as the highland farmer brings his collie with him
today. This happened in the nunneries too. Sometimes it was the lay-
boarders in the convents who brought their pets with them; there is a
pathetic complaint by the nuns of one house 'that Lady Audley, who boards
there, has a great abundance of dogs, insomuch that whenever she comes to
church there follow her twelve dogs, who make a great uproar in church,

hindering the nuns in their psalmody and the nuns thereby are terrified!'[17]
But often enough the nuns themselves transgressed. Injunctions against
bringing pet dogs into choir occur in several visitation reports, the most
amusing instance being contained in those sent to Romsey Abbey by
William of Wykeham in 1387, just about the same year that Chaucer was
writing the Canterbury Tales: 'Item,' runs the injunction, 'whereas we have
convinced ourselves by clear proofs that some of the nuns of your house
bring with them to church birds, rabbits, hounds and such like frivolous
things, whereunto they give more heed than to the offices of the church,
with frequent hindrance to their own psalmody and to that of their fellow
nuns and to the grievous peril of their souls--therefore we strictly forbid you
all and several, in virtue of the obedience due to us that ye presume
henceforward to bring to church no birds, hounds, rabbits or other frivolous
things that promote indiscipline.... Item, whereas through hunting dogs and
other hounds abiding within your monastic precincts, the alms that should
be given to the poor are devoured and the church and cloister ... are foully
defiled ... and whereas, through their inordinate noise divine service is
frequently troubled--therefore we strictly command and enjoin you, Lady
Abbess, that you remove the dogs altogether and that you suffer them never
henceforth, nor any other such hounds, to abide within the precincts of your
nunnery.'[18] But it was useless for any bishop to order Madame Eglentyne
to give up her dogs, she could not even be parted from them on a
pilgrimage, though they must have been a great nuisance in the inns,
especially as she was so fussy about their food.
For Chaucer's prioress, we must admit, was rather a worldly lady, though
her pretty clothes and little dogs were harmless enough on modern
standards and one's sympathies are all against the bishops. She probably
became more worldly as time went on, because she had so many
opportunities for social intercourse. Not only had she to entertain visitors in
the convent, but often the business of the house took her away upon
journeys and these offered many opportunities for hobnobbing with her
neighbours. Sometimes she had to go to London to see after a law-suit and
that was a great excursion with another nun, or perhaps two, and a priest
and several yeomen to look after her. Sometimes she had to go and see the
bishop, to get permission to take in some little schoolgirls. Sometimes she
went to the funeral of a great man, whom her father knew and who left her

twenty shillings and a silver cup in his will. Sometimes she went to the
wedding of one of her sisters, or to be godmother to their babies; though the
bishops did not like these worldly ties, or the dances and merry-makings
which accompanied weddings and christenings. Indeed her nuns
occasionally complained about her journeys and said that though she
pretended it was all on the business of the house, they had their doubts; and
would the bishop please just look into it. At one nunnery we find the nuns
complaining that their house is £20 in debt 'and this principally owing to the
costly expenses of the prioress, because she frequently rides abroad and
pretends that she does so on the common business of the house although it
is not so, with a train of attendants much too large and tarries too long
abroad and she feasts sumptuously, both when abroad and at home and she
is very choice in her dress, so that the fur trimmings of her mantle are worth
100s'![19]
As a matter of fact there was nothing of which the church disapproved more
than this habit, shared by monks and nuns, of wandering about outside their
cloisters; moralists considered that intercourse with the world was at the
root of all the evil which crept into the monastic system. The orthodox
saying was that a monk out of his cloister was like a fish out of water; and it
will be remembered that Chaucer's monk thought the text not worth an
oyster. Indeed most of the monks managed to swim very well in the air, and
the nuns too persisted in taking every sort of excuse for wandering in the
world. Right through the Middle Ages council after council, bishop after
bishop, reformer after reformer, tried in vain to keep them shut up. The
greatest attempt of all began in 1300, when the pope published a Bull
ordering that nuns should never, save in very exceptional circumstances,
leave their convents and that no secular person should be allowed to go in
and visit them, without a special licence and a good reason. This will make
the modern reader pity the poor nuns, but there is no need, for nobody ever
succeeded in putting it into force for more than five minutes, though the
bishops spent over two centuries in trying to do so and were still trying in
vain when King Henry VIII dissolved the nunneries and turned all the nuns
out into the world for ever, whether they liked it or not. At one nunnery in
the Lincoln diocese, when the bishop came and deposited a copy of the Bull
in the house and ordered the nuns to obey it, they ran after him to the gate
when he was riding away and threw the Bull at his head, screaming that

they would never observe it.[20] The more practical bishops indeed, soon
stopped trying to enforce the Bull as it stood and contented themselves with
ordering that nuns were not to go out or pay visits too often, or without a
companion, or without licence, or without a good reason. But even in this
they were not very successful, because the nuns were most prolific in
excellent reasons why they should go out. Sometimes they said that their
parents were ill; and then they would go away to smooth the pillow of the
sick. Sometimes they said that they had to go to market to buy herrings.
Sometimes they said that they had to go to confession at a monastery.
Sometimes it is really difficult to imagine what they said. What are we to
think, for instance, of that giddy nun 'who on Monday night did pass the
night with the Austin friars at Northampton and did dance and play the lute
with them in the same place until midnight, and on the night following she
passed the night with the Friars' preachers at Northampton, luting and
dancing in like manner'?[21] Chaucer told us how the friar loved harping
and how his eyes twinkled like stars in his head when he sang, but failed
perhaps to observe that he had lured Madame Eglentyne into a dance.
It is indeed difficult to see what 'legitimate' excuses the nuns can have made
for all their wandering about in the streets and the fields and in and out of
people's houses, and it is sorely to be feared that either they were too much
of a handful for Madame Eglentyne, or else she winked at their doings. For
somehow or other one suspects that she had no great opinion of bishops.
After all Chaucer would never have met her, if she had not managed to
circumvent her own, since if there was one excuse for wandering of which
the bishops thoroughly disapproved, it was precisely the excuse of
pilgrimages. Madame Eglentyne was not quite as simple and coy as she
looked. How many of the literary critics, who chuckle over her, know that
she never ought to have got into the Prologue at all? The Church was quite
clear in its mind that pilgrimages for nuns were to be discouraged. As early
as 791 a council had forbidden the practice and in 1195 another at York
decreed, 'In order that the opportunity of wandering may be taken from
nuns we forbid them to take the path of pilgrimage.' In 1318 an archbishop
of York strictly forbade the nuns of one convent to leave their house 'by
reason of any vow of pilgrimage which they might have taken. If any had
taken such vows she was to say as many psalters as it would have taken
days to perform the pilgrimage so rashly vowed.'[22] One has a melancholy

vision of poor Madame Eglentyne saying psalters interminably through her
tretys nose, instead of jogging along so gaily with her motley companions
and telling so prettily her tale of little St Hugh. Such prohibitions might be
multiplied from medieval records; and indeed it is unnecessary to go further
than Chaucer to understand why it was that bishops offered such strenuous
opposition to pilgrimages for nuns; one has only to remember some of the
folk, in whose company the prioress travelled and some of the tales they
told. If one could only be certain, for instance, that she rode all the time
with her nun and her priests, or at least between the Knight and the poor
Parson of a town! But there were also the Miller and the Summoner and
(worst of all) that cheerful and engaging sinner, the Wife of Bath. It is really
quite disturbing to think what additional details the Wife of Bath may have
given the prioress about her five husbands.
This then was Chaucer's prioress in real life, for the poet who drew her was
one of the most wonderful observers in the whole of English literature. We
may wade through hundreds of visitation reports and injunctions and
everywhere the grey eyes of his prioress will twinkle at us out of their
pages, and in the end we must always go to Chaucer for her picture, to sum
up everything that historical records have taught us. As the bishop found
her, so he saw her, aristocratic, tender-hearted, worldly, taking pains to
'countrefete there of court'; liking pretty clothes and little dogs; a lady of
importance, attended by a nun and three priests; spoken to with respect by
the none too mealy-mouthed host--no 'by Corpus Dominus' or 'cokkes
bones' or 'tel on a devel wey' for her, but 'cometh neer, my lady prioress,'
and

My lady Prioresse, by your leve
If that I wiste I sholde yow nat greve,
I wolde demen that ye tellen sholde
A tale next, if so were that ye wolde.
Now wol ye vouche-sauf, my lady dere?

He talks to no one else like that, save perhaps to the knight. Was she
religious? Perhaps; but save for her singing the divine service and for her
lovely address to the Virgin, at the beginning of her tale, Chaucer can find
but little to say on the point;

But for speken of hir conscience (he says)
She was so charitable and so pitous,

and then, as we are waiting to hear of her almsgiving to the poor--that she
would weep over a mouse in a trap, or a beaten puppy, says Chaucer. A
good ruler of her house? again, doubtless. But when Chaucer met her the
house was ruling itself somewhere at the 'shire's ende'. The world was full
of fish out of water in the fourteenth century, and, by sëynt Loy, said
Madame Eglentyne, swearing her greatest oath, like Chaucer's monk, she
held that famous text not worth an oyster. So we take our leave of her,
characteristically on the road to Canterbury.

CHAPTER V

The Ménagier's Wife
A PARIS HOUSEWIFE IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY

The sphere of woman is the home.
--Homo Sapiens
The men of the middle, as indeed of all ages, including our own, were very
fond of writing books of deportment telling women how they ought to
behave in all the circumstances of their existence, but more particularly in
their relations with their husbands. Many of these books have survived, and
among them one which is of particular interest, because of the robust good
sense of its writer and the intimate and lively picture which it gives of a
bourgeois home. Most books of deportment were written, so to speak, in the
air, for women in general, but this was written by a particular husband for a
particular wife, and thus is drawn from life and full of detail, showing
throughout an individuality which its compeers too often lack. If a parallel
be sought to it, it is perhaps to be found not in any other medieval treatise
but in those passages of Xenophon's Economist, in which Isomachus
describes to Socrates the training of a perfect Greek wife.
The Ménagier de Paris (the Householder or Goodman of Paris, as we might
say) wrote this book for the instruction of his young wife between 1392 and
1394. He was a wealthy man, not without learning and of great experience
in affairs, obviously a member of that solid and enlightened haute
bourgeoisie, upon which the French monarchy was coming to lean with
ever-increasing confidence. When he wrote he must have been approaching
old age, and he was certainly over sixty, but he had recently married a
young wife of higher birth than himself, an orphan from a different
province. He speaks several times of her 'very great youth', and kept a sort
of duenna-housekeeper with her to help and direct her in the management
of his house; and indeed, like the wife of Isomachus, she was only fifteen
years old when he married her. Modern opinion is shocked by a discrepancy
in age between husband and wife, with which the Middle Ages, a time of

ménages de convenance, was more familiar. 'Seldom,' the Ménagier says,
'will you see ever so old a man who will not marry a young woman.' Yet his
attitude towards his young wife shows us that there may have been
compensations, even in a marriage between May and January. Time after
time in his book there sounds the note of a tenderness which is paternal
rather than marital, a sympathetic understanding of the feelings of a wedded
child, which a younger man might not have compassed. Over all the matter-
of-fact counsels there seems to hang something of the mellow sadness of an
autumn evening, when beauty and death go ever hand in hand. It was his
wife's function to make comfortable his declining years; but it was his to
make the task easy for her. He constantly repeats the assurance that he does
not ask of her an overweening respect, or a service too humble or too hard,
for such is not due to him; he desires only such care as his neighbours and
kinswomen take of their husbands, 'for to me belongeth none save the
common service, or less'.
In his Prologue, addressed to her, he gives a charming picture of the scene
which led him to write his book: 'You, being of the age of fifteen years and
in the week that you and I were wed, did pray me that I would please to be
indulgent to your youth and to your small and ignorant service mewards,
until that you should have seen and learned more, to the hastening whereof
you did promise me to set all care and diligence, ... praying me humbly, in
our bed as I remember, that for the love of God I would not correct you
harshly before strangers nor before our own folk, 'but that I would correct
you each night or from day to day in our chamber and show you the
unseemly or foolish things done in the day or days past, and chastise you, if
it pleased me, and then you would not fail to amend yourself according to
my teaching and correction, and would do all in your power according to
my will, as you said. And I thought well of, and praise and thank you for,
what you said to me and I have often remembered it since. And know, dear
sister[D], that all that I know you have done since we were wed up to this
day, and all that you shall do hereafter with good intent has been and is
good and well hath pleased, pleases and shall please me. For your youth
excuses you from being very wise, and will still excuse you in everything
that you do with good intent to please me. And know that it doth not
displease, but rather pleases me that you should have roses to grow and
violets to care for and that you should make chaplets and dance and sing,

and I would well that you should so continue among our friends and those
of our estate, and it is but right and seemly thus to pass the time of your
feminine youth, provided that you desire and offer not to go to the feasts
and dances of too great lords, for that is not seemly for you, nor suitable to
your estate nor mine[1].'

[D] He addresses her throughout as 'sister', a term of
affectionate respect.

Meanwhile he has not forgotten her request that he would teach and correct
her in private, and so he writes a little book (but it was a big book before he
had finished) to show her how to comport herself; for he is sorry for this
child, who has for long had neither father nor mother, and who is far from
kinswomen who might counsel her, having 'me only' he says, 'for whom
you have been taken from your kinsfolk and from the land of your birth.' He
has often deliberated the matter and now here is 'an easy general
introduction' to the whole art of being a wife, a housewife, and a perfect
lady. One characteristic reason, apart from his desire to help her and to be
comfortable himself (for he was set in his ways), he gives for his trouble
and recurs to from time to time, surely the strangest ever given by a
husband for instructing his wife. He is old, he says, and must die before her,
and it is positively essential that she should do him credit with her second
husband. What a reflection upon him if she accompanied his successor to
Mass with the collar of her cotte crumpled, or if she knew not how to keep
fleas from the blankets, or how to order a supper for twelve in Lent! It is
characteristic of the Ménagier's reasonableness and solid sense that he
regards his young wife's second marriage with equanimity. One of his
sections is headed, 'That you should be loving to your husband (whether
myself or another), by the example of Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel.' How
different from those husbands (dog-in-the-manger, or anxious for the future
of their children under a possibly harsh stepfather) whose wills so often
reveal them trying to bind their wives to perpetual celibacy after their
deaths, such husbands as William, Earl of Pembroke, who died in 1469,
admonishing his lady: 'And wyfe, ye remember your promise to me to take
the ordere of wydowhood, as ye may be the better mastre of your owne to
performe my wylle.'

The plan of the book 'in three sections, containing nineteen principal
articles', is most exhaustive. The first section deals with religious and moral
duties. In the words of the Ménagier, 'the first section is necessary to gain
for you the love of God and the salvation of your soul, and also to win for
you the love of your husband and to give you in this world that peace which
ought to be had in marriage. And because these two things, to wit the
salvation of your soul and the comfort of your husband, are the two things
most chiefly necessary, therefore are they here placed first.' Then follows a
series of articles telling the lady how to say her morning prayer when she
rises, how to bear herself at Mass, and in what form to make her confession
to the priest, together with a long and somewhat alarming discursus upon
the seven deadly sins, which it assuredly never entered into her sleek little
head to commit, and another, on the corresponding virtues.[2] But the
greater part of the section deals with the all-important subject of the wife's
duty to her husband. She is to be loving, humble, obedient, careful and
thoughtful for his person, silent regarding his secrets, and patient if he be
foolish and allow his heart to stray towards other women. The whole
section is illustrated by a series of stories (known as exempla in the Middle
Ages), culled from the Bible, from the common stock of anecdotes
possessed by jongleur and preacher alike, and (most interesting of all) from
the Ménagier's own experience. Among the Ménagier's longer illustrations
is the favourite but intolerably dull moral tale of Melibeu and Prudence, by
Albertano of Brescia, translated into French by Renault de Louens, whose
version the Ménagier copied, and adapted by Jean de Meung in the Roman
de la Rose, from which in turn Chaucer took it to tell to the Canterbury
Pilgrims. Here also are to be found Petrarch's famous tale of patient
Griselda, which Chaucer also took and gave a wider fame, and a long poem
written in 1342 by Jean Bruyant, a notary of the Châtelet at Paris, and
called 'The Way of Poverty and Wealth', inculcating diligence and prudence.
[3]
The second section of the book deals with household management and is far
the most interesting. The range of the Ménagier's knowledge leaves the
reader gasping. The man is a perfect Mrs Beeton! The section comprises a
detailed treatise on gardening and another on the principles which should
govern the engagement of servants and the method by which they should be
managed when hired; the modern problem of servants who leave does not

seem to have presented itself to him. There are instructions how to mend,
air, and clean dresses and furs, get out grease spots, catch fleas and keep
flies out of the bedroom, look after wine, and superintend the management
of a farm.
At one point he breaks off, addressing his wife thus: 'Here will I leave you
to rest or to play and will speak no more to you; and while you disport
yourself elsewhere I will speak to Master John, the Steward, who looks
after our possessions, so that if there is anything wrong with any of our
horses, whether for the plough or for riding, or if it is necessary to buy or
exchange a horse, he may know a little of that it behoves him to know in
this matter.' There follow several pages of wise advice as to the good points
of horses, how to examine them and to find their ages and defects under the
eye of the horse dealer, the practical 'tips' of a man who evidently knew and
loved his horses, together with advice upon the treatment of their various
diseases. Among the various recipes which the Ménagier gives to this intent
are two charms; for instance, 'when a horse has glanders, you must say to
him these three words, with three paternosters: abgla, abgly, alphard, asy,
pater noster, etc.'[4]
Last, but not least, there is a magnificent cookery book, arranged in the
form sacred to cookery books from that day to this, beginning with a list of
specimen menus for dinners and suppers, hot or cold, fast or feast, summer
or winter, giving hints on the choice of meat, poultry, and spices, and
ending with a long series of recipes for all manner of soups, stews, sauces,
and other viands, with an excursus on invalid's cookery!
The third section of the book was intended by the Ménagier to contain three
parts: first of all, a number of parlour games for indoor amusement;
secondly, a treatise on hawking, the favourite outdoor amusement of ladies;
and thirdly, a list of amusing riddles and games of an arithmetical kind
('concerning counting and numbering, subtle to find out or guess'),
presumably of the nature of our old friend, 'If a herring and a half cost three
ha'pence.' Unfortunately, the Ménagier seems never to have finished the
book, and of this section only the treatise on hawking has survived. It is a
great pity, for we have several such treatises, and how interesting an
account of indoor games and riddles might have been we may guess from a
passage in the Ménagier's version of the story of Lucrece, when he

describes the Roman ladies 'some gossiping, others playing at bric, others at
qui féry, others at pince merille, others at cards or other games of pleasure
with their neighbours; others, who had supped together, were singing songs
and telling fables and stories and wagers; others were in the street with their
neighbours, playing at blind man's buff or at bric and at several other games
of the kind.'[5] In those days, before the invention of printing had made
books plentiful, medieval ladies were largely dependent for amusement
upon telling and listening to stories, asking riddles, and playing games,
which we have long ago banished to the nursery; and a plentiful repertoire
of such amusements was very desirable in a hostess. The Ménagier was
clearly anxious that his wife should shine in the amenities as well as in the
duties of social life.
Such was the monumental work which the Ménagier de Paris was able to
present to his awed but admiring wife; and though it has been sadly
neglected by historians it deserves to be well known, for it gives us a
picture of a medieval housewife which it would be hard indeed to surpass.
There is hardly a side of her daily life upon which it does not touch, and we
may now with advantage look more closely upon her, and see in turn the
perfect lady, whose deportment and manners do credit to her breeding; the
perfect wife, whose submission to her husband is only equalled by her skill
in ministering to his ease; the perfect mistress, whose servants love her and
run her house like clockwork; and the perfect housewife, the Mrs Beeton of
the fifteenth century.
The Ménagier's views on deportment are incongruously sandwiched into his
section on spiritual duties, under the general headings of getting up in the
morning and going to church. His ideas on the subject of clothes are very
clearly defined: a sweet disorder in the dress was in no way to his taste:

Know, dear sister, that if you wish to follow my
advice you will have great care and regard for what
you and I can afford to do, according to our estate.
Have a care that you be honestly clad, without new
devices and without too much or too little frippery.
And before you leave your chamber and house, take
care first that the collar of your shift, and of your
blanchet, cotte and surcotte, do not hang out one

over the other, as happens with certain drunken,
foolish or witless women, who have no care for their
honour, nor for the honesty of their estate or of their
husbands, and who walk with roving eyes and head
horribly reared up like a lion (la teste
espoventablement levée comme un lyon!), their hair
straggling out of their wimples, and the collars of
their shifts and cottes crumpled the one upon the
other, and who walk mannishly and bear themselves
uncouthly before folk without shame. And if one
speaks to them about it, they excuse themselves on
the ground of their industry and humility, saying that
they are so diligent, hardworking, and humble that
they care not for themselves. But they lie; they care
so much for themselves that if they were in an
honourable company, never would they be willing
that men should wait less upon them than upon the
wiser ladies of like lineage with themselves, nor that
they should have fewer salutations, bows, reverences
and speech than the rest, but rather they desire more.
And they are unworthy of it, for they know not how
to maintain their own honourable fame, nay, nor the
fame of their husbands and of their lineage, which
they bring to shame. Therefore, fair sister, have a
care that your hair, wimple, kerchief and hood and
all the rest of your attire be well arranged and
decently ordered, that none who see you can laugh or
mock at you, but that all the others may find in you
an example of fair and simple and decent array....
When you go to town or to church go suitably
accompanied by honourable women according to
your estate, and flee suspicious company, never
allowing any ill famed woman to be seen in your
presence. And as you go bear your head upright and
your eyelids low and without fluttering, and look
straight in front of you about four rods ahead,
without looking round at any man or woman to the

right or to the left, nor looking up, nor glancing from
place to place, nor stopping to speak to anyone on
the road.[6]

Such was the model of female deportment in the Middle Ages.
Let us pass from the lady to the wife. On the attitude of wife to husband the
Ménagier's ideas are much the same as those of the rest of his age. They
may be summed up as submission, obedience, and constant attention. She
must be buxom at bed and at board, even in circumstances when buxomness
hides a heavy heart. The good sense of the burgess does not prevent him
from likening the wife's love for her husband to the fidelity of domestic
animals towards their masters: 'Of the domestic animals you see how a
greyhound, or a mastiff, or a little dog, whether on the road, or at table, or
in bed, always keeps near to the person from whom he takes his food, and
leaves and is shy and fierce with all others; and if the dog is afar off, he
always has his heart and his eye upon his master; even if his master whip
him and throw stones at him, the dog follows, wagging his tail and lying
down before his master, seeks to mollify him, and through rivers, through
woods, through thieves and through battles follows him.... Wherefore for a
better and stronger reason women, to whom God has given natural sense
and who are reasonable, ought to have a perfect and solemn love for their
husbands; and so I pray you to be very loving and privy with your husband
who shall be.'[7] Patience is an essential quality in wives, and, however
sorely tried they must never complain. The Ménagier tells three stories to
illustrate how a wife should bear herself in order to win back the love of an
unfaithful husband. One of these is the famous tale of Griselda, but the two
others are drawn (so he says) from his own experience. In the first of these
he tells of the wife of a famous avocat in the parlement of Paris, who saw to
the nurture and marriage of her husband's illegitimate daughter; 'nor did he
ever perceive it by one reproach, or one angry or ugly word.' The second is
the charmingly told story of how John Quentin's wife won back her
husband's heart from the poor spinner of wool to whom it had strayed.[8]
All seem to show that the Ménagier's simile of the little dog was selected
with care, for the medieval wife, like the dog, was expected to lick the hand
that smote her. Nevertheless, while subscribing to all the usual standards of
his age, the Ménagier's robust sense, his hold upon the realities of life, kept

him from pushing them too far. The comment of another realist, Chaucer,
on the tale of Patient Griselda will be remembered.

Grisilde is deed and eek hire pacience,
And bothe at ones buryed in Ytaille;
For which I crie in open audience,
No wedded man so hardy be t'assaille
His wyves pacience in hope to fynde
Grisildes, for in certein he shal faille!

O noble wyves, ful of heigh prudence,
Lat noon humylitee youre tonge naill,
Ne lat no clerk have cause or diligence
To write of yow a stone of swich mervaille
As of Grisildis pacient and kynde,
Lest Chichivache[E] yow swelwe in hire entraille!...

[E] Chichevache, the lean cow who fed on patient
wives, while her mate Bicorne grew fat on humble
husbands (A.W. Pollard).

His creation of the Wife of Bath was an even more pointed commentary.
Here is what the Ménagier has to say to his young wife on the same subject:

And I, who have put [the tale of Griselda] here only
to teach you, have not put it here to apply it to you,
for I am not worthy thereof, and I am not a marquis
and I have not taken you as a beggar, nor am I so
foolish, so conceited or so lacking in sense that I
know not that 'tis not for me to assault nor to assay
you thus, nor in like manner. God keep me from
trying you thus under colour of false simulations....
And forgive me that the story speaks (in my opinion)
of too great cruelty and beyond reason. And know
that it never befel so, but thus the tale runs and I may
nor correct nor alter it, for a wiser than I hath made
it. And it is my desire that since others have read it

you also may know and be able to talk about
everything even as other folk do.[9]

Moreover, in spite of the ideal of submission which he sets before his wife,
the Ménagier has some charming words to say about love--with a sigh,
perhaps, for his own advanced though not crabbed age, and a glance at that
younger husband of the future who shall one day enjoy his little bride.

In God's name (he says) I believe that when two
good and honourable people are wed, all other loves
are put far off, destroyed and forgotten, save only the
love of each for the other. And meseems that when
they are in each other's presence, they look upon
each other more than upon the others, they clasp and
hold each other and they do not willingly speak or
make sign save to each other. And when they are
separated, they think of each other and say in their
hearts, 'When I see him I shall do thus and thus to
him, or say this to him, I shall beseech him
concerning this or that.' And all their special
pleasure, their chief desire and their perfect joy is to
do pleasure and obedience one to the other, if they
love one another.[10]

The greater part of the Ménagier's book is concerned, however, not with the
theoretical niceties of wifely submission, but with his creature comforts.
His instructions as to how to make a husband comfortable positively
palpitate with life; and at the same time there is something indescribably
homely and touching about them; they tell more about the real life of a
burgess's wife than a hundred tales of Patient Griselda or of Jehanne la
Quentine. Consider this picture (how typical a product of the masculine
imagination!) of the stout bread-winner, buffeted about in all weathers and
amid all discomforts, nobly pursuing the task of earning his living, and
fortified by the recollection of a domesticated little wife, darning his
stockings at home by the fire, and prepared to lavish her attentions on the
weary hero in the evening. The passage is an excellent example of the
Ménagier's vivid and simple style, and of the use of incidents drawn from

everyday life to illustrate his thesis, which is one of the chief charms of the
book.

Fair sister, if you have another husband after me,
know that you should think much of his comfort, for
after a woman has lost her first husband she
commonly finds it difficult to find another according
to her estate, and she remains lonely and
disconsolate for a long time[F]; and more so still, if
she lose the second. Wherefore cherish the person of
your husband carefully, and, I pray you, keep him in
clean linen, for 'tis your business. And because the
care of outside affairs lieth with men, so must a
husband take heed, and go and come and journey
hither and thither, in rain and wind, in snow and hail,
now drenched, now dry, now sweating, now
shivering, ill-fed, ill-lodged, ill-warmed and ill-
bedded; and nothing harms him, because he is
upheld by the hope that he has of his wife's care of
him on his return, and of the ease, the joys and the
pleasures which she will do to him, or cause to be
done to him in her presence; to have his shoes
removed before a good fire, his feet washed and to
have fresh shoes and stockings, to be given good
food and drink, to be well served and well looked
after, well bedded in white sheets and night-caps,
well covered with good furs, and assuaged with other
joys and amusements, privities, loves, and secrets,
concerning which I am silent; and on the next day
fresh shirts and garments. Certes, fair sister, such
service maketh a man love and desire to return to his
home and to see his goodwife and to be distant with
other women.

[F] This seems to be contrary to experience.

And therefore I counsel you to make such cheer to
your husband at all his comings and goings and to
persevere therein; and also to be peaceable with him
and remember the rustic proverb, which saith that
there be three things which drive the goodman from
home, to wit, a dripping roof, a smoking chimney
and a scolding woman.[11] Wherefore, fair sister, I
pray you that in order to keep yourself in love and
good favour with your husband you be unto him
gentle, amiable and debonair. Do unto him what the
good simple women of our country say has been
done unto their sons, when the lads have set their
love elsewhere and their mothers cannot wean them
from it. It is certain that when fathers and mothers be
dead, and stepfathers and stepmothers argue with
their stepsons, and scold them and repulse them, and
take not thought for their sleeping, nor for their food
and drink, their hose and their shirts and all their
other needs and affairs, and the same children find
elsewhere a good home and good counsel from some
other woman, who receives them and takes thought
to warm them with some poor gruel with her and to
give them a bed and keep them tidy, mending their
hosen, breeches, shirts, and other garments, then
those lads cleave to her and desire to be with her, and
to sleep warm between her breasts, and are
altogether estranged from their mothers and fathers,
who before took no heed of them, and now want to
get them back and have them again. But it may not
be, for these children hold more dear the company of
strangers, who think and care for them, than that of
their kinsfolk, who have no care of them. Then the
parents lament and weep and say that these same
women have bewitched their children and that they
are spellbound and cannot leave, but are never easy
save when they are with their enchantresses. But
whatever may be said of it, it is no witchcraft, but it

by reason of the love, the care, the intimacies, joys
and pleasures, which these women do in all ways
unto the lads, and on my soul there is no other
enchantment.... Wherefore, dear sister, I pray you
thus to bewitch and bewitch again your husband, and
beware of dripping roof and smoking fire, and scold
him not, but be unto him gentle and amiable and
peaceable. Be careful that in winter he has good fire
without smoke, and let him rest well and be well
covered between your breasts and thus bewitch
him.... And thus you shall preserve and guard him
from all discomforts and give him all the ease that
you can, and serve him and cause him to be well
served in your house; and you shall look to him for
outside things, for if he be a good man he will take
even more care and trouble over them than you wish,
and by doing as I have said, you will make him
always miss you and have his heart with you and
with your loving service, and he will shun all other
houses, all other women, all other services and
households; all will be naught to him save you alone,
if you think of him as aforesaid.... And so on the
road, husbands will think of their wives, and no
trouble will be a burden to them for the hope and
love they will have of their wives, whom they will
long to see, even as poor hermits, penitents and
fasting monks long to see the face of Christ Jesus;
and husbands served thus will never desire to abide
elsewhere or in other company but will withhold,
withdraw and abstain themselves there-from; all the
rest will seem to them but a bed of stones compared
with their home.[12]

Enough has perhaps been quoted to show the Ménagier's idea of a perfect
wife; his idea of the perfect housewife is contained in a mass of instructions
which make excellently entertaining reading. So modern in tone is his
section on the management of servants, both in his account of their ways

and in his advice upon dealing with them, that one often rubs one's eyes to
be sure that what one is reading is really a book written over five centuries
ago by an old burgess of Paris. The Ménagier evidently had a fairly large
household, and he probably owned a country as well as a town house, for he
speaks several times of overseeing the farm-hands 'when you are in the
village'. To assist his wife in superintending this large staff he has a maître
d'hôtel, called Master John the Steward (le despensier) and a duenna, half
housekeeper and half chaperon, for her young mistress, called Dame Agnes
la béguine[G] and a bailiff or foreman to look after the farm. The Ménagier
divides his servants and workmen into three classes--first, those engaged by
the day or by the season for special work, such as porters and carriers,
reapers, winnowers, coopers, and so on; secondly, those engaged on
piecework, such as tailors, furriers, bakers, and shoemakers, hired by
medieval households of some wealth to make what was needed from raw
material purchased at fairs or in the shops of the city; and thirdly, the
ordinary domestic servants, who were hired by the year and lived in their
master's house; 'and of all these,' he says, 'there is none who does not gladly
seek work and a master'.

[G] The Béguines were a sort of religious order, or,
more correctly, a lay sisterhood, standing half-way
between the lay and the monastic life, and somewhat
analogous to the Franciscan Tertiaries, or Third
Order.

He gives an amusing account, evidently based upon bitter experience, of the
wiles of the hired workman. He says that they are commonly lazy, rough,
quick at 'answering back', arrogant (except on payday) and ready to break
into insults if unsatisfied with their pay. He warns his wife to bid Master
John always to take the peaceable ones and always to bargain with them
beforehand as to the pay for which they will do the work.

For know that most often they do not want to
bargain, but they want to get to work without any
bargain having been made and they say gently,
'Milord, it is nothing--there is no need--you will pay
me well and I shall be content with what you think

fit.' And if Master John take them thus, when the
work is finished they will say, 'Sir, there was more to
do than I thought, there was this and that to do, and
here and there,' and they will not take what is given
them and will break out into shouting and angry
words ... and will spread abroad evil report
concerning you, which is worst of all.[13]

We know from the various ordinances fixing wages from the time of the
Black Death onwards, that labour troubles were acute in France as well as
in England at the end of the fourteenth century; and the Ménagier's advice
throws an interesting sidelight on the situation.
It is, however, in his observations upon the engagement and management of
maidservants that the wisdom of the serpent is most apparent. Incidentally
he gives an account of how servants were hired in fourteenth-century Paris,
which shows that the registry office and the character are by no means
modern phenomena. There were recommanderesses--women holding what
we should call registry offices--in Paris at this time, and an ordinance of
1351 (fixing wages after the Black Death) allows them to take 1s. 6d. for
placing a chambermaid and 2s. for a nurse. A servant maid's wage at this
time was 30s. a year and her shoes. The Ménagier counsels his wife thus on
the delicate subject of interviewing and engaging her domestic
chambermaids and serving men:

Know, dear sister (he says), that in order that they
may obey you better and fear the more to anger you,
I leave you the rule and authority to have them
chosen by Dame Agnes the béguine, or by whichever
other of your women you please, to receive them
into our service, to hire them at your pleasure, to pay
and keep them in our service as you please, and to
dismiss them when you will. Nathless you should
privily speak to me about it and act according to my
advice, because you are too young and might be
deceived by your own people. And know that of
those chambermaids who are out of a place, many
there be who offer themselves and clamour and seek

urgently for masters and mistresses; and of these take
none until you first know where their last place was,
and send some of your people to get their character,
to wit whether they talked or drank too much, how
long they were in the place, what work they have
been accustomed to doing and can do, whether they
have homes or friends in the town, from what sort of
people and what part of the country they come, how
long they were there and why they left; and by their
work in the past you shall find out what hope or
expectation you may have of their work in the future.
And know that oft-times such women from distant
parts of the country have been blamed for some fault
in their own part of the world and that is what brings
them into service at a distance....

And if you find from the report of her master and
mistress, neighbours and others that a girl is what
you need, find out from her, and cause Master John
to register in his account book, the day on which you
engage her, her name and those of her father, mother
and any of her kinsfolk, the place where they live
and her birthplace and her references. For servants
will be more afraid to do wrong if they know that
you are recording all these things and that if they
leave you without permission, or are guilty of any
offence, you will write and complain to the justice of
their country or to their friends. And not
withstanding bear in mind the saying of the
philosopher called Bertrand the Old, who says that if
you engage a maid or man of high and proud
answers, you shall know that when she leaves she
will miscall you if she can; and if, on the contrary,
she be flattering and full of blandishments, trust her
not, for she is in league with someone else to trick
you; but if she blushes and is silent and shamefast
when you correct her, love her as your daughter.[14]

The Ménagier's instructions as to how to look after servants when they have
been engaged are equally practical. Good order is to be maintained, quarrels
and bad language[15] prevented, and morals guarded. Each is to have his or
her work assigned and to do it promptly. 'If you order them to do something
now and these your servants answer "There is plenty of time, it shall be
done," or "It shall be done tomorrow," hold it as forgotten, it must all be
begun again, it is as nought. And also when you give a general order to
every one, each will wait for the other to do it, and it is the same.' Not only
is the work of the servants to be carefully superintended by the mistress and
by Dame Agnes, 'who is with you', the Ménagier tells his wife, 'in order to
teach you wise and ripe behaviour and to serve and instruct you and to
whom in particular I give the charge of this matter', but she is to show
herself careful and benevolent in looking after their health and happiness.
At the proper hour she is to cause them to sit down before a hearty meal of
one sort of meat, avoiding rich viands, and one kind of drink, which must
be nourishing but not intoxicating--'the cup that cheers but not inebriates';
probably in this case the light ale which was the habitual drink of the
Middle Ages. She is to admonish them to eat and drink their fill, but

as soon as they begin to tell stories, or to argue, or to
lean on their elbows, order the béguine to make them
rise and take away their table, for the common folk
have a saying 'when a varlet holds forth at table and
a horse grazes in the ditch, it is time to take them
away, for they have had their fill.'

In the evening, after their afternoon's work, they are to have another hearty
meal, and then in winter time they may warm themselves at the fire and
take their ease. Then she is to lock up the house and pack them all off to
bed.

And arrange first that each have beside his bed a
candlestick in which to put his candle, and have
them wisely taught to extinguish it with the mouth or
hand before getting into bed and by no means with
their shirts. And also have them admonished and
taught each and all, that they must begin again the

next day and that they must rise in the morning and
each set to upon his own work.

The Ménagier further advises his wife that chambermaids of fifteen to
twenty years of age are foolish girls who do not know the world, and that
she should always cause them to sleep near her in an antechamber, or a
room without a skylight or a low window looking on to the street, and
should make them get up and go to bed at the same time as herself. 'And
you yourself,' he adds, 'who, if God please, will be wise by this time, must
keep them near to you.' Moreover, if any of her servants fall ill, 'do you
yourself, laying aside all other cares, very lovingly and charitably care for
him or her, and visit him and study diligently how to bring about his cure'.
[16]
But it is perhaps in his capacity as Mrs Beeton that the Ménagier is most
amusing. His infinite variety of household knowledge is shown in the
incidental recipes which he gives when he is describing the measures which
a wife must take for her lord's comfort, and the work of the servants. There
are elaborate instructions concerning the costly medieval garments, worn
year after year for a lifetime and often bequeathed in their owner's will,
instructions for cleaning dresses and furs and for preserving them from
moths, and instructions for removing stains and grease spots. The Ménagier
gives seven recipes for taking out grease spots, but he is rather sceptical
about one or two of them, which he has evidently copied from a book
without trying them for himself. 'To get rid of stains on a dress of silk, satin,
camlet, damask cloth or another,' runs one of these, 'dip and wash the stain
in verjuice and the stain will go; even if the dress be faded, it will regain its
colour. This I do not believe'. The chief impression left, however, is that the
medieval housewife was engaged in a constant warfare against fleas. One of
the Ménagier's infallible rules for keeping a husband happy at home is to
give him a good fire in the winter and keep his bed free from fleas in the
summer. He gives six recipes for getting rid of such small livestock, which
must indeed have been a very common trial to our forefathers:

In summer take heed that there be no fleas in your
chamber nor in your bed, which you may do in six
ways, as I have heard tell. For I have heard from
several persons that if the room be scattered with
alder leaves the fleas will get caught therein. Item, I
have heard tell that if you have at night one or two
trenchers of bread covered with birdlime or
turpentine and put about the room with a lighted
candle set in the midst of each trencher, they will
come and get stuck thereto. Another way which I
have found and which is true: take a rough cloth and
spread it about your room and over your bed and all
the fleas who may hop on to it will be caught, so that
you can carry them out with the cloth wheresoever
you will. Item, sheepskins. Item, I have seen
blankets placed on the straw and on the bed and
when the black fleas jumped upon them they were
the sooner found and killed upon the white. But the
best way is to guard oneself against those which are
within the coverlets and furs and the stuff of the
dresses wherewith one is covered. For know that I
have tried this, and when the coverlets, furs or
dresses in which there be fleas are folded and shut
tightly up, in a chest straitly bound with straps or in a
bag well tied up and pressed, or otherwise
compressed so that the said fleas are without light
and air and kept imprisoned, then they will perish
and die at once.[17]

A similar war had also to be waged against flies and mosquitoes, which
rendered summer miserable. "I have sometimes," says the Ménagier, "seen
in several chambers that when one has gone to bed in them, they were full
of mosquitoes, which at the smoke of the breath came to sit on the faces of
those who slept and sting them so that they were fain to get up and light a
fire of hay to smoke them off." Against such pests he has also six infallible
recipes--to wit, a mosquito net over the bed; sprigs of fern hung up for the

flies to settle on; a bowl filled with a mixture of milk and hare's gall, or with
the juice of raw onions, which will kill them; a bottle containing a rag
dipped in honey, or else a string dipped in honey to hang up; fly whisks to
drive them away; and closing up windows with oiled cloth or parchment.
[18]
The section on cookery, which contains the Ménagier's injunctions for
"feeding the brute", is the longest in the book, and gives an extraordinarily
interesting picture of the domestic economy of our ancestors.[19] The
Ménagier must have been brother to Chaucer's Franklin, 'Epicurus owene
sone':

An housholdere, and that a greet, was he:
Seint Julian he was in his contree;
His breed, his ale, was alwey after oon;
A bettre envyned man was nowher noon.
Withoute bake mete was never his hous,
Of fissh and flessh, and that so plenteuous
It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke.
Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke.
After the sondry sesons of the yeer,
So chaunged he his mete and his soper.
Ful many a fat partrich had he in muwe
And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe.
Wo was his cook but if his sauce were
Poynaunt and sharpe and redy al his geere.
His table dormant in his hal alway
Stood redy covered al the longe day.

In this, as in all other medieval cookery books, what strikes the modern
reader is the length and elaboration of the huge feasts, with their many
courses and dishes, and the richness of the highly spiced viands. There are
black puddings and sausages, venison and beef, eels and herrings, fresh
water fish, round sea fish and flat sea fish, common pottages unspiced,
spiced pottages, meat pottages and meatless pottages, roasts and pastries
and entremets, divers sauces boiled and unboiled, pottages and 'slops' for
invalids. Some of them sound delicious, others would be ruin to our
degenerate digestions today. Pungent sauces of vinegar, verjuice, and wine

were very much favoured, and cloves, cinnamon, galingale, pepper, and
ginger appear unexpectedly in meat dishes. Almonds were a favourite
ingredient in all sorts of dishes, as they still are in China and other parts of
the East, and they might well be used more lavishly than they are in modern
European cookery. True to his race, the Ménagier includes recipes for
cooking frogs and snails.[20] To the modern cook some of his directions
may appear somewhat vague, as when he bids his cook to boil something
for as long as it takes to say a paternoster or a miserere; yet for clockless
kitchens in a pious age what clearer indication could a man give? And, after
all, it is no worse than 'cook in a hot oven', which still finds a place in many
modern cookery books which should know better. Other instructions are
detailed enough. In one valuable passage he gives a list of all the meat
markets of Paris, together with the number of butchers to be found in each
and the number of sheep, oxen, pigs, and calves sold there every week,
adding also for interest the amount of meat and poultry consumed weekly in
the households of the King, the Queen and the royal children, the Dukes of
Orleans, Berry, Burgundy, and Bourbon. Elsewhere also he speaks of other
markets--the Pierre-au-Lait, or milk market; the Place de Grève, where they
sell coal and firewood; and the Porte-de-Paris which is not only a meat
market, but the best place in which to buy fish and salt and green herbs and
branches to adorn your rooms.
For his wife's further guidance the Ménagier sets out a careful specification
of the catering arrangements for several great feasts--to wit, a dinner given
by the Abbot of Lagny to the Bishop of Paris and the members of the King's
Council, the feast, comprising dinner and supper, which one Master Elias
(evidently a grave and reverend maître d'hôtel, like Master John le
despensier himself) made for the wedding of Jean du Chesne, upon a
Tuesday in May, and the arrangements for another wedding, "les nopces
Hautecourt", in the month of September, as to which the Ménagier observes
"that because they were widower and widow they were wed very early, in
their black robes and then put on others"; he was anxious that his widow
should do the correct thing at that second wedding of hers. The description
of the wedding feast arranged by Master Elias is particularly detailed and
valuable.[21] The careful Ménagier, perhaps because he foresaw some big
entertainment which he must give to the burgesses and gentlemen of Paris,
perhaps because of his delightful interest in all the details of material life,

has set down at length not only the menu of the dinner and supper, but a
long account of the ingredients needed, their quantities and prices, and the
shops or markets where they must be bought, so that the reader can see with
his eyes the maître d'hôtel and the cooks going round from stall to stall,
visiting butcher and baker, poulterer, saucemaker, vintner, wafer maker,
who sold the wafers and pastries dear to medieval ladies, and spicer whose
shop was heavy with the scents of the East.
The Ménagier sets down also all the esquires and varlets and waiters who
will be needed to serve such a feast as this. There was the master cook,
comfortably stout and walking 'high and disposedly', as Queen Elizabeth
danced, brain pan stuffed full of delectable recipes, hand of ravishing
lightness with pastries, eye and nose skilled to say when a capon was done
to a turn, warranted without a rival

To boille the chiknes with the marybones,
And poudre-marchant tart and galyngale ...
He koude rooste and seethe and boille and frye,
Maken martreux and wel bake a pye ...
For blankmanger, that made he with the beste.

He brought his varlets with him, and in Paris he took two francs for his hire
'and perquisites' (a pregnant addition). Then there were ushers, 'stout and
strong', to keep the doors, and a clerk to add up the account; bread-cutters
and water-carriers, two squires to serve at the dresser in the kitchen where
the plates and dishes were handed out, two others at the hall dresser to give
out spoons and drinking cups and pour wine for the guests, and two others
in the pantry to give out the wine which their varlet kept drawing for them.
There were the two maîtres d'hôtel to set out the silver salt-cellars for the
high table, the four great gilded goblets, the four dozen hanaps, the four
dozen silver spoons, the ewers and alms mugs and sweetmeat dishes, and to
usher the guests to their places; a head waiter and two servitors for each
table, a flower girl to make chaplets of flowers for the guests, women to see
to the linen and deck the bridal bed,[22] and a washerwoman. The floors
were strewn with violets and green herbs and the rooms decked with
branches of May (all bought in the market in early morning), and there was
a good stock of torches and candles, small candles to stand on the supper
tables, and great torches to be set in sconces on the walls, or to be carried in

procession by the guests, for the supper ended with 'dancing, singing, wine
and spices and lighted torches'. On this occasion eight francs were given to
the minstrels, over and above the spoons and other presents made to them
during the meal, and there were also acrobats and mimes to amuse the
guests. If they had to prepare a great feast Master John and his little
mistress could not go far wrong after this, or fail to please the genial epicure
who set it down for them. The Ménagier copied many of his recipes from
other cookery books, but he must have got the details of this entertainment
from Master Elias himself, and one can see their grey heads wagging with
enjoyment, as one talked and the other wrote.
The cookery book ends with a section containing recipes for making what
the Ménagier calls 'small things which are not necessities'. There are
various sorts of jams, mostly made with honey; in the Middle Ages
vegetables were evidently much prepared in this way, for the Ménagier
speaks of turnip, carrot, and pumpkin jam. There is a delicious syrup of
mixed spices (at least the palate of faith must believe it to have been
delicious) and a powder of ginger, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and sugar,
to be sifted over food, as sugar is sifted today; there is a recipe for
hippocras, and for 'gauffres' or wafers, and for candied oranges. There are
various sage pieces of advice as to the seasons for certain foods and the best
ways of cooking and serving them. Most amusing of all these are a number
of recipes not of a culinary nature--to wit, for making glue and marking ink,
for bringing up small birds in aviaries and cages, preparing sand for hour-
glasses, making rose-water, drying roses to lay among dresses (as we lay
lavender today), for curing tooth-ache, and for curing the bite of a mad dog.
The latter is a charm, of the same type as the Ménagier's horse charms:
'Take a crust of bread and write what follows: Bestera bestie nay brigonay
dictera sagragan es domina siat siat siat.' Let us remember, however, that
the nation which produced it, some four centuries later, produced Pasteur.

V. THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE HAS A GARDEN PARTY.

Enough has been said about this entrancing book to show how vividly it
brings not only the Ménagier, but the Ménagier's young wife before our
eyes after these many years. In the morning she rises, much earlier than
ladies rise nowadays, though not so early as nuns, who must say matins, for
that, her husband tells her, is not a fitting hour for married women to leave
their beds. Then she washes, much less than ladies nowadays, hands and
face only perchance, and says her orisons, and dresses very neatly, for she
knows whose eye is upon her, and so goes with Dame Agnes the béguine to
Mass, with eyes on the ground and hands folded over her painted primer.
After Mass, and perhaps confession, back again to see if the servants are
doing their work, and have swept and dusted the hall and the rooms, beaten
the cushions and coverlets on the forms and tidied everything, and
afterwards to interview Master John the steward and order dinner and
supper. Then she sends Dame Agnes to see to the pet dogs and birds, "for
they cannot speak and so you must speak and think for them if you have
any". Then, if she be in her country house, she must take thought for the

farm animals and Dame Agnes must superintend those who have charge of
them, Robin the shepherd, Josson the oxherd, Arnoul the cowherd,
Jehanneton the milkmaid, and Eudeline the farmer's wife who looks after
the poultry yard. If she be in her town house she and her maids take out her
dresses and furs from their great chests and spread them in the sun in the
garden or courtyard to air, beating them with little rods, shaking them in the
breeze, taking out spots and stains with one or other of the master's tried
recipes, pouncing with lynx eyes upon the moth or sprightly flea.

VI. THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE COOKS HIS SUPPER, WITH THE
AID OF HIS BOOK.

After this comes dinner, the serious meal of the day, eaten by our ancestors
about 10 a.m. What the Ménagier's wife gives to her lord and master will
depend upon the time of year and upon whether it be a meat or a fast day;
but we know that she has no lack of menus from which to choose. After
dinner she sees that the servants are set to dine, and then the busy housewife

may become the lady of leisure and amuse herself. If in the country she may
ride out hawking with a gay party of neighbours; if in town, on a winter's
day, she may romp and play with other married ladies of her tender years,
exchange riddles or tell stories round the fire. But what she most loves is to
wander in her garden, weaving herself garlands of flowers, violets, gilly
flowers, roses, thyme, or rosemary, gathering fruit in season (she likes
raspberries and cherries), and passing on to the gardeners weighty advice
about the planting of pumpkins ("in April water them courteously and
transplant them"), to which the gardeners give as much attention as
gardeners always have given, give still, and ever shall give, world without
end, to the wishes of their employers. When she tires of this, the busy one
gathers together Dame Agnes and her maids, and they sit under the carved
beams of the hall mending his mastership's doublet, embroidering a
vestment for the priest at his family chantry, or a tapestry hanging for the
bedchamber. Or perhaps they simply spin (since, in the words of the Wife of
Bath, God has given women three talents--deceit, weeping, and spinning!);
and all the while she awes them with that tale of Griselda, her voice rising
and falling to the steady hum of the wheels.
At last it is evening, and back comes the lord and master. What a bustle and
a pother this home-coming meant we know well, since we know what he
expected. Such a running and fetching of bowls of warm water to wash his
feet, and comfortable shoes to ease him; such a hanging on his words and
admiring of his labours. Then comes supper, with a bevy of guests, or
themselves all alone in the westering sunlight, while he smacks
connoisseur's lips over the roast crane and the blankmanger, and she nibbles
her sweet wafers. Afterwards an hour of twilight, when she tells him how
she has passed the day, and asks him what she shall do with the silly young
housemaid, whom she caught talking to the tailor's 'prentice through that
low window which looks upon the road. There is warm affection in the look
she turns up to him, her round little face puckered with anxiety over the
housemaid, dimpling into a smile when he commends her; and there is
warm affection and pride too in the look the old man turns down upon her.
So the night falls, and they go round the house together, locking all the
doors and seeing that the servants are safe abed, for our ancestors were
more sparing of candlelight than we. And so to bed.

We may take our leave of the couple here. The Ménagier's wife evidently
had a full life.

Some respit to husbands the weather may send, But
huswiues affaires haue neuer an end.

There was no room in it for the idleness of those lovely ladies, with their
long fingers, whom Langland admonished to sew for the poor. Moreover,
exaggerated as some of her husband's ideas upon wifely submission appear
today, the book leaves a strong impression of good sense and of respect as
well as love for her. The Ménagier does not want his wife to be on a
pedestal, like the troubadour's lady, nor licking his shoes like Griselda; he
wants a helpmeet, for, as Chaucer said, "If that wommen were nat goode
and hir conseils goode and profitable, oure Lord God of hevene wolde
never han wroght hem, ne called hem "help" of man, but rather confusioun
of man."[23] Ecclesiastical Jeremiahs were often wont to use the
characteristically medieval argument that if God had meant woman for a
position of superiority He would have taken her from Adam's head rather
than his side; but the Ménagier would have agreed with the more logical
Peter Lombard, who observed that she was not taken from Adam's head,
because she was not intended to be his ruler, nor from his feet either,
because she was not intended to be his slave, but from his side, precisely,
because she was intended to be his companion. There is something of this
spirit in the Ménagier's attitude towards his little wife, and it is this which
makes his book so charming and causes it to stand head and shoulders
above most other medieval books of behaviour for women. But, above all,
its social and historical value lies in the fact that it gives us, in hues
undimmed by time, a full length portrait of a medieval housewife, who has
her place (and it is a large one) in history, but concerning whom historians
have almost invariably been silent.

CHAPTER VI

Thomas Betson
A MERCHANT OF THE STAPLE IN THE FIFTEENTH
CENTURY

Some men of noble stock were made, some glory in
the murder blade:
Some praise a Science or an Art, but I like
honourable Trade!

--JAMES ELROY FLECKER

The Golden Journey to Samarcand

The visitor to the House of Lords, looking respectfully upon that august
assembly, cannot fail to be struck by a stout and ungainly object facing the
throne--an ungainly object upon which in full session of Parliament, he will
observe seated the Lord Chancellor of England. The object is a woolsack,
and it is stuffed as full of pure history as the office of Lord Chancellor
itself. For it reminds a cotton-spinning, iron-working generation that the
greatness of England was built up, not upon the flimsy plant which comes
to her to be manufactured from the Far East and West of the world, nor
upon the harsh metal delved from her bowels, but upon the wool which
generation after generation has grown on the backs of her black-faced
sheep. First in the form of a raw material sought after eagerly by all the
cloth-makers of Europe, then in the form of a manufacture carried on in her
own towns and villages, and sent out far and wide in ships, wool was the
foundation of England's greatness right up to the time of the Industrial
Revolution, when cotton and iron took its place. So if you look at old
pictures of the House of Lords, in Henry VIII's reign, or in Elizabeth's, you
will see the woolsack before the throne,[1] as you will see it if you visit the

House today. The Lord Chancellor of England is seated upon a woolsack
because it was upon a woolsack that this fair land rose to prosperity.
The most remarkable body of traders in England during the Middle Ages
were the Merchants of the Staple, who traded in wool. The wool trade had
for long been the largest and most lucrative body of trade in the country,
and it was one in which the Kings of England were particularly interested,
for their customs revenue was drawn largely from wool and wool fells; and,
moreover, when they desired to borrow money in anticipation of revenue it
was to the wool merchants that they turned, because the wool merchants
were the wealthiest traders in the country. For these and other reasons the
Government adopted the custom of fixing staple towns, which acted as
centres of distribution through which the export trade was forced to go. The
location of the Staple was altered from time to time; sometimes it was at
Bruges, sometimes at Antwerp, sometimes in England; but usually it was at
Calais, where it was first fixed in 1363 and finally established in 1423.
Through the Staple all wool and wool fells, hides, leather, and tin had to
pass, and the organization of the system was complete when the body of
wool merchants, in whose hands lay the bulk of the Staple trade, were
finally incorporated in 1354, under the governance of a mayor. The system
was a convenient one for Crown and merchants alike. The Crown could
concentrate its customs officers in one place and collect its customs the
more easily, particularly as a method was gradually developed by which the
custom and subsidy on wool was paid to the Royal officials by the
Fellowship of the Staple, who then collected it from the individual
members. The merchants, on the other hand, benefited by the concentration
in trade: they were able to travel in groups and to organize convoys to
protect the wool fleets from pirates who swarmed in the narrow seas
between England and France; as members of a powerful corporation they
could secure both privileges and protection in Flanders. Moreover, the wool
buyers also benefited by the arrangement, which rendered possible a careful
surveillance by the Crown and the Company of the Staple of the quality of
the wool offered for sale, and a series of regulations against fraud. It must
be remembered that in days when trade stood in need of a protection which
the Government was not yet able to give it, there was nothing unpopular in
the idea of giving the monopoly of the staple trade to the members of a
single company. 'Trade in companies is natural to Englishmen,' wrote

Bacon; and for four centuries it was the great trading companies which
nurtured English trade and made this country the commercial leader of the
world.
The wool trade throve in England until the close of the Middle Ages, but
throughout the fifteenth century the staplers were beginning to feel the
competition of another company--that of the famous Merchant Adventurers,
who, taking advantage of the growth in the native cloth manufacture during
the previous century, had begun to do a great trade in the export of cloth.
This was obnoxious to the staplers, who desired the continuance of the old
system, by which they exported English wool to the Continent, where at
Ypres and Ghent, Bruges and Mechlin, and the other famous cloth-working
cities of the Netherlands, it was woven into fine cloth. This cloth
manufacture gave to the Netherlands a sort of industrial pre-eminence in
Europe throughout the Middle Ages, and it was dependent entirely upon a
good supply of English wool, for the next best wool in Europe--that of
Spain--was not satisfactory unless mixed with wool of English growth.
Hence the close political tie between England and Flanders, the one needing
a customer, the other an essential raw material; for, as a fifteenth century
poet said,

the lytelle londe of Flaundres is
But a staple to other londes, iwys,
And alle that groweth in Flaundres, greyn and sede,
May not a moneth fynde hem mete and brede.
What hath thenne Flaundres, be Flemmyngis leffe or
lothe
But a lytelle madere and Flemmyshe cloothe?
By drapynge of our wolle in substaunce
Lyvene here comons, this is here governaunce;
Wythought whyche they may not leve at ease,
Thus moste hem sterve, or wyth us most have
peasse.[2]

In those days the coat on the Englishman's back was made out of English
wool, indeed, but it had been manufactured in Flanders, and the staplers
saw no reason why it should ever be otherwise. As to the Flemings, the
political alliances which commercial necessities constantly entailed

between the two countries gave rise among them to a proverb that they
bought the fox-skin from the English for a groat and sold them back the tail
for a guelder;[3] but it was the sheepskin which they bought, and they were
not destined to go on buying it for ever. The great cloth-making cities of the
Netherlands were finally ruined by the growth of the English cloth
manufacture, which absorbed the English wool. However, in spite of the
growing prosperity of this trade, which had by the beginning of the
sixteenth century ousted that of wool as the chief English export trade, the
Company of the Merchants of the Staple was still great and famous
throughout the fifteenth century.
Many were the wealthy and respected staplers who were in those days to be
found directing the destinies of English towns, mayors of London and
provincial ports, contractors and moneylenders to an impecunious king, so
rich and so powerful that they became a constitutional menace, almost, it
has been said, a fourth estate of the realm, with which His Majesty was
wont to treat for grants apart from Parliament. Many are the staplers' wills
preserved in registries up and down England and bearing witness to their
prosperity and public spirit. Many are the magnificent brasses which
preserve their memory in the parish churches of the Cotswolds and other
wool-growing districts of England. At Chipping Campden lies William
Grevel with his wife, 'late citizen of London and flower of the wool
merchants of all England', who died in 1401, and his beautiful house still
stands in the village street. At Northleach lies John Fortey, who rebuilt the
nave before he died in 1458; his brass shows him with one foot on a sheep
and the other on a woolpack, and the brasses of Thomas Fortey, 'woolman',
and of another unknown merchant, with a woolpack, lie near by. At
Linwood, at Cirencester, at Chipping Norton, at Lechlade, and at All
Hallows, Barking, you may see others of the great fraternity.[4] They rest in
peace now, but when they lived they were the shrewdest traders of their day.
Of wool, cries the poet Gower,

O leine, dame de noblesce
Tu est des marchantz la duesse,
Pour toy servir tout sont enclin--

'O wool, noble dame, thou art the goddess of merchants, to serve thee they
are all ready; by thy good fortune and thy wealth thou makest some mount

high, and others thou bringest to ruin. The staple where thou dwellest is
never free of fraud and trickery, wherewith man wounds his conscience. O
wool, Christians no less than pagans and Saracens seek to have thee and
confess thee. O wool, we should not be silent about thy doings in strange
lands; for the merchants of all countries, in time of peace, in time of war,
come to seek thee by reason of their great love, for whoever else hath
enemies thou art never without good friends, who have given themselves to
thy profitable service. Thou art cherished throughout the world, and the
land where thou art born may do great things by reason of thee. Thou art
carried throughout the world by land and sea, but thou goest to the
wealthiest men; in England art thou born, but it is said that thou art but ill
governed, for Trick, who hath much money, is made regent of thy staple; at
his will he taketh it to foreign lands, where he purchaseth his own gain to
our harm. O fair, O white, O delightful one, the love of thee stings and
binds, so that the hearts of those who make merchandise of thee cannot
escape. So they compass much trickery and many schemes how they may
gather thee, and then they make thee pass the sea, queen and lady of their
navy, and in order to have thee envy and covetousness hie them to bargain
for thee.'[5]
The daily life of a Merchant of the Staple is not a difficult one to
reconstruct, partly because the Golden Fleece has left so many marks upon
our national life, partly because the statute book is full of regulations
concerning the wool trade, but chiefly because there have come down to us
many private letters from persons engaged in shipping wool from England
to Calais. Of all the different sorts of raw material out of which the history
of ordinary people in the Middle Ages has to be made, their letters are
perhaps the most enthralling, because in their letters people live and explain
themselves in all their individuality. In the fifteenth century most men and
women of the upper and middle classes could read and write, although their
spelling was sometimes marvellous to behold, and St Olave's Church is apt
to become 'Sent Tolowys scryssche' beneath their painfully labouring goose
quills, and punctuation is almost entirely to seek. But what matter? their
meaning is clear enough. Good fortune has preserved in various English
archives several great collections of family letters written in the fifteenth
century. Finest of all are the famous Paston Letters, written by and to a
family of Norfolk gentlefolk, and crammed with information about high

politics and daily life.[6] Less interesting, but valuable all the same, are the
letters of the Plumptons, who were lords in Yorkshire.[7] But for our
purposes the most interesting are two other collections, to wit, the
correspondence of the Stonors, whose estates lay chiefly in Oxfordshire and
the neighbouring counties; and the Cely papers, kept by a family of
Merchants of the Staple.
These two collections give us a vivid picture of wool staplers in their public
and private lives. The Cely papers cover the years 1475 to 1488, and it so
happens that during that period William Stonor (he became Sir William in
1478) also became interested in the wool trade, for in 1475 he married
Elizabeth Riche, the daughter and widow of wealthy city merchants. The
Stonors had great sheep runs on their estates in the Chilterns and
Cotswolds, and William readily perceived the advantage of his alliance with
Elizabeth's family, who were interested in the wool trade. Consequently he
entered into a partnership with a friend of his wife's, a Merchant of the
Staple in Calais, named Thomas Betson, who is the subject of this study,
and until Elizabeth's death in 1479, he took an active part in the export
trade. Thomas Betson died in 1486, and was thus an exact contemporary of
those other Merchants of the Staple, George and Richard Cely, whom he
must have known; indeed, William Cely, their cousin and agent, writes from
London to George in Calais in 1481, advising him that he has dispatched
464 fells to him in the Thomas of Newhithe, 'and the sayd felles lyeth nexte
be afte the maste lowest under the felles of Thomas Bettson'.[8] By the aid
of the 'Stonor Letters and Papers', which contain many letters from and
concerning him during the years of his partnership with Sir William, and of
the 'Cely Papers', which are full of information about the life of a Merchant
of the Staple at Calais, Thomas Betson may be summoned before us by a
kindly magic until he almost lives again. So he deserves to do, for he is one
of the most delightful people revealed to us in any of the fifteenth-century
letters; for honest charm he has no rival save the attractive Margery Brews,
who married John Paston the younger, and shows up so pleasantly beside
the hard Paston women.
Perhaps the reason why our hearts warm immediately towards Thomas
Betson is that our first meeting with him plunges us immediately into a love
affair. His first letter to William Stonor is dated April 12, 1476, and informs
William that their wool has come in to Calais. 'Right worshipfful Syr," it

begins, "I recomaund me unto your good maystershipe, and to my right
worshipffulle maystresse your wiffe, and yf it plese your maystershipe, to
my maystresse Kateryn.'[9] Ten days later he writes again from London, on
the eve of sailing for Calais, thanking Stonor for his 'gentle cheer and
faithful love, the which alway ye bear and owe unto me, and of my behalf
nothing deserved[H],' announcing that he has sent a present of powdered[I]
lampreys from himself and a pipe of red wine from his brother, and adding
this postscript: 'Sir, I beseech your mastership that this poor writing may
have me lowly recommended to my right worshipful mistress, your wife,
and in like wise to my gentle cousin and kind mistress Katherine Riche, to
whom I beseech your mastership ever to be favourable and loving.'[10]
Who was this Katherine Riche to whom he so carefully commends himself?
Katherine Riche was William Stonor's stepdaughter, one of his wife's
children by her first husband; she was Thomas Betson's affianced bride, and
at this time she was about thirteen years old.

[H] Henceforth I shall modernize spelling, for the
reader's convenience.

[I] I.e. pickled.

Modern opinion, which is happily in favour of falling in love, and of adult
marriages, is often shocked by the air of business which pervades
matchmaking in the days of chivalry, and by the many cases of grown men
married to little girls not yet out of their teens. In those days it was held that
a boy came of age at fourteen and a girl at twelve (a discrepancy which the
great canon lawyer, Lyndwood, the son of a stapler,[11] attributed to the
fact that ill weeds grow apace!). For reasons of property, or to settle family
feuds, or simply to assure their own future, babies in cradles were
sometimes betrothed and even married; all that the Church required was
that children should be free when they came of age (at the ages of fourteen
and twelve!) to repudiate the contract if they so desired. Nothing seems to
separate modern England from the good old days so plainly as the case of
little Grace de Saleby, aged four, who for the sake of her broad acres was
married to a great noble, and on his death two years later to another, and yet
again, when she was eleven, to a third, who paid three hundred marks down
for her.[12] There is an odd mixture of humour and pathos in the story of

some of these marriages. John Rigmarden, aged three, was carried to church
in the arms of a priest, who coaxed him to repeat the words of matrimony,
but half-way through the service the child declared that he would learn no
more that day, and the priest answered, 'You must speak a little more, and
then go play you.' James Ballard, aged ten, was married to Jane his wife 'at
x of the clocke in the night without the consent of any of his frendes, bie
one Sir Roger Blakey, then curate of Colne, and the morowe after, the same
James declarid vnto his Vnckle that the said Jane [beyinge a bigge damsell
and mariageable at the same tyme] had intised him with two Apples, to go
with her to Colne and to marry her.' Elizabeth Bridge née Ramsbotham,
says that after her marriage to John Bridge, when he was eleven and she
thirteen, he never used her 'lovinglie, insomoche that the first night they
were maried, the said John wold Eate no meate at supper, and whan hit was
bed tyme, the said John did wepe to go home with his father, he beynge at
that tyme at her brother's house.'[13]
Sometimes, however, medieval records throw a pleasanter light on these
child marriages. Such was the light thrown by the Ménagier de Paris's book
for his young wife, so kindly, so affectionate, so full of indulgence for her
youth; and such also is the light thrown by the charming letter which
Thomas Betson wrote to little Katherine Riche on the first day of June in
1476. It is a veritable gem, and it is strange that it has not attracted more
notice, for certainly no anthology of English letters should be without it. I
set it down here at length, for it brings to warm life again both Thomas
Betson and Katherine Riche:

Mine own heartily beloved Cousin Katherine, I
recommend me unto you with all the inwardness of
my heart. And now lately ye shall understand that I
received a token from you, the which was and is to
me right heartily welcome, and with glad will I
received it; and over that I had a letter from Holake,
your gentle squire, by the which I understand right
well that ye be in good health of body, and merry at
heart. And I pray God heartily in his pleasure to
continue the same: for it is to me very great comfort
that he so be, so help me Jesu. And if ye would be a
good eater of your meat alway, that ye might wax

and grow fast to be a woman ye should make me the
gladdest man of the world, by my troth; for when I
remember your favour and your sad loving dealing
to me wards, for sooth ye make me even very glad
and joyous in my heart; and on the tother side again,
when I remember your young youth, and see well
that ye be none eater of your meat, the which should
help you greatly in waxing, for sooth then ye make
me very heavy again. And therefore I pray you, mine
own sweet Cousin, even as you love me, to be merry
and eat your meat like a woman. And if ye will so do
for my love, look what ye will desire of me,
whatsoever it be, and by my troth, I promise you by
the help of our Lord to perform it to my power. I can
no more say now, but on my coming home I will tell
you much more between you and me and God
before. And whereas ye, full womanly and like a
lover, remember me with manifold recommendation
in divers manners, remitting the same to my
discretion to depart them there as I love best, for
sooth, mine own sweet Cousin, ye shall understand
that with good heart and good will I receive and take
to myself the one half of them and them will I keep
by me; and the tother half with hearty love and
favour I send them to you, mine own sweet Cousin,
again, for to keep by you; and over that I send you
the blessing that our Lady gave her dear son, and
ever well to fare. I pray you greet well my horse and
pray him to give you four of his years to help you
withal; and I will at my coming home give him four
of my years and four horse loaves till amends. Tell
him that I prayed him so. And Cousin Katherine, I
thank you for him, and my wife shall thank you for
him hereafter; for ye do great cost upon him, as is
told me. Mine own sweet Cousin, it was told me but
late that ye were at Calais[J] to seek me, but could
not see me nor find me; forsooth ye might have

comen to my counter, and there ye should both find
me and see me, and not have faulted of me; but ye
sought me in a wrong Calais, and that ye should well
know if ye were here and saw this Calais, as would
God ye were and some of them with you that were
with you at your gentle Calais. I pray you, gentle
Cousin, commend me to the clock, and pray him to
amend his unthrifty manners; for he strikes ever in
undue time, and he will be ever afore, and that is a
shrewd condition. Tell him without he amend his
condition that he will cause strangers to avoid and
come no more there. I trust to you that he shall
amend against mine coming, the which shall be
shortly, with all hands and all feet, with God's grace.
My very faithful Cousin, I trust to you that though all
I have not remembered my right worshipful mistress
your mother afore in this letter, that ye will of your
gentleness recommend me to her mistresship as
many times as it shall please you: and ye may say, if
it please you, that in Whitsun week next I intend to
the mart ward. And I trust you will pray for me; for I
shall pray for you and, so it may be, none so well.
And Almighty Jesu make you a good woman and
send you many good years and long to live in health
and virtue to his pleasure. At great Calais, on this
side on the sea, the first day of June, when every
man was gone to his dinner, and the clock smote
nine, and all your household cried after me and bade
me 'Come down, come down to dinner at once!'--and
what answer I gave them, ye know it of old.

[J] Possibly an inn with that name (?).

By your faithful Cousin and lover Thomas Betson. I
send you this ring for a token.

So ending, Thomas Betson smiled, dropped a kiss on the seal and inscribed
his letter, 'To my faithful and heartily beloved cousin Katherine Riche at
Stonor, this letter be delivered in haste.'[14]
Henceforth there begins a charming triangular correspondence between
Betson and Stonor and Dame Elizabeth Stonor, in which family news and
business negotiations are pleasantly mingled. Dame Elizabeth and Betson
were on the best of terms, for they had been old friends before her second
marriage. A special chamber was kept for him at Stonor, and by an
affectionate anticipation she often refers to him as 'My son Stonor'. Almost
all her letters to her husband contain news of him--how he took his barge at
8 a.m. in the morning and God speed him, how no writing has come from
him these eight days, how he has now written about the price to be paid for
forty sacks of Cotswold wool, how he recommends him to Sir William and
came home last Monday. Sometimes he is entrusted with the delicate
business of interviewing Dame Elizabeth's mother, a difficult old lady with
a tongue; 'God send her,' says Thomas, mopping his brow, after one of these
interviews, 'once a merry countenance or shortly to the Minories[K]!' After
another he writes to Dame Elizabeth: 'Sith I came home to London I met
with my lady your mother and God wot she made me right sullen cheer
with her countenance whiles I was with her; methought it long till I was
departed. She break out to me of her old "ffernyeres" and specially she
brake to me of the tale I told her between the vicar that was and her; she
said the vicar never fared well sith, he took it so much to heart. I told her a
light answer again and so I departed from her. I had no joy to tarry with her.
She is a fine merry woman, but ye shall not know it nor yet find it, nor none
of yours by that I see in her.'[15] It was the faithful Betson, too, who was
chosen to look after his Katherine's little sister Anne when she was ill in
London, and he writes home asking for her clothes--'She hath need unto
them and that knoweth our Lord'--and complaining of the old grandmother's
behaviour: 'If my lady your mother meet my cousin Anne she will say no
more but "God's blessing have ye and mine', and so go her way forth, as
though she had no joy of her."[16] It was Betson, too, who escorted Dame
Elizabeth, when need was, from Windsor to London and wrote to her
husband: 'By the way we were right merry, thanked be God, and so with his
mercy we mean here to be merry for the season that my lady is here, and
when your mastership is ready to come hitherwards, we here shall so

welcome you that the season of your abiding shall not be noisome, with
God's grace.'[17] Whereupon Sir William sends a present of capons by the
carrier to assist the merriment, and Betson reports, 'Sir, I took two capons,
but they were not the best, as ye counselled me by your letter to take, and
indeed to say the truth I could not be suffered. My lady your wife is
reasonably strong waxed, the Lord be thanked, and she took her will in that
matter like as she doth in all other.'[18]

[K] The convent of Minoresses, or Franciscan nuns,
outside Aldgate.

There are, indeed, a hundred evidences of the warmth of Betson's affection
for the Stonors and of the simple piety of his character. Sometimes he
ventures to give them good advice. Dame Elizabeth was somewhat uplifted
by her elevation from the ranks of the mercantile bourgeoisie to a place
among the country gentry, and was apt to be extravagant, nor was her
husband entirely guiltless of running up bills. We hear of the ale brewer and
the bread baker calling daily upon his agent for money, and on one occasion
the Stonors owed over £12 to Betson's own brother, a vintner, for various
pipes of red and white wine and a butt of Rumney[L][19]. So Thomas
writes to Dame Elizabeth, on his way to the mart: 'Our blessed lord Jesus
Christ preserve you both in honour and worship virtuously to continue in
God's pleasure and also to send you good and profitable counsel and grace
to do hereafter. This is and shall be my prayer forsooth every day; your
honour and worship of countenance hereafter sticketh as nigh mine heart as
doth any friend, man or other about you, by my troth, our blessed Lord so
help me. I will avise you, Madame, to remember large expenses and beware
of them, and in likewise my master your husband; it is well done ye
remember him of them, for divers considerations, as ye know both right
well. And our blessed Lord be your comforter and help in all your good
work. Amen.'[20] A month later he hears that William Stonor has been ill
and writes to sympathize with Dame Elizabeth: 'And if I could do anything
here that might be to his pleasure and yours, I would I knew it and it should
be done withouten fail. Truly your discomfort is not my comfort, God
knoweth it. Nevertheless your ladyship must cause him to be merry and of
glad cheer, and to put away all fantasies and unthrifty thoughts, that comes

no good of, but only hurtful. A man may hurt himself by riotous means; it is
good to beware.'[21]

[L] Greek wine.

Meanwhile what of little Katherine Riche? She recurs over and over in
Thomas Betson's letters. Occasionally she is in disgrace, for she was not
handy with her pen. 'I am wroth with Katherine,' writes he to her mother,
'because she sendeth me no writing. I have to her divers times and for lack
of answer I wax weary; she might get a secretary if she would and if she
will not, it shall put me to less labour to answer her letters again.'[22] But
the important thing is that she grows steadily older, though not quickly
enough to please our lover. On Trinity Sunday in 1478 he writes to Dame
Elizabeth: 'I remember her full oft, God know[eth] it. I dreamed once she
was thirty winters of age and when I woke I wished she had been but
twenty and so by likelihood I am sooner like to have my wish than my
dream, the which I beseech Almighty Jesu heartily when it shall please
Him'[23]; and to the lady's stepfather he writes a month later: 'I beseech you
to remember my cousin Katherine. I would she did well, God knoweth it,
and ye deme, as I trow, if I had found her at home here my comfort should
have been the more; but I thank God of all. My pain is the more; I must
needs suffer as I have done in times past, and so will I do for God's sake
and hers.'[24] However, Katherine was now fifteen years of age and was
sufficiently grown up to wed, and the next letter, written a week later to
Dame Elizabeth, shows us Thomas Betson beginning to set his house in
order and getting exceedingly bothered about laying in her trousseau, a
business with which Dame Elizabeth had, it seems, entrusted the future
bridegroom.

Madam, and it like you, I understand by your writing
that it will be the latter end of August or your
ladyship can come here to London; and if it should
be so I would be sorry, for I have much to do and I
can little skill to do anything that longeth to the
matter ye wot of [evidently the preparations for
Katherine] ... I must beseech your ladyship to send
me [your advice] how I shall be demeaned in such

things as shall belong unto my cousin Katherine, and
how I shall provide for them. She must have girdles,
three at the least, and how they shall be made I know
not, and many other things she must have, ye know
well what they be, in faith I know not; by my troth, I
would it were done, liever than more than it shall
cost.... And as for the sending hither of my Cousin
Katherine, your ladyship may do therein as it shall
please you. I would she knew as much as you know,
forsooth, and then she should do some good and help
me in many things when she come.... Also, madam,
as ye write me the courteous dealing of my master
with my Cousin Katherine, etc., truly I am very glad
thereof and I pray God heartily thank him therefore,
for he hath ever been lovingly disposed [unto] her,
and so I beseech God ever continue him and also my
Cousin Katherine to deserve it unto him by her
goodly demeanour and womanly disposition, as she
can do right well if her list, and so saith every body
that praiseth her.[25]

The note of pride in the last words is as engaging as the impatience of the
harassed male faced with the choosing of girdles. Even more charming is
the letter which he wrote the same day to Sir William Stonor. He is a little
incoherent with joy and gratitude, full of regrets that business keeps him
from Stonor and good wishes for the health of the family. 'I fare like a sorry
piper,' he says. 'When I begin I cannot leave, but yet once again our blessed
Lord be your speed and your help,' Of Katherine he writes thus:

I understand by the worshipful report of your
mastership the [be]haviours of my cousin Katherine
unto you, to my lady your wife and to all other, etc.;
and truly it is to me right joyful and comfortable
gladness to hear of her and I beseech our blessed
Lord ever to preserve her in all virtue and good
living to his pleasure, and to reward your mastership
with heaven at your ending, for your good

disposition to herwards in good exhortations giving.
And that I wot well of old, or else truly she could not
be of that disposition, virtuous and goodly, her youth
remembered and excused.... Sir, remember your
mastership well what ye have written of my Cousin
Katherine; truly I shall when I speak with her, tell
her every word, and if I find the contrary. Our vicar
here, so God help me, shall cry out upon her[M]
within this ten weeks and less, and by that time I
shall be ready in every point, by God's grace, and so
I would she were, forsooth ye may believe me of it.
[26]

[M] I.e. call the banns.

This letter was written on June 24, 1478, and Thomas probably married his
little Katherine in August or September, for when Dame Elizabeth writes to
her husband on October 5, she says, 'My son Betson and his wife
recommend them to you'[27] The poor child was to learn soon enough some
of the sorrows of a wife, for a year later Thomas Betson fell dangerously ill,
and she was nursing him and looking after his business for all the world as
though she were a grave matron and not a bride of sixteen. Moreover, she
must already have been expecting the birth of her eldest son. William
Stonor's attitude towards his partner's illness is not without humour. He was
torn between anxiety for the life of a friend and an even greater anxiety that
Betson should not die without setting straight the business obligations
between them. We hear of the illness and of Katherine's labours in a letter
from one of Stonor's agents to his master:

Sir, according to the commandment of your
mastership, we were at Stepney by nine of the clock;
at such time as we came thither we saw the
gentleman forthwith, and in good faith he made us
good cheer as a sick man might by countenance
notwithstanding, for in good faith we saw by his
demeanour that he might not prosper in this world,
for Mistress Bevice and other gentlewomen and his

uncle were of the same opinion. And we desired and
prayed him to be of good comfort and so comforted
him as heartily as we could in your name and in my
lady's, and so we departed from the chamber down
into the hall, and he fell into a great slumbering and
was busily moved in his spirits. And at eleven of the
clock I called his uncle out of his bed into the
gentleman's chamber, and I asked his advice and my
mistress his wife, of the stock and of the demeanour
thereof for the year and the half that is last past. And
touching the stock he confessed that it was £1,160,
wherein at the sight of your acquittance in
discharging of him and all his doers that shall be
behind him, the said stock shall be ready. And as for
the occupation of it, as he will answer between God
and devil, the book that he bought it by ye shall be
privy thereto; and the book that he sold by ye shall
be also privy to, which two books shall be his
judges, which remain in the keeping of my mistress
his wife's hands under lock and key and other bills
and obligations according, concerning the surety for
divers payments to be made to divers merchants, as
the said lord saith.... And as for the plate my mistress
Jane [probably Jane Riche, the younger sister of
Katherine] and I have caused it to be taken up and
set in surety, save that that must needs by occupied.

He sends to Sir William for information about two sums of £80 each owed
by Betson to his master and mistress, and adds:

I trust to Jesu he shall endure till the messenger
come again; longer the physicians have not
determined. The executors be three persons, my
mistress his wife, Humphrey Starkey, Recorder of
London, Robert Tate, merchant of Calais;
notwithstanding I moved him, between him and me
and mistress Jane, that he should break this testament

and make my mistress his wife sole executrix. What
will be done therein as yet I cannot speak, but I shall
do as I can, with God's grace.[28]

There is something unexpected and a little vulture-like about this gathering
of creditors and seizing of plate about the death-bed of a man who had
always, after all, shown himself exceedingly affectionate towards the
Stonors and devoted to their interests, and who was now my lady's son-in-
law. The attempt to make the young wife of sixteen sole executrix, so that
she might be completely in her family's hands and without the counsel of
two experienced and disinterested merchants, has a somewhat sinister air.
The intrigues went on, and three days later the agent writes again. It is
pleasant to observe that bad-tempered old Mistress Croke, Dame Elizabeth's
mother, was not unmindful of Betson's forbearance during those visits when
she had railed upon him with her sharp tongue:

As for the tidings that is here, I trust to God it shall
be very good. On Thursday my lady Croke came to
Stepney and brought with her Master Brinkley to see
Betson, and in faith he was a very sick man; and ere
he departed he gave him plasters to his head, to his
stomach and to his belly, [so] that he all that night
was in a quiet rest. And he came to him again on
Friday ... and he was well amended and so said all
the people that were about him. Notwithstanding he
will not determine him whether he shall live or die as
yet, but he may keep him alive till Tuesday noon, he
will undertake him. The cause that I write to you
now rather was because I had no certainty. Sir, there
hath been many special labours and secret i-made,
sithen mistress Jane and I were come, to the contrary
disposition that we come for. I cannot write the
plain[nes]s of them as yet, for my mistress Betson
attendeth, all things and counsels laid apart, to abide
and trust in your good fatherhood and in my lady,
and furthermore if he depart the world, ye shall hear
tidings of her in as goodly haste as we may purvey

for her. And whether he die or live, it is necessary
and behoveful that mistress Jane depart not from her
into [i.e. until] such time as the certainty be knowen,
for in truth divers folks, which ye shall know
hereafter and my lady, both thus hath and would
exhort her to a contrarier disposition, had not we
been here by time. And mistress Jane is worthy of
much thank.[29]

However, all the schemings were premature, for Betson happily recovered.
On October 10 the 'prentice' Henham writes: 'My master Betson is right
well amended, blessed be Jesus, and he is past all doubts of sickness and he
takes the sustenance right well, and as for physicians, there come none unto
him, for he hath no need of them.'[30] But another death was at hand to
break the close association between Thomas Betson and the Stonors, for at
the end of the year the kind, extravagant, affectionate Dame Elizabeth died.
It is a surprising fact that her death seems to have brought to a close the
business partnership between her husband and her son-in-law. Henceforth
the only references to Thomas Betson in the Stonor papers are occasional
notes of his debts to Stonor: doubtless he had bought Sir William's share in
their joint business. On March 10, 1480, he acknowledged obligations of
£2,835 9s. 0d. to Stonor, and in 1482 he still owed £1,200.[31] It is
impossible to guess why the relationship, which was an affectionate
personal friendship as well as a business tie, should have come to such a
sudden end. As the editor of the Stonor Letters remarks, 'The sincerity and
honesty of Betson's character as revealed in his letters, forbids one to
suppose that he was to blame.'
Such was the more private and domestic side of Thomas Betson's life; but it
tells us little (save in occasional references to the Fellowship of the Staple
or the price of Cotswold wool) about that great company with which this
chapter began; and since he stands here as a type as well as an individual,
we must needs turn now to his public and business life, and try to find out
from more indirect evidence how a Merchant of the Staple went about his
business. The stapler, who would make a good livelihood, must do two
things, and give his best attention to both of them: first, he must buy his
wool from the English grower, then he must sell it to the foreign buyer.
Some of the best wool in England came from the Cotswolds, and when you

are a Merchant of the Staple you enjoy bargaining for it, whether you want
the proceeds of the great summer clip or of the fells after the autumn sheep-
killing. So Thomas Betson rides off to Gloucestershire in the soft spring
weather, his good sorrel between his knees, and the scent of the hawthorn
blowing round him as he goes. Other wool merchants ride farther afield--
into the long dales of Yorkshire to bargain with Cistercian abbots for the
wool from their huge flocks, but he and the Celys swear by Cotswold fells
(he shipped 2,348 of them to London one July 'in the names of Sir William
Stonor knight and Thomas Betson, in the Jesu of London, John Lolyngton
master under God'). May is the great month for purchases, and Northleach
the great meeting-place of staplers and wool dealers. It is no wonder that
Northleach Church is so full of woolmen's brasses, for often they knelt
there, and often the village hummed with the buyers and sellers, exchanging
orders and examining samples. The Celys bought chiefly from two
Northleach wool dealers, William Midwinter and John Busshe. The
relations between dealers and sellers were often enough close and pleasant:
Midwinter even occasionally tried to provide a customer with a bride as
well as with a cargo, and marriageable young ladies were not unwilling to
be examined over a gallon of wine and much good cheer at the inn.[32] It is
true that Midwinter was apt to be restive when his bills remained for too
long unpaid, but he may be forgiven for that. Thomas Betson favoured the
wool fells of Robert Turbot of Lamberton,[33] and dealt also with one John
Tate, with Whyte of Broadway (another famous wool village),[34] and with
John Elmes, a Henley merchant well known to the Stonors. Midwinter,
Busshe, and Elmes were all wool dealers, or 'broggers'--middlemen, that is
to say, between the farmers who grew and the staplers who bought wool,
but often the staplers dealt directly with individual farmers, buying the
small man's clip as well as the great man's, and warm friendships sprang
from the annual visits, looked forward to in Yorkshire dale and Cotswold
valley. It strikes a pleasant note when Richard Russell, citizen and merchant
of York, leaves in his will, 'for distribution among the farmers of Yorkes
Walde, from whom I bought wool 20 l., and in the same way among the
farmers of Lyndeshay 10 l.' (1435).[35]
The 'Cely Letters' give a mass of information about the wool buying at
Northleach. In the May of the same year in which Betson's partnership with

Stonor would seem to have ended, old Richard Cely was up there doing
business and reporting it to his son, 'Jorge Cely at Caleys'.

I greet you well and I have received a letter from you
writ at Calais the 13th day of May (1480), the which
letter I have well understood of your being at the
marts and of the sale of my middle wool, desired by
John Destermer and John Underbay. Wherefore by
the grace of God I am abusied for to ship this
foresaid 29 sarplers, the which I bought of William
Midwinter of Northleach, 26 sarplers, the which is
fair wool, as the wool packer Will Breten saith to
me, and also the 3 sarplers of the rector's is fair wool,
much finer wool nor was the year before, the which I
shipped afore Easter last past. The shipping is begun
at London, but I have none shipped as yet, but I will
after these holy days, for the which I will ye order
for the freight and other costs. This same day your
brother Richard Cely is rid to Northleach for to see
and cast a sort of fell for me and another sort of fell
for you.[36]

On another occasion he writes: 'By your letter you avise me for to buy wool
in Cotswold, for which I shall have of John Cely his gathering 30 sack, and
of Will Midwinter of Northleach 40 sack. And I am avised to buy no more;
wool in Cotswold is at great price, 13s. 4d. a tod, and great riding for wool
in Cotswold as was any year this seven year.'[37] What a picture it calls up
of merchants trotting along the roads and looking as Chaucer often saw
them look:

A Marchant was ther with a forked berd,
In motteleye and hye on horse he sat,
Upon his heed a Flaundryssh bever hat,
His boots clasped faire and fetisly;
His resons he spak ful solempnely,
Sounynge alway thencrees of his wynnyng.

Often at Northleach Betson must have encountered his brethren of the
Staple, the staid old merchant Richard Cely among the rest, and son George
who rides with 'Meg', his hawk, on his wrist, and has a horse called 'Bayard'
and another called 'Py'; and perhaps also John Barton of Holme beside
Newark, the proud stapler who set as a 'posy' in the stained glass windows
of his house this motto:

I thank God and ever shall
It is the sheepe hath payed for all;[38]

though indeed it is unlikely that he came as far south as the Cotswolds for
his wool. Sometimes also Betson meets upon the road his rivals, stout, self-
possessed Flemings and thin sleek Lombards with black eyes and
gesticulating hands, who have no business in the Cotswolds at all, but ought
to be buying wool in the mart at Calais. But they come, and all good
Englishmen are angry at their tricks and angrier still perhaps at their
successful trade. 'I have not as yet packed my wool in London,' writes old
Richard Cely on October 29, 1480; 'nor have I not bought this year a lock of
wool, for the wool of Cotswold is bought by Lombards, wherefore I have
the less haste for to pack my wool at London';[39] and his son writes to him
on November 16 from Calais: 'There is but little Cotswold wool at Calais
and I understand Lombards has bought it up in England.'[40] It is true that
the Celys, other English merchants too, are not unwilling to conclude
private bargains from time to time with foreign buyers in England. Two
years later their agent, William Cely, writes to advise them that two Flemish
merchants are now trying to buy in England contrary to the ordinance, and
that those in authority at Calais have got wind of it, and therefore his
masters must take care and make Wyllykyn and Peter Bale pay at Calais,
'but as for your dealings knoweth no man, without they search Peter Bale's
books.'[41] The upright Betson no doubt eschewed such tricks and resented
particularly the clever usurious Lombards, so full of financial dodges to
trick the English merchant, for did they not buy the wool in England on
credit, riding about as they list in the Cotswolds?

In Cotteswolde also they ryde aboute
And al Englonde, and bien wythouten doute,

What them liste, wythe fredome and fraunchise
More then we Englisshe may getyn in any wyse.

And then did they not carry the wool to Flanders and sell it for ready money
at a loss of five per cent, thereafter lending out this money at heavy usury,
mostly to the English merchants themselves, so that by the time pay day
came in England, they had realized a heavy profit?

And thus they wold, if we will beleve
Wypen our nose with our owne sleve,
Thow this proverbe be homly and undew,
Yet be liklynesse it is forsoth fulle trew.[42]

The next serious piece of business Thomas Betson must take in hand is the
packing and shipping of his wool to Calais. Here he found himself
enmeshed in the regulations of the company and the Crown, ever on the
look-out for fraud in the packing or description of the staple product. The
wool had to be packed in the county from which it came, and there were
strict regulations against mixing hair and earth or rubbish with it. The
collectors appointed by the company for the different wool-growing
districts, and sworn in before the Exchequer, rode round and sealed each
package, so that it could not be opened without breaking the seal. Then the
great bales were carried on the backs of pack-horses 'by the ancient
trackways over the Wiltshire and Hampshire Downs, which had been used
before the Roman conquest, and thence through Surrey and Kent to the
Medway ports by the Pilgrims' Way.' At the different ports the collectors of
customs were ready to enter on their rolls the names of the merchants
shipping wool, together with the quantity and description of wool shipped
by each.[43] Some of the wool came to London itself, where many of the
staplers had offices in Mark Lane (which is a corruption of Mart Lane) and
was weighed for the assessment of the customs and subsidy at the
Leadenhall.[44] In this business Thomas Betson was helped by Stonor's
three assistants or 'prentices', as they call themselves, Thomas Henham,
Goddard Oxbridge, and Thomas Howlake, for the last of whom he had a
warm corner in his heart, because the young man was gentle to little
Katherine Riche. These men were sometimes at the Stonors' London
warehouse and sometimes at their house in Calais, and they saved Betson a

good deal of trouble, being experienced enough to oversee both the packing
of wool in London and its sale in Calais.
To Calais the wool thus packed, and weighed and marked and assessed by
the customs officer, was carried in the ships of Calais itself, or of the little
ports on the east or south-eastern coast of England, many of which are mere
villages today. For ships put out not only from Hull and Colchester, but
from Brightlingsea, Rotherhithe, Walberswick in Suffolk, Rainham in
Essex, Bradwell, Maidstone, Milton, Newhithe, and Milhall. In August
1478, the Celys were paying the masters of twenty-one different ships for
the freight of their sarplers of wool after the summer clip.[45] All through
the summer the shipping went on, and right up to Christmas; but during the
winter months the merchants were mostly sending over fells or sheepskins,
after the great slaughter of sheep and cattle which took place at Martinmas,
when housewives salted down their meat for the winter and farmers made
delivery of the fells and hides, for which the staplers had long ago
bargained. Very often merchants' letters and customs accounts give us the
names of these doughty little ships and their cargoes. In the October of
1481, for instance, the Celys were shipping a consignment of fells:

Right worshipful sir, after due recommendation I
lowly recommend unto you, letting you understand
that my master hath shipped his fells at the port of
London now at this shipping in October ..., which
fells ye must receive and pay the freight first by the
grace of God, in the 'Mary' of London, William
Sordyvale master, 7 packs, sum 2800, lying be aft
the mast, one pack lieth up rest and some of that
pack is summer fells marked with an O, and then
lieth 3 packs fells of William Daltons and under
them lieth the other 6 packs of my masters. Item in
the 'Christopher' of Rainham, Harry Wylkyns master,
7 packs and a half Cots[wold] fell, sum 3000 pelt,
lying be aft the mast, and under them lieth a 200 fells
of Welther Fyldes, William Lyndys man of
Northampton, and the partition is made with small
cords. Item, in the 'Thomas' of Maidstone, Harry
Lawson master, 6 pokes, sum 2400 pelt, whereof

lieth 5 packs next before the mast under hatches, no
man above them, and one pack lieth in the stern
sheet; of the six packs fells be some summer fells
marked with an O likewise. Item, in the 'Mary Grace'
of London, John Lokyngton master 6 packs, sum
2400 pelt, lying be aft under the fells of Thomas
Graunger, the partition between them is made with
red; sum of the fells my master hath shipped at this
time 26 packs and a half whereof be winter fells of
the country 561 fells and they be marked with an C,
and of summer fells there should be 600 and more,
but part of them be left behind, for we have two
packs we could have no appointment for them, and
all the summer fells be marked with an O. Item, sir,
ye shall receive of the 'Mary' of Rainham, John
Danyell master, your male [trunk] with your gear and
a Essex cheese marked with my master's mark.

And so on, with details of the number of fells shipped in like manner by the
Michael of Hull and the Thomas of Newhithe, where they lay 'next the mast
aftward under the fells of Thomas Betson's', over 11,000 fells in all.[46]
How invigorating is such a list of ships. Cargoes are the most romantic of
topics, whether they be apes and ivory and peacocks, or 'cheap tin trays';
and since the day that Jason sailed to Colchis fleeces have ever been among
the most romantic of cargoes. How they smack of the salt too, those old
master mariners, Henry Wilkins, master of the Christopher of Rainham,
John Lollington, master of the Jesu of London, Robert Ewen, master of the
Thomas of Newhithe, and all the rest of them, waving their hands to their
wives and sweethearts as they sail out of the sparkling little bays, with the
good woolsacks abaft or under hatches--shipmen, all of them, after
Chaucer's heart:

But of his craft, to rekene wel his tydes
His stremes and his daungers hym besides,
His herberwe and his moone, his lodemenage,
Ther was noon swich from Hulle to Cartage.
Hardy he was, and wys to undertake:

With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake;
He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were,
From Gootland to the Cape of Fynystere,
And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne.
His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne.

Their ships were doubtless like the Margaret Cely, which the two Cely
brothers bought and called after their mother, for the not excessive sum of
£28, exclusive of rigging and fittings. She carried a master, boatswain,
cook, and sixteen jolly sailor-men, and she kept a good look out for pirates
and was armed with cannon and bows, bills, five dozen darts, and twelve
pounds of gunpowder! She was victualled with salt fish, bread, wheat and
beer, and she plied with the Celys' trade to Zealand, Flanders, and
Bordeaux.[47] She must have been about two hundred tons, but some of the
other little ships were much smaller, for, as the learned editor of the Cely
Papers tells us, 'The ships of the little Medway ports could scarcely have
been of thirty tons to navigate the river safely; the "Thomas" of Maidstone
can have been only a barge, if she had to pass Aylesford Bridge.'[48] But
they navigated the channel and dodged the pirates blithely enough, though
often Thomas Betson at Calais was nervous about the safe arrival of the
wool fleet. Like Chaucer's merchant,

He wolde the see were kept for any thing
Betwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle.

Side by side with George or Richard Cely he must often have strained his
eyes from the quay, with the salt wind blowing out the feather in his cap,
and breathed a thanksgiving to God when the ships hove in sight. 'And, Sir,'
he writes once to Stonor from London, 'thanked be the good Lord, I
understand for certain that our wool shipped be comen in ... to Calais. I
would have kept the tidings till I had comen myself, because it is good, but
I durst not be so bold, for your mastership now against this good time may
be glad and joyful of these tidings, for in truth I am glad and heartily thank
God of it.'[49] The 'prentice' Thomas Henham writes likewise three weeks
later: 'I departed from Sandwich the 11th day of April and so came unto
Calais upon Sher Thursday[N] last with the wool ships, and so blessed be
Jesu I have received your wools in safety. Furthermore, Sir, if it please your

mastership for to understand this, I have received your wools as fair and as
whole as any man's in the fleet. Moreover, Sir, if it please your mastership
for to understand how your wool was housed ever deal by Easter even.
Furthermore, Sir, if it please your mastership for to understand that the
shipman be content and paid of their freight.'[50] The Celys write in the
same strain too: 'This day the 16th of August the wool fleet came to Calais
both of London and Ipswich in safety, thanked be God, and this same day
was part landed and it riseth fair yet, thanked be God.'[51] Their letters tell
us too what danger it was that they feared. 'I pray Jesu send you safe hither
and soon,' writes Richard to his 'right well beloved brother George', on June
6, 1482. 'Robert Eryke was chased with Scots between Calais and Dover.
They scaped narrow.'[52] There are many such chases recorded, and we
hear too of wool burnt under hatches or cast overboard in a storm.[53]

[N] I.e. Shrove Thursday.

Thomas Betson and the Celys travelled very often across the Channel in
these ships, which carried passengers and letters, and they were almost as
much at home in Calais as in London. When in Calais English merchants
were not allowed to live anywhere they liked, all over the town. The
Company of the Staple had a list of regular licensed 'hosts', in whose houses
they might stay. Usually a number of merchants lived with each host, the
most potent, grave, and reverend seniors dining at a high table, and smaller
fry at side tables in the hall. Sometimes they quarrelled over terms, as when
William Cely writes home one day to Richard and George in London:

Item. Sir, please it you to understand that here is a
variance betwixt our host Thomas Graunger and the
fellowship, of our lodging, for Thomas Graunger
promised us at his coming in to our lodging that we
should pay no more for our board but 3s. 4d. a week
at the high table, and 2s. 6d. at the side table, and
now he saith he will have no less than 4s. a week at
the high table and 40d. at the side table, wherefore
the fellowship here will depart into other lodgings,
some to one place and some to another, William
Dalton will be at Robert Torneys and Ralph

Temyngton and master Brown's man of Stamford
shall be at Thomas Clarke's and so all the fellowship
departs save I, wherefore I let your masterships have
knowledge, that ye may do as it shall like you best.
[54]

But Thomas Betson never fell out with his hosts, whose only complaint of
him must have been that he sat long over his love letters and came down
late to dinner.
There was business enough for him to do at Calais. First of all, when the
wool was landed, it had to be inspected by the Royal officers, to see that it
had been properly labelled, and their skilled packers examined, repacked,
and resealed the bales. This was an anxious moment for merchants who
were conscious of inferior wool among their bulging sarplers. The honest
Betson, we may be certain, never cheated, but the Celys knew more than a
little about the tricks of the trade, and one year, when the Lieutenant of
Calais took out sarpler No. 24, which their agent, William Cely, knew to be
poor wool, in order to make a test, he privily substitutes No. 8, which was
'fair wool' and changed the labels, so that he was soon able to write home,
'Your wool is awarded by the sarpler that I cast out last.'[55] No wonder
Gower said that Trick was regent of the Staple,

Siq'en le laines maintenir
Je voi plusours descontenir
Du loyalté la viele usance.[56]

Then there was the custom and subsidy to be paid to the Mayor and
Fellowship of the Staple, who collected it for the King. And then came the
main business of every merchant, the selling of the wool. Thomas Betson
preferred, of course, to sell it as quickly as possible, as the ships came in,
but sometimes the market was slow and wool remained for some months on
his hands. Such wool from the summer sheep shearing, shipped in or before
the month of February following, and remaining unsold by April 6th, was
classed as old wool, and the Fellowship of the Staple ordained that foreign
buyers must take one sarpler of old wool with every three of new; and
although the Flemings grumbled and wanted to take one of old to five of
new, they had to put up with the regulation.[57] A great deal of Betson's

business would be done at the mart of Calais itself, where he met with the
dignified Flemish merchants, scions of old families with estates of their
own, and the more plebeian merchants of Delft and Leyden, and the wool
dealers from sunny Florence and Genoa and Venice. Among the best
customers both of the Stonors and the Celys (for they are mentioned in the
letters of both) were Peter and Daniel van de Rade of Bruges. Thomas
Howlake on one occasion reports a sale of four sarplers of fine Cotswold
wool to them at 19 marks the sack, with a rebate of 4-1/2 cloves on the sack
of 52, and adds: 'Sir, an it please you, as for the foresaid merchants that
have bought your wool, [they] be as good as any that came out of Flanders
and for that I have showed them the more favour and given them the more
respite of that.'[58]
The staplers, however, did not do business at Calais alone, but rode also to
the great fairs at Antwerp, Bruges, and the country round. 'Thomas Betson,'
writes Henham to his master, 'came unto Calais the last day of April and so
he departed in good health unto Bruges mart the first day of May.'[59]

But so bifel this marchant on a day
Shoop hym to make redy his array
Toward the toun of Brugges for to fare,
To byen there a porcioun of ware--[60]

only it was to 'sellen' a portion that Betson went. He himself writes Sir
William: 'Liketh it you to wit that on Trinity even I came to Calais and,
thanked be the good Lord, I had a full fair passage, and, Sir, with God's
might I intend on Friday next to depart to the mart-wards. I beseech the
good Lord be my speed and help me in all my works. And, Sir, I trust to
God's mercy, if the world be merry here, to do somewhat that shall be both
to your profit and mine. As yet there cometh but few merchants here;
hereafter with God's grace there will come more. I shall lose no time when
the season shall come, I promise you.... And, Sir, when I come from the
mart I shall send you word of all matters by the mercy of our Lord.'[61] At
the fairs Betson would meet with a great crowd of merchants from all over
Europe, though often enough political disturbances made the roads
dangerous and merchants ran some risk of being robbed. The English
traders were commonly reputed to be the best sellers and customers at the
fairs of Flanders and Brabant, though the Flemings sometimes complained

of them, and said that the staplers made regulations forbidding their
merchants to buy except on the last day, when the Flemish sellers, anxious
to pack and be off, let their goods go at insufficient prices.[62] The author
of the Libelle of Englyshe Polycye boasts proudly of the custom brought by
the English to these marts:

But they of Holonde at Calyse byene oure felles,
And oure wolles, that Englyshe men hem selles...
And wee to martis of Braban charged bene
Wyth Englysshe clothe, fulle gode and feyre to
seyne,
Wee bene ageyne charged wyth mercerye
Haburdasshere ware and wyth grocerye,
To whyche martis, that Englisshe men call feyres
Iche nacion ofte makethe here repayeres,
Englysshe and Frensh, Lumbards, Januayes
[Genoese],
Cathalones, theder take here wayes,
Scottes, Spaynardes, Iresshmen there abydes,
Wythe grete plente bringing of salt hydes,
And I here saye that we in Braban lye,
Flaunders and Seland, we bye more marchaundy
In common use, then done all other nacions;
This have I herde of marchaundes relacions,
And yff the Englysshe be not in the martis,
They bene febelle and as nought bene here partes;
For they bye more and fro purse put owte
More marchaundy than alle other rowte.[63]

Fairs were held at different times in different places, but there were during
the year four great fair seasons corresponding to the four seasons in the
year.[64] There was the Cold mart in the winter, to which Thomas Betson
rode muffled in fur, with his horse's hoofs ringing on the frosty roads; there
was the Pask (Pasques, Easter) mart in the spring, when he whistled
blithely and stuck a violet in his cap; there was the Synxon (St John) mart in
the summer, round about St John the Baptist's Day, when he was hot and
mopped his brow, and bought a roll of tawny satin or Lucca silk for

Katherine from a Genoese in a booth at Antwerp; and there was the Balms,
or Bammys mart in the autumn, round about the day of St Rémy, whom the
Flemings call St Bamis (October 28), when he would buy her a fur of budge
or mink, or a mantle of fine black shanks from the Hansards at their mart in
Bruges. It was at these marts that the Merchants of the Staple, jaunting
about from place to place to meet buyers for their wool, did a hundred little
commissions for their friends; for folk at home were apt to think that
staplers existed to do their errands for them abroad and to send them
presents. One wanted a pair of Louvain gloves, the other a sugar loaf, the
other a pipe of Gascon wine ('You can get it cheaper over there, my dear'),
the other a yard or two of Holland cloth; while ginger and saffron were
always welcome, and could be bought from the Venetians, whom the Celys
spell 'Whenysyans'. Then, of course, there were purchases to be made in the
way of business, such as Calais packthread and canvas from Arras or
Brittany or Normandy to pack the bales of wool.[65] As to the Celys,
Thomas Betson was wont to say that their talk was of nothing but sport and
buying hawks, save on one gloomy occasion, when George Cely rode for
ten miles in silence and then confided to him that over in England his grey
bitch had whelped and had fourteen pups, and then died and the pups with
her.[66]
Between the counting-house in Calais and the fairs and marts of the country
Thomas Betson would dispose of his wool and fells. But his labour did not
end here, for he would now have to embark upon the complicated business
of collecting money from his customers, the Flemish merchants, and with it
paying his creditors in England, the Cotswold wool dealers. It was
customary for the staplers to pay for their wool by bills due, as a rule, at six
months, and Thomas Betson would be hard put to meet them if the foreign
buyers delayed to pay him. Moreover, his difficulties were inconceivably
complicated by the exchanges. We think we know something about the
difficulty of divers and fluctuating exchanges today, but we can hardly
imagine the elaborate calculations and the constant disputes which racked
the brain of a Merchant of the Staple in the fifteenth century. Not only did
the rates between England and the Continent constantly vary, but, as the
editor of the Cely Papers points out, 'the number of potentates of all kinds
who claimed the privilege of issuing their own coinage and the frequently
suspicious character of what they uttered as gold and silver, made the matter

of adjustment of values difficult for the Celys, who were evidently obliged
to take what they could get.'[67] Only imagine the difficulties of poor
Thomas Betson, when into his counting-house there wandered in turn the
Andrew guilder of Scotland, the Arnoldus gulden of Gueldres (very much
debased), the Carolus groat of Charles of Burgundy, new crowns and old
crowns of France, the David and the Falewe of the Bishopric of Utrecht, the
Hettinus groat of the Counts of Westphalia, the Lewe or French Louis d'or,
the Limburg groat, the Milan groat, the Nimueguen groat, the Phelippus or
Philippe d'or of Brabant, the Plaques of Utrecht, the Postlates of various
bishops, the English Ryall (worth ten shillings), the Scots Rider or the Rider
of Burgundy (so called because they bore the figure of a man on
horseback), the Florin Rhenau of the Bishopric of Cologne and the Setillers.
[68] He had to know the value in English money of them all, as it was fixed
for the time being by the Fellowship, and most of them were debased past
all reason. Indeed, English money enjoyed an enviable good fame in this
respect until Henry VIII began debasing the coinage for his own nefarious
ends. The letters of the Celys are full of worried references to the exchange,
and much we should pity Thomas Betson. But doubtless he was like
Chaucer's bearded merchant: 'Wel koude he in exchaunge sheeldes [French
crowns] selle.'

VII. CALAIS ABOUT THE TIME OF THOMAS BETSON.

To effect their payments between England and the Netherlands the staplers
used to make use of the excellent banking facilities and instruments of
credit (bills of exchange and so forth), which were placed at their disposal
by Italian and Spanish merchants and by the English mercers, all of whom
combined trading with financial operations. Thus we find William Cely
writing to his masters:

VIII. THOMAS PAYCOCKE'S HOUSE AT COGGESHALL.

Please your masterships to understand that I have
received of John Delowppys upon payment of the
bill, the which is sent me by Adlington but £300
fleming, whereof I have paid to Gynott Strabant £84
6s. 6d. fleming. Item, I have made you over by
exchange with Benynge Decasonn, Lombard, 180
nobles sterling, payable at usance. I delivered it at
11s. 2-1/2d. fleming the noble, it amounteth £100
17s. 6d. fleming. Item, I have made you over by
exchange in like wise with Jacob van de Base 89
nobles and 6s. sterling, payable at London at usuance
in like wise; I delivered it at 11s. 2d. fleming for
every noble sterling; it amounteth fl.--£50 fleming
and the rest of your £300 remains still by me, for I
can make you over no more at this season, for here is
no more that will take any money as yet. And money
goeth now upon the bourse at 11s. 3-1/2d. the noble
and none other money but Nimueguen groats,

crowns, Andrew guilders and Rhenish guilders, and
the exchange goeth ever the longer worse and worse.
Item, sir, I send you enclosed in this said letter, the
two first letters of the payment of the exchange
above written. Benynge Decasonn's letter is directed
to Gabriel Defuye and Peter Sanly, Genoese, and
Jacob van de Base's is directed to Anthony Carsy and
Marcy Strossy, Spaniards; in Lombard Street ye shall
hear of them.[69]

A week later he writes:

I understand your masterships hath taken up by
exchange of John Raynold, mercer, £60 sterling,
payable the 25th day of the month and of Deago
Decastron [Diego da Castro, a Spaniard] other £60
sterling, payable the 26th day of the same month, the
which shall be both content at the day; and as for
master Lewis More, Lombard, [he] is paid and I have
the bill; his attorney is a wrangling fellow--he would
none other money but Nimueguen groats.[70]

Many a letter such as this must Thomas Betson have written at his lodgings,
sitting so late over his work that he must needs write to his friends when he
ought to be sleeping and date his letters: 'At London, on our Lady day in the
night, when I deem ye were in your bed, for mine eyne smarted, so God
help me.'[71] And when he came to make up his annual accounts he had the
hardest work of all to do. Here is a portrait of him at his labours:

The thridde day this marchant up ariseth,
And on his nedes sadly hym avyseth,
And up into his countour-hous gooth he,
To rekene with hymself, as wel may be,
Of thilke yeer, how that it with hymn stood,
And how that he despended hadde his good,
And if that he encressed were or noon.
His bookes and his bagges, many oon,
He leith biform hymn on his countyng-bord.

Ful riche was his tresor and his hord,
For which ful faste his countour dore he shette;
And eek he nolde that no man sholde hymn lette
Of his accountes, for the meene tyme;
And thus he sit til it was passed pry me.[72]

Thus was passed the life of a Merchant of the Staple: in riding to the
Cotswold farms for wool; in business at the counting-houses in Marks
Lane; in sailing from London to Calais and from Calais to London again; in
dealing with merchant strangers at the mart in Calais, or riding to the marts
of Flanders in fair time. The great company sheltered him, arranged his
lodging, kept a sharp eye on the quality of his wool, made rules for his
buying and selling, and saw that he had justice in its court. It was in this
setting of hard and withal of interesting work that Thomas Betson's love
story flowered into a happy marriage. He was not destined to live long after
his recovery from the serious illness of 1479; perhaps it left him
permanently delicate, for he died some six years later, in 1486. During her
seven years of married life (beginning, be it remembered, at the age of
fifteen), the diligent Katherine had borne him five children, two sons,
Thomas and John, and three daughters, Elizabeth, Agnes, and Alice.
Fortunately Thomas died very comfortably off, as his will (still preserved in
Somerset House) informs us. He had become a member of the Fishmongers'
Company as well as a Merchant of the Staple, for by his time the great city
companies were no longer confined to persons actually engaged in the trade
which each represented. In his will[73] Thomas Betson leaves money for
the repair of the roof loft in his parish church of All Hallows, Barking,
where he was buried, and 'thirty pounds to the garnishing of the Staple
Chapel in Our Lady Church at Calais, to buy some jewel', and twenty
pounds to the 'Stockfishmongers' to buy plate. He makes the latter company
the guardian of his children, leaves his house to his wife, and a legacy of
40s. to Thomas Henham, his colleague in Stonor's service, and
characteristically gives directions 'for the costs of my burying to be done
not outrageously, but soberly and discreetly and in a mean [moderate,
medium] manner, that it may be unto the worship and laud of Almighty
God.' Katherine, a widow with five children at the age of twenty-two,
married as her second husband William Welbech, haberdasher (the
Haberdashers were a wealthy company), by whom she had another son. But

her heart stayed with the husband who wrote her her first playful love-letter
when she was a child, and on her death in 1510 she directed that she should
be laid by the side of Thomas Betson at All Hallows, Barking, where three
staplers still lie beneath their brasses, although no trace of him remains.[74]
There let them lie, long forgotten, and yet worthier of memory than many of
the armoured knights who sleep under carved sepulchres in our beautiful
medieval churches.

The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

CHAPTER VII

Thomas Paycocke of Coggeshall
AN ESSEX CLOTHIER IN THE DAYS OF HENRY VII

This was a gallant cloathier sure
Whose fame for ever shall endure.
--THOMAS DELONEY
The great and noble trade of cloth-making has left many traces upon the life
of England, architectural, literary, and social. It has filled our countryside
with magnificent Perpendicular churches and gracious oak-beamed houses.
It has filled our popular literature with old wives' tales of the worthies of
England, in which the clothiers Thomas of Reading and Jack of Newbury
rub elbows with Friar Bacon and Robin Hood. It has filled our shires with
gentlemen; for, as Defoe observed, in the early eighteenth century 'many of
the great families who now pass for gentry in the western counties have
been originally raised from and built up by this truly noble manufacture'. It
has filled our census lists with surnames--Weaver, Webber, Webb, Sherman,
Fuller, Walker, Dyer--and given to every unmarried woman the designation
of a spinster. And from the time when the cloth trade ousted that of wool as
the chief export trade of England down to the time when it was in its turn
ousted by iron and cotton, it was the foundation of England's commercial
greatness. 'Among all Crafts,' says old Deloney, 'this was the only chief, for
that it was the greatest merchandize, by the which our Country became
famous thorowout all Nations.'[1]
Already by the end of the fourteenth century the English clothiers were
beginning to rival those of the Netherlands in the making of fine cloth, as
witness Chaucer's Wife of Bath:

Of clooth-making she hadde swiche an haunt
She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt,

and by the end of the sixteenth century all real rivalry was at an end, for the
English manufacture was so clearly victorious. With the development of the
manufacture a change too took place in its organization. It had never been
an easy industry to organize on a gild basis, because the making of a piece
of cloth entailed so many distinct processes. The preliminary processes of
spinning and carding were always by-industries, performed by women and
children in their cottages; but the weavers, who bought the spun yarn, had
their gild; and so had the fullers, who fulled it; and the shearmen, who
finished it; and the dyers who dyed it. All could not sell the finished piece
of cloth, and in the group of inter-dependent crafts, each with its gild, we
sometimes find the weavers employing the fullers and sometimes the fullers
the weavers. Moreover, since weaving is a much quicker process than
spinning, the weaver often wasted much time and found it hard to collect
enough yarn to keep his loom busy; and, as the market for cloth grew wider
and was no longer confined to the town of the weaver, the need was felt for
some middleman to specialize in the selling of the finished cloth. So by
degrees there grew up a class of men who bought wool in large quantities
and sold it to the weavers, and then by a natural transition began, not to sell
the wool outright, but to deliver it to the weavers to weave, to the fullers to
full, and to the shearmen to finish at a wage, receiving it back again when
the work was done. These men grew rich; they amassed capital; they could
set many folk at work. Soon they began to set to work all the different
workers who combined to make a piece of cloth; their servants carried wool
to the cottages for the women to card and spin; carried the spun yarn in turn
to dyers, weavers, fullers, shearers; and carried the finished piece of cloth
back to the industrial middleman--the clothier, as he was called--who in his
turn disposed of it to the mercantile middleman, who was called a draper.
The clothiers grew rapidly in wealth and importance, and in certain parts of
the country became the backbone of the middle class. They pursued their
activities in country villages, rather than in the old corporate towns, for they
wished to avoid the restrictions of the gilds, and gradually the cloth industry
migrated almost entirely to the country. In the west of England and in East
Anglia (though not in Yorkshire) it was carried out by clothiers on this
'putting out' system, right up to the moment when the Industrial Revolution
swept it out of the cottages into the factories and out of the south into the
north. Then the thriving villages emptied themselves, so that today we must
needs re-create again from scattered traces and old buildings, and still older

names, the once familiar figures of the East Anglian clothier and his swarm
of busy workmen.
Such a familiar figure was once old Thomas Paycocke, clothier, of
Coggeshall in Essex, who died full of years and honour in 1518. His family
originally came from Clare, in Suffolk, but about the middle of the fifteenth
century a branch settled at Coggeshall, a village not far distant. His
grandfather and father would seem to have been grazing butchers, but he
and his brother and their descendants after them followed 'the truly noble
manufacture' of cloth-making, and set an indelible mark upon the village
where they dwelt. Coggeshall lies in the great cloth-making district of
Essex, of which Fuller wrote: 'This county is charactered like Bethsheba,
"She layeth her hand to the spindle and her hands hold the distaffe."... It
will not be amiss to pray that the plough may go along and the wheel
around, that so (being fed by the one and clothed by the other) there may
be, by God's blessing, no danger of starving in our nation[2] All over Essex
there lay villages famous for cloth-making, Coggeshall and Braintree,
Bocking and Halstead, Shalford and Dedham, and above all Colchester, the
great centre and mart of the trade. The villages throve on the industry and
there was hardly a cottage which did not hum with the spinning wheel, and
hardly a street where you might not have counted weavers' workshops,
kitchens where the rough loom stood by the wall to occupy the goodman's
working hours. Hardly a week but the clatter of the pack-horse would be
heard in the straggling streets, bringing in new stores of wool to be worked
and taking away the pieces of cloth to the clothiers of Colchester and the
surrounding villages. Throughout the fifteenth century Coggeshall was an
important centre, second only to the great towns of Norwich, Colchester,
and Sudbury, and to this day its two inns are called the 'Woolpack' and the
'Fleece.' We must, as I said, build up the portrait of Thomas Paycocke and
his compeers from scattered traces; but happily such traces are common
enough in many and many an English village, and in Coggeshall itself they
lie ready to our hand. Out of three things he can be brought to life again--to
wit, his house in the village street, his family brasses in the aisle of the
village church, and his will, which is preserved at Somerset House. A
house, a brass, a will--they seem little enough, but they hold all his history.
It is the greatest error to suppose that history must needs be something
written down; for it may just as well be something built up, and churches,

houses, bridges, or amphitheatres can tell their story as plainly as print for
those who have eyes to read. The Roman villa, excavated after lying lost for
centuries beneath the heel of the unwitting ploughboy--that villa with its
spacious ground-plan, its floors rich with mosaic patterns, its elaborate
heating apparatus, and its shattered vases--brings home more clearly than
any textbook the real meaning of the Roman Empire, whose citizens lived
like this in a foggy island at the uttermost edge of its world. The Norman
castle, with moat and drawbridge, gatehouse and bailey and keep, arrow
slits instead of windows, is more eloquent than a hundred chronicles of the
perils of life in the twelfth century; not thus dwelt the private gentleman in
the days of Rome. The country manor-house of the fourteenth century, with
courtyard and chapel and hall and dovecote, speaks of an age of peace once
more, when life on a thousand little manors revolved round the lord, and the
great mass of Englishmen went unscathed by the Hundred Years' War which
seamed the fair face of France. Then begin the merchants' elaborate
Perpendicular houses in the towns and villages of the fifteenth century,
standing on the road, with gardens behind them, and carved beams, great
fire-places, and a general air of comfort; they mark the advent of a new
class in English history--the middle class, thrust between lord and peasant
and coming to its own. How the spacious days of great Elizabeth are
mirrored in the beautiful Elizabethan houses, with their wide wings and
large rooms, their chimneys, their glass windows, looking outwards on to
open parks and spreading trees, instead of inwards on to the closed
courtyard. Or go into a house built or redecorated in the eighteenth century,
where you will see Chippendale chairs and lacquer tables and Chinese wall-
papers covered with pagodas and mandarins; and surely there will come to
your mind the age of the nabobs, the age which John Company had
familiarized with the products of the Far East, the age in which tea ousted
coffee as the drink for a gentleman of fashion, in which Horace Walpole
collected porcelain, Oliver Goldsmith idealized China in 'The Citizen of the
World', and Dr Johnson was called the Great Cham of Literature. Look here
upon this picture and on this: look at that row of jerry-built houses, a
hundred in a row and all exactly alike, of that new-art villa, all roof and
hardly any window, with false bottle glass in its panes; here is the twentieth
century for you. Indeed all the social and very much of the political history
of England may be reconstructed from her architecture alone; and so I make

no apology for calling Thomas Paycocke's house first-rate historical
evidence.
Of much the same type, though less interesting, is the evidence of
monumental brasses, which are to be found in most parts of England and
which abound in East Anglia, the Home Counties, and the Thames Valley.
[3] Their variety is magnificent; brasses of ecclesiastics in vestments, of
doctors of law and divinity and masters of arts in academic dress and of a
few abbots and abbesses; brasses of knights in Armour; brasses of ladies,
with their little dogs at their feet and dresses which show the changes in
fashion from century to century and make clear all the mysteries of kirtles
and cotte-hardies, wimples and partlets and farthingales and the head-
dresses appropriate to each successive mode. The brasses also, like the
houses, bear witness to the prosperity of the middle class, for in the
fourteenth century when merchants began to build themselves fine houses
they began also to bury themselves under splendid brasses. Finest of all,
perhaps, are the brasses of the wool staplers, with feet resting on woolpack
or sheep; but there are many other merchants too. Mayors and aldermen
abound; they set their merchants' marks upon their tombs as proudly as
gentlemen set their coats of arms, and indeed they had as great cause for
pride. You may see them at their proudest in the famous brass at Lynn,
where Robert Braunch lies between his two wives, and at his feet is incised
a scene representing the feast at which he entertained Edward III royally
and feasted him on peacocks. There is a tailor with his shears, as glorious as
the Crusader's sword, at Northleach, and a wine merchant with his feet upon
a wine cask at Cirencester. There are smaller folk, too, less dowered with
wealth but proud enough of the implements of their craft; two or three
public notaries with penhorn and pencase complete, a huntsman with his
horn, and in Newland Church one of the free miners of the Forest of Dean,
cap and leather breeches tied below the knee, wooden mine-hod over
shoulder, a small mattock in his right hand, and a candlestick between his
teeth. This kind of historical evidence will help us with Thomas Paycocke.
His family brasses were set in the north aisle of the parish church of St
Peter Ad Vincula. Several of them have disappeared in the course of the last
century and a half, and unluckily no brass of Thomas himself survives; but
in the aisle there still lie two--the brass of his brother John, who died in

1533, and John's wife, and that of his nephew, another Thomas, who died in
1580; the merchant's mark may still be seen thereon.
Lastly, there is the evidence of the Paycocke wills, of which three are
preserved at Somerset House--the will of John Paycocke (d. 1505),
Thomas's father and the builder of the house; the will of Thomas Paycocke
himself (d. 1518); and the will of his nephew Thomas, the same whose
brass lies in the aisle and who left a long and splendidly detailed testament,
full of information upon local history and the organization of the cloth
industry. For social historians have as yet hardly, perhaps, made as much
use as they might of the evidence of wills. The enormous amount of
miscellaneous information to be derived therefrom about the life of our
forefathers can hardly be believed, save by those who have turned the pages
of such a collection as the great Testamenta Eboracensia.[4] In wills you
may see how many daughters a man could dower and how many he put into
a nunnery, and what education he provided for his sons. You may note
which were the most popular religious houses, and which men had books
and what the books were, how much of their money they thought fit to
leave for charitable purposes, and what they thought of the business
capacity of their wives. You may read long and dazzling lists of family
plate, all the favourite cups and dishes having pet names of their own, and
of rings and brooches and belts and rosaries. There are detailed descriptions
of dresses and furs, sometimes splendid, sometimes ordinary, for people
handed on their rich clothes as carefully as their jewels. There are even
more wonderful descriptions of beds, with all their bedclothes and
hangings, for a bed was a very valuable article of furniture and must often,
judging from the wills, have been a brilliant and beautiful object indeed;
Shakespeare has earned a great deal of unmerited obloquy for leaving Ann
Hathaway his second-best bed, though it is not to be denied that he might
have left her his first-best. Even more beautiful than dressings and bed or
chamber hangings are the brocaded and embroidered vestments mentioned
in wills, and the elaborate arrangements for funeral ceremonies are
extremely interesting. The wills are of all kinds; there are even villeins'
wills, though in theory the villein's possessions were his lord's, and there are
wills of kings and queens, lords and ladies, bishops and parsons and
lawyers and shopkeepers. Here also is more evidence for the social
prosperity of the middle class, details of their trade, the contents of their

shops, the inventories of their houses, their estates (sometimes) in the
country, their house rents (almost always) in the town, their dressers
garnished with plate and their wives' ornaments, their apprentices and their
gilds, their philanthropy, their intermarriage with the gentry, their religious
opinions. Such a living picture do men's wills give us of their daily lives.
These, then, are the three sources from which the life and times of Thomas
Paycocke may be drawn. All three--houses, brasses, and wills--contain
much evidence for the increasingly rapid growth during the last two
centuries of the Middle Ages of a large and prosperous middle class, whose
wealth was based not upon landed property but upon industry and trade. It
is a class of whom we have already met typical examples in Thomas Betson
and the anonymous Ménagier de Paris, and we must now see what his
house, his will, and his family brasses tell us about the clothier Thomas
Paycocke. First and foremost, they tell us a great deal about the noble
industry which supported him. Paycocke's house is full of relics of the cloth
industry. The merchant mark of the Paycockes, an ermine tail, looking like
a two-stemmed clover leaf, is to be found on the carved beams of the
chimney, on the breastsummers of the fire-places, and set in the midst of the
strip of carving along the front of the house. Thomas marked his bales of
cloth thus, and what other armorial bearings did he need? The whole house
is essentially middle class-the house of a man who was nouveau riche in an
age when to be nouveau riche was not yet to be vulgar. His prosperity has
blossomed out into exquisitely ornate decoration. A band of carving runs
along the front of the house, and from the curved stem of it branch out a
hundred charming devices--leaves, tendrils, strange flowers, human heads,
Tudor roses, a crowned king and queen lying hand in hand, a baby diving
with a kick of fat legs into the bowl of an arum lily, and in the midst the
merchant's mark upon a shield and the initials of the master of the house. In
the hall is a beautiful ceiling of carved oakwork, exceedingly elaborate and
bearing at intervals the merchant's mark again. Upstairs in the big
bedchamber is a ceiling of beams worked in bold roll mouldings; and there
is an exquisite little parlour, lined with linen fold panels, with a
breastsummer carved with strange animals. This elaboration is
characteristic. It is all of a piece with Coggeshall Church, and with all those
other spacious East Anglian churches, Lavenham, Long Melford, Thaxted,
Saffron Walden, Lynn, Snettisham, lofty and spacious, which the clothiers

built out of their newly won wealth. The very architecture is characteristic,
nouveau riche again, like those who paid for it, the elaborate ornament and
sumptuous detail of the Perpendicular taking the place of the simple
majesty of the Early English style. It is just the sort of architecture that a
merchant with a fortune would pay for. The middle class liked some show
for its money; but again it was the ostentation without the vulgarity of
wealth. Looking upon his beautiful house, or worshipping beside his family
tombs, with the merchant's mark on the brasses, in St Katherine's aisle,
Thomas Paycocke must often have blessed the noble industry which
supported him.
The wills of the Paycockes tell the same story. To whom beside his family
does Thomas leave legacies but the good folk of the neighbourhood, who
worked for him. There is the Goodday family of cheerful name, two of
whom were shearmen, or cloth finishers, and had substantial gifts. 'I
bequeth to Thomas Goodday Sherman xx s. and ych of his childryn iij s. iiij
d. apece. Item, I bequeth to Edward Goodday Sherman xvj s. viij d., and to
his child iij s. iiij d. He also left money to Robert Goodday of Sampford and
to Robert's brother John and to each of Robert's sisters, with something
extra for Grace, who was his goddaughter; and he did not forget Nicholas
Goodday of Stisted and Robert Goodday of Coggeshall and their families,
nor their relative John, who was a priest and had ten shillings for a trental.
All these Gooddays were doubtless bound to Thomas Paycocke by ties of
work as well as of friendship. They belonged to a well-known Coggeshall
family, for generations connected with the cloth industry. Thomas
Paycocke's namesake and grand-nephew, whose will is dated 1580, was still
in close relations with them, and left 'to Edwarde Goodaye my godson
Fourtie shillinges and to every brother and sister the saide Edwarde hath
livinge at the tyme of my decease tenne shillinges a pece,' and 'unto William
Gooday thelder tenne shillinges.' The hurrying, scattering generation of
today can hardly imagine the immovable stability of the village of past
centuries, when generation after generation grew from cradle to grave in the
same houses, on the same cobbled streets, and folk of the same name were
still friends, as their fathers and grandfathers had been before them.
Other friends and employees of Thomas Paycocke also had their legacies.
He leaves 6s. 8d. to Humphrey Stonor, 'somtyme my prentis'. We may see
Humphrey Stonor, with sleepy eyes, making his way downstairs on a frosty

morning, from those huge raftered attics, where perhaps the 'prentices used
to sleep. He was on terms of impudent friendship, no doubt, with the
weavers and fullers whom his master set to work; withal a young man of
good family, a relative perchance of those Stonors for whom Thomas
Betson worked, for, as Deloney wrote, 'the yonger sons of knights and
gentlemen, to whom their Fathers would leave no lands, were most
commonly preferred to learn this trade, to the end that thereby they might
live in good estate and drive forth their days in prosperity.' Two of his
friends got substantial legacies; apparently Thomas Paycocke had lent them
money and wished to wipe out the debt upon his death-bed, for, says the
will, 'I bequethe to John Beycham, my weyver, v li and [i.e. if] there be so
moch bitwene vs and ells to make it vp v li, and a gowne and a doublett.... I
bequeth and forgive Robert Taylor, fuller, all that is betwixt vs, and more I
give him iij s. iiij d.' Other legacies show even more clearly that his
operations were on a larger scale. 'I bequeth to all my wevers, ffullers and
shermen that be not afore Rehersed by name xij d. apece, And will they that
have wrought me verey moch wark have iij s. iiij d. apece. Item, I bequethe
to be distributed amonge my Kembers, Carders and Spynners summa iiij
li.'[5] Here are all the branches of the cloth industry at a glance. It is
Thomas Paycocke, clothier, round whom the whole manufacture revolves.
He gives the wool to the women to comb it and card it and spin it; he
receives it from them again and gives it to the weaver to be woven into
cloth; he gives the cloth to the fuller to be fulled and the dyer to be dyed;
and having received it when finished, he has it made up into dozens and
sends it off to the wholesale dealer, the draper, who sells it; perhaps he has
been wont to send it to that very 'Thomas Perpoint, draper' whom he calls
'my cosyn' and makes his executor. The whole of Thomas Paycocke's daily
business is implicit in his will. In the year of his death he was still
employing a large number of workers and was on friendly and benevolent
terms with them. The building of his house had not signalized his retirement
from business, as happened when another great clothier, Thomas Dolman,
gave up cloth-making and the weavers of Newbury went about lamenting:

Lord have mercy upon us, miserable sinners.
Thomas Dolman has built a new house and turned
away all his spinners.[6]

The relations between Paycocke and his employees evinced in his will are
happy ones. Such was not always the case, for if the clothiers of this age
had some of the virtues of capitalists, they also had many of their vices, and
the age-old strife of capital and labour was already well advanced in the
fifteenth century. One detail Paycocke's will does not give us, which we
should be glad to know: did he employ only domestic weavers, working in
their own houses, or did he also keep a certain number of looms working in
his house? It was characteristic of the period in which he lived that
something like a miniature factory system was establishing itself in the
midst of the new outwork system. The clothiers were beginning to set up
looms in their own houses and to work them by journeymen weavers; as a
rule the independent weavers greatly disliked the practice, for either they
were forced from the position of free masters into that of hired servants,
obliged to go and work in the clothier's loom shop, or else they found their
payment forced down by the competition of the journeymen. Moreover, the
clothiers sometimes owned and let out looms to their work-people, and then
also part of the industrial independence of the weaver was lost. All through
the first half of the sixteenth century the weavers in the cloth districts kept
on petitioning Parliament against this new evil of capitalism. It was as
though, long before it established itself in England they had a prevision of
the factory system and of the worker no longer owning either his raw
material, his tool, his workshop, or the produce of his industry, but only his
labour; the master-weaver dwindled to a hired hand. Certainly the practice
was growing in Essex, where, some twenty years after Thomas Paycocke's
death, the weavers petitioned against the clothiers, who had their own
looms and weavers and fullers in their own houses, so that the petitioners
were rendered destitute; 'for the rich men, the clothiers, be concluded and
agreed among themselves to hold and pay one price for weaving the said
cloths,' a price too small to support their households, even if they worked
day and night, holiday and work-day, so that many of them lost their
independence and were reduced to become other men's servants.[7]
Nevertheless, the outwork system remained the more common, and without
doubt the majority of Paycocke's workers lived in their own cottages,
though it is probable also that he had some looms in his house, perhaps in
the long, low room at the back, which is traditionally supposed to have been
used for weaving, perhaps in a shed or 'spinning house'.

A highly idyllic picture of work in one of these miniature factories, which
we may amuse ourselves by applying to Thomas Paycocke's, is contained in
Deloney's Pleasant History of Jack of Newbery. Jack of Newbury was an
historical character, a very famous clothier named John Winchcomb who
died at Newbury only a year later than Paycocke himself, and of whom
Paycocke must certainly have heard, for his kersies were famous on the
Continent, and old Fuller, who celebrates him among his Worthies of
England calls him 'the most considerable clothier (without fancy or fiction)
England ever beheld'.[8] The tales of how he had led a hundred of his own
'prentices to Flodden Field, how he had feasted the King and Queen in his
house at Newbury, how he had built part of Newbury Church, and how he
had refused a knighthood, preferring 'to rest in his russet coat a poor
clothier to his dying day,' spread about England, growing as they spread. In
1597 Thomas Deloney, the forefather of the novel, enshrined them in a
rambling tale, half prose and half verse, which soon became extremely
popular. It is from this tale that we may take an imaginary picture of work
in a clothier's house, being wary to remember, however, that it is an
exaggeration, a legend, and that the great John Winchcomb certainly never
had as many as two hundred looms in his own house, while our Thomas
Paycocke probably had not more than a dozen. But the poet must have his
licence, for, after all, the spirit of the ballad is the thing, and it is always a
pleasant diversion to drop into rhyme:

Within one roome, being large and long
There stood two hundred Loomes full strong.
Two hundred men, the truth is so,
Wrought in these Loomes all in a row.
By every one a pretty boy
Sate making quilts with mickle joy,
And in another place hard by
A hundred women merily
Were carding hard with joy full cheere
Who singing sate with voyces cleere,
And in a chamber close beside
Two hundred maidens did abide,
In petticoats of Stammell red,
And milk white kerchers on their head.

Their smocke-sleeves like to winter snow
That on the Westerne mountaines flow,
And each sleeve with a silken band
Was featly tied at the hand.
These pretty maids did never lin
But in that place all day did spin,
And spinning so with voyces meet
Like nightingales they sang full sweet.
Then to another roome came they
Where children were in poore aray;
And every one sate picking wool
The finest from the course to cull:
The number was sevenscore and ten
The children of poore silly men:
And these their labours to requite
Had every one a penny at night,
Beside their meat and drinke all day,
Which was to them a wondrous stay.
Within another place likewise
Full fifty proper men he spies
And these were sheremen everyone,
Whose skill and cunning there was showne:
And hard by them there did remaine
Full four-score rowers taking paine.
A Dye-house likewise had he then,
Wherein he kept full forty men:
And likewise in his Fulling Mill
Full twenty persons kept he still.
Each weeke ten good fat oxen he
Spent in his house for certaintie,
Beside good butter, cheese and fish
And many another wholesome dish.
He kept a Butcher all the yeere,
A Brewer eke for Ale and Beere;
A Baker for to bake his Bread,
Which stood his hushold in good stead.
Five Cookes within his kitchin great

Were all the yeare to dress his meat.
Six Scullion boyes vnto their hands,
To make clean dishes, pots and pans,
Beside poore children that did stay
To turne the broaches every day.
The old man that did see this sight
Was much amaz'd, as well he might:
This was a gallant Cloathier sure,
Whose fame forever shall endure.[9]

The private life of Thomas Paycocke, no less than his business, can be
made to live again. Of his family the invaluable will tells us a little. His first
wife was that Margaret whose initials, together with his own, decorate the
woodwork of the house, and indeed it is probable that old John Paycocke
built the house for the young couple on their wedding. Gay, indeed, must
have been the sights which it witnessed on that happy day, for our ancestors
knew how to put their hearts into a wedding, and Merry England was never
merrier then when the bridegroom led home the bride. We may borrow once
again from Deloney's idyll, to recreate the scene:

The Bride being attyred in a gowne of sheepes russet
and a kertle of fine woosted, her head attyred with a
billiment of gold and her haire as yeallow as gold
hanging downe behinde her, which was curiously
combed and pleated, according to the manner in
those dayes; shee was led to Church betweene two
sweete boyes, with Bridelaces and Rosemary tied
about their silken sleeves. Then was there a fair
Bride-cup of silver and gilt carried before her,
wherein was a goodly branch of Rosemary gilded
very faire, hung about with silken Ribands of all
colours; next was there a noyse of Musicians that
played all the way before her; after her came all the
chiefest maydens of the Country, some bearing great
Bride Cakes and some Garlands of wheate finely
gilded and so she past unto the Church. It is
needlesse for mee to make any mention here of the

Bridegroome, who being a man so well beloued,
wanted no company and those of the best sort, beside
diuers Marchant strangers of the Stillyard that came
from London to the wedding. The marriage being
solemnized, home they came in order as before and
to dinner they went where was no want of good
cheare, no lack of melody.... The wedding endured
ten dayes, to the great reliefe of the poore that dwelt
all about.[10]

Much dancing the house doubtless saw under the beautiful carved roof of
the hall, with much song, games, kissing, and general abandon. Even when
the bride and groom retired to the bridal chamber with its roll-moulded
beams the merry-making was not done; they must hold a levee to their
nearest friends in the bedchamber itself, enthroned in the great four-poster
bed. There was no false delicacy about our ancestors. Indeed, as Henry
Bullinger says (he was a very different person from jovial Deloney, but he
was a contemporary of Paycocke's, and Coverdale translated him, so let him
speak): 'After supper must they begynne to pype and daunce agayne of the
new. And though the yonge parsones, beynge weery of the bablyng noyse
and inconuenience, come ones towarde theyer rest, yet can they haue no
quietnesse. For a man shall fynd unmanerly and restlesse people, that will
first go to theyr chambre dore, and there syng vycious and naughtie balates
that the deuell maye haue his triumphe now to the vttermost.'[11] What
would we not give for one of those 'naughty ballads' today?
The bride Margaret, who was somewhat after this merry fashion brought
home to Coggeshall, came from Clare, the ancient home of the Coggeshall
Paycockes. She was the daughter of one Thomas Horrold, for whose
memory Paycocke retained a lively affection and respect, for in founding a
chantry in Coggeshall Church he desired specially that it should be for the
souls of himself and his wife, his mother and father, and his father-in-law,
Thomas Horrold of Clare. He also left five pounds, with which his
executors were 'to purvey an oder stone to be hade to Clare chirch and layd
on my ffader in lawe Thomas Horrold w't his pycture and his wife and
childryn thereon' (i.e. a memorial brass), and also five cows or else three
pounds in money to Clare Church 'to kepe and mayntene my ffader in lawe
Thomas Horrold his obitt'. He also left money to his wife's brother and

sisters. Margaret Paycocke died before her husband and without children;
and the only young folk of his name whom Thomas ever saw at play in his
lofty hall, or climbing upon his dresser to find the head, as small as a
walnut, hidden in the carving of the ceiling, were his nephews and nieces,
Robert and Margaret Uppcher, his sister's children; John, the son of his
brother John; and Thomas, Robert, and Emma, the children of his brother
Robert; perhaps also his little godchild Grace Goodday. It was perhaps in
the hope of a son to whom he might leave his house and name that Thomas
Paycocke married again a girl called Ann Cotton. She was the wife of his
old age, 'Anne my good wif', and her presence must have made bright the
beautiful house, silent and lonely since Margaret died. Her father, George
Cotton, is mentioned in the will, and her brothers and sister, Richard,
William, and Eleanor, have substantial legacies. But Thomas and Ann
enjoyed only a short term of married life; she brought him his only child,
but death overtook him before it was born. In his will he provides carefully
for Ann; she is to have five hundred marks sterling, and as long as she lives
the beautiful house is to be hers; for to his elaborate arrangements for its
inheritance he adds, 'provided alwey that my wif Ann haue my house that I
dwell in while she lyvyth at hir pleyser and my dof house [dove-house] with
the garden y't stoundeth in.' A gap in the Paycocke records makes it difficult
to say whether Thomas Paycocke's child lived or died; but it seems
probable that it either died or was a girl, for Paycocke had bequeathed the
house, provided that he had no male heirs, to his nephew John (son of his
eldest brother John), and in 1575 we find it in the hands of this John
Paycocke, while the house next door was in the hands of another Thomas
Paycocke, his brother Robert's son. This Thomas died about 1580, leaving
only daughters, and after him, in 1584, died John Paycocke, sadly
commemorated in the parish register as 'the last of his name in Coxall'. So
the beautiful house passed out of the hands of the great family of clothiers
who had held it for nearly a hundred years.[12]
Of Thomas Paycocke's personal character it is also possible to divine
something from his will. He was obviously a kind and benevolent
employer, as his thought for his work-people and their children shows. He
was often asked to stand godfather to the babies of Coggeshall, for in his
will he directs that at his burial and the ceremonies which were repeated on
the seventh day and 'month mind' after it there were to be 'xxiiij or xij smale

childryn in Rochettes with tapers in theire hands and as many as may be of
them lett them be my god childryn and they to have vj s. viij d. apece and
euery oder child iiij d. apece ... and also euery god chyld besyde vj s. viij d.
apece.' All these children were probably little bread-winners, employed at a
very early age in sorting Thomas Paycocke's wool. 'Poore people,' says
Thomas Deloney, 'whom God lightly blessed with most children, did by
meanes of this occupation so order them, that by the time they were come to
be sixe or seven yeeres of age, they were able to get their owne bread';[13]
and when Defoe rode from Blackstone Edge to Halifax, observing the cloth
manufacture, which occupied all the villages of the West Riding, it was one
of his chief grounds for admiration that 'all [were] employed from the
youngest to the oldest; scarce any thing above four years old, but its hands
were sufficient for its own support.'[14] The employment of children at
what we should regard as an excessively early age was by no means a new
phenomenon introduced with the Industrial Revolution.
That Thomas Paycocke had many friends, not only in Coggeshall but in the
villages round, the number of his legacies bears witness. His will also
shows that he was a man of deep religious feeling. He was a brother of the
Crutched Friars of Colchester and left them on his death five pounds to pray
'for me and for them that I am bound to pray fore'. It was customary in the
Middle Ages for monastic houses to give the privilege of the fraternity of
the house to benefactors and persons of distinction; the reception took place
at a long and elaborate ceremony, during which the consrater received the
kiss of peace from all the brethren. It is a mark of the respect in which
Thomas Paycocke was held in the countryside that he should have been
made a brother by the Crutched Friars. He seems to have had a special
kindness for the Order of Friars; he left the Grey Friars of Colchester and
the Friars of Maldon, Chelmsford, and Sudbury each ten shillings for a
trental and 3s. 4d. to repair their houses; and to the Friars of Clare he left
twenty shillings for two trentals, 'and at Lent after my deceste a kade of Red
heryng'. He had great interest in Coggeshall Abbey; it lay less than a mile
from his house, and he must often have dined in state with the abbot at his
guest table on feast days and attended Mass in the abbey church. He
remembered the abbey as he lay dying, and the sound of its bells ringing for
vespers came softly in at his window on the mellow September air; and he
left 'my Lord Abbot and Convent' one of his famous broadcloths and four

pounds in money 'for to have a dirige and Masse and their belles Ryngyng
at my buriall when it is doon at Chirche, lykewyse the vijth day and mounth
day, with iij tryntalls upon the same day yf they can serve them, orells when
they can at more leasur, Summa x li.'
His piety is shown also in his bequests to the churches of Bradwell,
Pattiswick, and Markshall, parishes adjacent to Coggeshall, and to Stoke
Nayland, Clare, Poslingford, Ovington, and Beauchamp St Pauls, over the
Essex order, in the district from which the Paycockes originally came. But
his greatest care was naturally for Coggeshall Church. One of the
Paycockes had probably built the north aisle, where the altar was dedicated
to St Katherine, and all the Paycocke tombs lay there. Thomas Paycocke
left instructions in his will that he should be buried before St Katherine's
altar, and made the following gifts to the church: 'Item, I bequeth to the high
aulter of Coxhall Chirche in recompence of tithes and all oder thyngs
forgoten, Summa iiij li. Item, I bequethe to the Tabernacle of the Trenyte at
the high awlter and an other of Seint Margarete in seint Katryne Ile, there as
the great Lady stands, for carvyng and gildyng of them summa c. marcs
sterlinge. Item, to the reparacons of the Chirch and bells and for my lying in
the Chirche summa c. nobles.' He founded a chantry there also and left
money to be given weekly to six poor men to attend Mass in his chantry
thrice a week.
Of piety and of family pride these legacies to religious houses and to
churches speak clearly. Another series of legacies, which takes a form
characteristic of medieval charity, bears witness perhaps to Thomas
Paycocke's habits. He must often have ridden abroad, to see the folk who
worked for him or to visit his friends in the villages round Coggeshall; or
farther afield to Clare, first to see the home of his ancestors, then to court
Margaret Horrold, his bride, and then, with Margaret beside him, to visit his
well-loved father-in-law. Certainly, whether he walked to church in
Coggeshall, or whether he rode along the country lanes, he often sighed
over the state of the road as he went; often he must have struggled through
torrents of mud in winter or stumbled among holes in summer; for in the
Middle Ages the care of the roads was a matter for private or ecclesiastical
charity, and all except the great highways were likely to be but indifferently
kept. Langland, in his Piers Plowman, mentions the amending of 'wikked
wayes' (by which he means not bad habits but bad roads) as one of those

works of charity which rich merchants must do for the salvation of their
souls. Thomas Paycocke's choice of roads no doubt reflects many a
wearisome journey, from which he returned home splashed and testy, to the
ministrations of 'John Reyner my man' or 'Henry Briggs my servant', and of
Margaret, looking anxiously from her oriel window for his return. In his
own town he leaves no less than forty pounds, of which twenty pounds was
to go to amend a section of West Street (where his house stood), and the
other twenty was 'to be layde on the fowle wayes bitwene Coxhall and
Blackwater where as moost nede ys'; he had doubtless experienced the evils
of this road on his way to the abbey. Farther afield, he leaves twenty pounds
for the 'fowle way' between Clare and Ovington, and another twenty for the
road between Ovington and Beauchamp St Pauls.
As his life drew to its close he doubtless rode less often afield. The days
would pass peacefully for him; his business flourished and he was
everywhere loved and respected. He took pride in his lovely house, adding
bit by bit to its beauties. In the cool of the evening he must often have stood
outside the garden room and seen the monks from the big abbey fishing in
their stewpond across the field, or lifted his eyes to where the last rays of
sun slanted on to the lichened roof of the great tithebarn, and on to the rows
of tenants, carrying their sheaves of corn along the road; and he reflected,
perhaps, that John Mann and Thomas Spooner, his own tenants, were good,
steady friends, and that it was well to leave them a gown or a pound when
he died. Often also, in his last year or two, he must have sat with his wife in
his garden with the dove-house and watched the white pigeons circling
round the apple-trees, and smiled upon her bed of flowers. And in winter
evenings sometimes he would take his furred cloak and stroll to the Dragon
Inn, and Edward Aylward, mine host, would welcome him with bows; and
so he would sit and drink a tankard of sack with his neighbours, very slow
and dignified, as befitted the greatest clothier of the town, and looking
benevolently upon the company. But at times he would frown, if he saw a
truant monk from the abbey stolen out for a drink in spite of all the
prohibitions of bishop and abbot, shaking his head, perhaps, and
complaining that religion was not what it had been in the good old days; but
not meaning much of it, as his will shows, and never dreaming that twenty
years after his death abbot and monks would be scattered and the King's
servants would be selling at auction the lead from off the roof of Coggeshall

Abbey; never dreaming that after four hundred years his house would still
stand, mellow and lovely, with its carved ceiling and its proud merchant's
mark, when the abbey church was only a shadow on the surface of a field in
hot weather and all the abbey buildings were shrunk to one ruined
ambulatory, ignobly sheltering blue Essex hay wagons from the rain.
So Thomas Paycocke's days drew to a close amid the peace and beauty of
the most English of counties, 'fatt, frutefull and full of profitable
thinges,'[15] whose little rolling hills, wych elms, and huge clouded skies
Constable loved to paint. There came a day in September when gloom hung
over the streets of Coggeshall, when the spinning-wheels were silent in the
cottages, and spinners and weavers stood in anxious groups outside the
beautiful house in West Street; for upstairs in his bridal chamber, under its
noble ceiling, the great clothier lay dying, and his wife wept by his bedside,
knowing that he would never see his child. A few days later the cottages
were deserted again, and a concourse of weeping people followed Thomas
Paycocke to his last rest. The ceremony of his burial befitted his dignity: it
comprised services, not only on burial day itself, but on the seventh day
after it, and then again after a month had passed. It is given best in the
words of his will, for Thomas Paycocke followed the custom of his time, in
giving his executors elaborate injunctions for his funeral rites: 'I will myne
executors bestowe vpon my buryng daye, vij day and mounthe daye after
this manner: At my buriall to have a tryntall of prests and to be at dirige,
lawdis, and comendacons as many of them as may be purveyed that day to
serve the tryntall, and yf eny lack to make it vpp the vij'th daye. And at the
Mounthe daye an oder tryntall to be purveyed hoole of myne executors and
to kepe dirige, lawdis and commendacons as is afore reherssed, with iij high
massis be note [by note, i.e. with music], oon of the holy gost, an other of
owre lady, and an other of Requiem, both buriall, seuenth day and Mounthe
daye. And prests beyng at this obseruance iiij d. at euery tyme and childryn
at euery tyme ij d., w't torches at the buriall xij, and vj at the vij'th day and
xij at the mounthe daye, with xxiij'th or xij smale childryn in Rochettes with
tapers in theire honds, and as many as may be of them lett them be my god
Childryn, and they to haue vj s. viij d. apece; and euery oder child iiij d.
apece; and euery man that holdith torches at euery day he to have ij apece;
and euery man, woman and child that holdeth upp hound [hand] at eny of
thes iij days to haue j d. apece; And also euery god chyld besyde vj s. viij d.

apece; and to the Ryngars for all iij dayes x s.; and for mete, drynke, and for
twoo Semones of a doctor, and also to haue a dirige at home, or I be borne
to the Chirche summa j li.'
Here is something very different from the modest Thomas Betson's
injunction: 'The costes of my burying to be don not outrageously, but
sobrely and discretly and in a meane maner, that it may be unto the worship
and laude of Almyghty God.' The worthy old clothier was not unmindful of
the worship and laud of Thomas Paycocke also, and over £500 in modern
money was expended upon his burial ceremonies, over and above the cost
of founding his new chantry. Well indeed it was that his eyes were closed in
death, ere the coming of the Reformation abolished all the chantries of
England, and with them the Paycocke chantry in St Katherine's aisle, which
had provided alms for six poor men weekly. Thomas Paycocke belonged to
the good old days; in a quarter of a century after his death Essex was
already changing. The monks were scattered from the abbey, which stood
roofless; the sonorous Latin tongue no longer echoed in the church, nor
priests prayed there for the souls of Thomas and his wife and his parents
and his father-in-law. Even the cloth industry was changing, and the county
was growing more prosperous still with the advent of finer kinds of cloth,
brought over there by feat-fingered aliens, the 'new drapery', known as
'Bays and Says'. For as the adage says:

Hops, reformation, bays and beer
Came into England all in a year,

and Coggeshall was destined to become more famous still for a new sort of
cloth called 'Coxall's Whites', which Thomas Paycocke's nephews made
when he was in his grave.[16] One thing, however, did not change; for his
beautiful house still stood in West Street, opposite the vicarage, and was the
delight of all who saw it. It stands there still, and looking upon it today, and
thinking of Thomas Paycocke who once dwelt in it, do there not come to
mind the famous words of Ecclesiasticus?

Let us now praise famous men and our fathers that
begat us.
The Lord hath wrought great glory by them through
His great
power from the beginning...

Rich men furnished with ability, living peaceably in
their
habitations: All these were honoured in their
generations and
were the glory of their times.

Notes and Sources

CHAPTER II
THE PEASANT BODO
A. Raw Material
1. The Roll of the Abbot Irminon, an estate book of the Abbey of St
Germain des Prés, near Paris, written between 811 and 826. See Polyptyque
de l'Abbaye de Saint-Germain des Prés, pub. Auguste Longnon, t. I,
Introduction; t. II, Texte (Soc. de l'Hist. de Paris, 1886-95).
2. Charlemagne's capitulary, De Villis, instructions to his stewards on the
management of his estates. See Guerard, Explication du Capitulaire 'de
Villis' (Acad. des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, Mémoires, t. XXI, 1857),
pp. 165-309, containing the text, with a detailed commentary and a
translation into French.
3. Early Lives of Charlemagne, ed. A.J. Grant (King's Classics, 1907).
Contains the lives by Einhard and the Monk of St Gall, on which see
Halphen, cited below.
4. Various pieces of information about social life may be gleaned from the
decrees of Church Councils, Old High German and Anglo-Saxon charms
and poems, and Aelfric's Colloquium, extracts from which are translated in
Bell's Eng. Hist. Source Books, The Welding of the Race, 449-1066, ed.
J.E.W. Wallis (1913). For a general sketch of the period see Lavisse Hist. de
France, t. II, and for an elaborate critical study of certain aspects of
Charlemagne's reign (including the Polyptychum) see Halphen, Études
critiques sur l'Histoire de Charlemagne (1921); also A. Dopsch,
Wirtschaftsentwicklung der Karolingerzeit, Vornehmlich in Deutschland, 2
vols. (Weimar, 1912-13), which Halphen criticizes.
B. Notes to the Text

1. 'Habet Bodo colonus et uxor ejus colona, nomine Ermentrudis, homines
sancti Germani, habent secum infantes III. Tenet mansum ingenuilem I,
habentem de terre arabili bunuaria VIII et antsingas II, de vinea aripennos
II, de prato aripennos VII. Solvit ad hostem de argento solidos II, de vino in
pascione modios II; ad tertium annum sundolas C; de sepe perticas III. Arat
ad hibernaticum perticas III, ad tramisem perticas II. In unaquaque
ebdomada corvadas II, manuoperam I. Pullos III, ova XV; et caropera ibi
injungitur. Et habet medietatem de farinarium, inde solvit de argento solidos
II.' Op. cit., II, p. 78. 'Bodo a colonus and his wife Ermentrude a colona,
tenants of Saint-Germain, have with them three children. He holds one free
manse, containing eight bunuaria and two antsinga of arable land, two
aripenni of vines and seven aripenni of meadow. He pays two silver
shillings to the army and two hogsheads of wine for the right to pasture his
pigs in the woods. Every third year he pays a hundred planks and three
poles for fences. He ploughs at the winter sowing four perches and at the
spring sowing two perches. Every week he owes two labour services
(corvées) and one handwork. He pays three fowls and fifteen eggs, and
carrying service when it is enjoined upon him. And he owns the half of a
windmill, for which he pays two silver shillings.'
2. De Villis, c. 45.
3. Ibid. cc. 43, 49.
4. From 'The Casuistry of Roman Meals,' in The Collected Writings of
Thomas De Quincey, ed. D. Masson (1897), VII, p. 13.
5. Aelfric's Colloquium in op. cit. p. 95.
6. The Monk of St Gall's Life in Early Lives of Charlemagne, pp. 87-8.
7. Einhard's Life in op. cit., p. 45.
8. Anglo-Saxon charms translated in Stopford Brook, English Literature
from the Beginning to the Norman Conquest (1899), p. 43.
9. Old High German charm written in a tenth-century hand in a ninth-
century codex containing sermons of St Augustine, now in the Vatican
Library. Brawne, Althochdeutsches Lesebuch (fifth edition, Halle, 1902), p.
83.

10. Another Old High German charm preserved in a tenth-century codex
now at Vienna. Brawne, op. cit., p. 164.
11. From the ninth-century Libellus de Ecclesiasticis Disciplinis, art. 100,
quoted in Ozanam, La Civilisation Chrétienne chez les Francs (1849), p.
312. The injunction however, really refers to the recently conquered and
still half-pagan Saxons.
12. Penitential of Haligart, Bishop of Cambrai, quoted ibid. p. 314.
13. Documents relatifs à l'Histoire de l'Industrie et du Commerce en
France, ed. G. Faigniez, t. I, pp. 51-2.
14. See references in Chambers, The Medieval Stage (1913), I, pp. 161-3.
15. For the famous legend of the dancers of Kölbigk, see Gaston Paris, Les
Danseurs Maudits, Légende Allemande du XIe Siècle (Paris 1900, reprinted
from the Journal des Savants, Dec., 1899), which is a conte rendu of
Schröder's study in Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte (1899). The poem
occurs in a version of English origin, in which one of the dancers, Thierry,
is cured of a perpetual trembling in all his limbs by a miracle of St Edith at
the nunnery of Wilton in 1065. See loc. cit., pp. 10, 14.
16. 'Swete Lamman dhin are,' in the original. The story is told by Giraldus
Cambrensis in Gemma Ecclesiastica, pt. I, c. XLII. See Selections from
Giraldus Cambrensis, ed. C.A.J. Skeel (S.P.C.K. Texts for Students, No.
XI), p. 48.
17. Einhard's Life in op. cit. p. 45. See also ibid., p. 168 (note).
18. The Monk of St Gall's Life in op. cit., pp. 144-7.
19. Einhard's Life in op. cit., p. 39.
20. Ibid., p. 35.
21. Beazley, Dawn of Modern Geography (1897), I, p. 325.
22. The Monk of St Gall's Life in op. cit., pp. 78-9.
23. See the description in Lavisse, Hist. de France II, pt. I, p. 321; also G.
Monod, Les moeurs judiciaires au VIIIe Siècle, Revue Historique, t. XXXV

(1887).
24. See Faigniez, op. cit., pp. 43-4.
25. See the Monk of St Gall's account of the finery of the Frankish nobles:
'It was a holiday and they had just come from Pavia, whither the Venetians
had carried all the wealth of the East from their territories beyond the sea,--
others, I say, strutted in robes made of pheasant-skins and silk; or of the
necks, backs and tails of peacocks in their first plumage. Some were
decorated with purple and lemon-coloured ribbons; some were wrapped
round with blankets and some in ermine robes.' Op. cit., p. 149. The
translation is a little loose: the 'phoenix robes' of the original were more
probably made out of the plumage, not of the pheasant but of the scarlet
flamingo, as Hodgson thinks (Early Hist. of Venice, p. 155), or possibly
silks woven or embroidered with figures of birds, as Heyd thinks (Hist. du
Commerce du Levant, I, p. 111).
26. The Monk of St. Gall's Life in op. cit., pp. 81-2.
27. This little poem was scribbled by an Irish scribe in the margin of a copy
of Priscian in the monastery of St Gall, in Switzerland, the same from
which Charlemagne's highly imaginative biographer came. The original will
be found in Stokes and Strachan, Thesaurus Palæohibernicus (1903) II, p.
290. It has often been translated and I quote the translation by Kuno Meyer,
Ancient Irish Poetry (2nd ed., 1913), p. 99. The quotation from the Triads of
Ireland at the head of this chapter is taken from Kuno Meyer also, ibid. pp.
102-3.

CHAPTER III
MARCO POLO
A. Raw Material
1. The Book of Ser Marco Polo the Venetian concerning the Kingdoms and
Marvels of the East, trans. and ed. with notes by Sir Henry Yule (3rd edit.,
revised by Henri Cordier, 2 vols., Hakluyt Soc., 1903). See also H. Cordier,
Ser Marco Polo: Notes and Addenda (1920). The best edition of the original

French text is Le Livre de Marco Polo, ed. G. Pauthier (Paris, 1865), The
most convenient and cheap edition of the book for English readers is a
reprint of Marsden's translation (of the Latin text) and notes (first published,
1818), with an introduction by John Masefield, The Travels of Marco Polo
the Venetian (Everyman's Library, 1908; reprinted, 1911); but some of the
notes (identifying places, etc.) are now out of date, and the great edition by
Yule and Cordier should be consulted where exact and detailed information
is required. It is a mine of information, geographical and historical, about
the East. I quote from the Everyman Edition as Marco Polo, op. cit., and
from the Yule edition as Yule, op. cit.
2. La Cronique des Veneciens de Maistre Martin da Canal. In Archivo
Storico Italiano, 1st ser., vol. VIII (Florence, 1845). Written in French and
accompanied by a translation into modern Italian. One of the most
charming of medieval chronicles.
B. Modern Works
1. For medieval Venice see--
F.C. Hodgson: The Early History of Venice from the Foundation to the
Conquest of Constantinople (1901); and Venice in the
Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries, A Sketch of Venetian
History, 1204-1400 (1910).
P.G. Molmenti: Venice, its Growth to the Fall of the Republic, vols. I
and II (The Middle Ages), trans. H.F. Brown (1906); and La Vie
Privée à Venise, vol. I (1895).
H.F. Brown: Studies in the History of Venice, vol. I (1907).
Mrs Oliphant: The Makers of Venice (1905) is pleasant reading and
contains a chapter on Marco Polo.
2. For medieval China, the Tartars, and European intercourse with the far
East see--
Sir Henry Yule's introduction to his great edition of Marco Polo
(above).
Cathay and the Way Thither: Medieval Notices of China, trans. and ed.
by Sir Henry Yule, 4 vols. (Hakluyt Soc., 1915-16). Contains
an invaluable introduction and all the best accounts of China
left by medieval European travellers. Above all, Oderic of

Pordenone (d. 1331) should be read as a pendant to Marco
Polo.
R. Beazley: The Dawn of Modern Geography, vols. II and III (1897-
1906).
R. Grousset: Histoire de l'Asie, t. III (3rd edit., 1922), Chap. I. A short
and charmingly written account of the Mongol Empires from
Genghis Khan to Timour.
H. Howarth: History of the Mongols (1876).
3. For medieval trade with the East the best book is--
W. Heyd: Histoire du Commerce du Levant au Moyen-Âge, trans., F.
Raynaud; 2 vols. (Leipzig and Paris, 1885-6, reprinted 1923).
C. Notes to the Text
1. To be exact, the Flanders galleys which sailed via Gibraltar to
Southampton and Bruges were first sent out forty years after 1268--in 1308.
Throughout the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries they sailed every year,
and Southampton owes its rise to prosperity to the fact that it was their port
of call.
2. The occasion of the speech quoted was when the imperial representative
Longinus was trying to get the help of the Venetians against the Lombards
in 568 and invited them to acknowledge themselves subjects of the
Emperor. The speech is quoted in Encyclop. Brit., Art. Venice (by H.F.
Brown), p. 1002. The episode of the loaves of bread belongs to the attempt
of Pipin, son of Charlemagne, to starve out the Rialto in the winter of 809-
10. Compare the tale of Charlemagne casting his sword into the sea, with
the words, 'Truly, even as this brand which I have cast into the sea shall
belong neither to me nor to you nor to any other man in all the world, even
so shall no man in the world have power to hurt the realm of Venice; and he
who would harm it shall feel the wrath and displeasure of God, even as it
has fallen upon me and my people.'--See Canale, Cron., c. VIII. These are,
of course, all legends.
3. 'Voirs est que la mer Arians est de le ducat de Venise.'--Canale, op. cit., p.
600. Albertino Mussato calls Venice 'dominatrix Adriaci maris.'--Molmenti,
Venice, I, p. 120.

4. See some good contemporary accounts of the ceremony quoted in
Molmenti, Venice, I, pp. 212-15.
5. During the fatal war of Chioggia between the two republics of Venice and
Genoa, which ended in 1381, it was said that the Genoese admiral (or some
say Francesco Carrara), when asked by the Doge to receive peace
ambassadors, replied, 'Not before I have bitted the horses on St Mark's.'--
H.F. Brown, Studies in the Hist. of Venice, I, p. 130.
6. Canale, op. cit., p. 270.
7. 'The weather was clear and fine ... and when they were at sea, the
mariners let out the sails to the wind, and let the ships run with spread sails
before the wind over the sea'--See, for instance, Canale, op. cit., pp. 320,
326, and elsewhere.
8. Canale, op. cit., cc. I and II, pp. 268-72. Venice is particularly fortunate
in the descriptions which contemporaries have left of her--not only her own
citizens (such as Canale, Sanudo and the Doge Mocenigo) but also
strangers. Petrarch's famous description of Venetian commerce, as
occasioned by the view which he saw from his window in the fourteenth
century, has often been quoted: 'See the innumerable vessels which set forth
from the Italian shore in the desolate winter, in the most variable and
stormy spring, one turning its prow to the east, the other to the west; some
carrying our wine to foam in British cups, our fruits to flatter the palates of
the Scythians and, still more hard of credence, the wood of our forests to
the Egean and the Achaian isles; some to Syria, to Armenia, to the Arabs
and Persians, carrying oil and linen and saffron, and bringing back all their
diverse goods to us.... Let me persuade you to pass another hour in my
company. It was the depth of night and the heavens were full of storm, and
I, already weary and half asleep, had come to an end of my writing, when
suddenly a burst of shouts from the sailors penetrated my ear. Aware of
what these shouts should mean from former experience, I rose hastily and
went up to the higher windows of this house, which look out upon the port.
Oh, what a spectacle, mingled with feelings of pity, of wonder, of fear and
of delight! Resting on their anchors close to the marble banks which serve
as a mole to the vast palace which this free and liberal city has conceded to
me for my dwelling, several vessels have passed the winter, exceeding with

the height of their masts and spars the two towers which flank my house.
The larger of the two was at this moment--though the stars were all hidden
by the clouds, the winds shaking the walls, and the roar of the sea filling the
air--leaving the quay and setting out upon its voyage. Jason and Hercules
would have been stupefied with wonder, and Tiphys, seated at the helm,
would have been ashamed of the nothing which won him so much fame. If
you had seen it, you would have said it was no ship but a mountain,
swimming upon the sea, although under the weight of its immense wings a
great part of it was hidden in the waves. The end of the voyage was to be
the Don, beyond which nothing can navigate from our seas; but many of
those who were on board, when they had reached that point, meant to
prosecute their journey, never pausing till they had reached the Ganges or
the Caucasus, India and the Eastern Ocean. So far does love of gain
stimulate the human mind.'--Quoted from Petrarch's Lettere Senili in
Oliphant, Makers of Venice (1905), p. 349; the whole of this charming
chapter, 'The Guest of Venice', should be read. Another famous description
of Venice occurs in a letter written by Pietro Aretino, a guest of Venice
during the years 1527 to 1533, to Titian, quoted in E. Hutton, Pietro
Aretino, the Scourge of Princes (1922), pp. 136-7; compare also his
description of the view from his window on another occasion, quoted ibid.,
pp. 131-3. The earliest of all is the famous letter written by Cassiodorus to
the Venetians in the sixth century, which is partly translated in Molmenti,
op. cit., I, pp. 14-15.
9. The account of the march of the gilds occupies cc. CCLXIII-CCLXXXIII
of Canale's Chronicle, op. cit., pp. 602-26. It has often been quoted.
10. Canale, op. cit., c. CCLXI, p. 600.
11. This account of Hangchow is taken partly from Marco Polo, op. cit., bk.
II, c. LXVIII: 'Of the noble and magnificent city of Kinsai'; and partly from
Odoric of Pordenone, Cathay and the Way Thither, ed. Yule, pp. 113-20.
12. Oderic of Pordenone, who was a man before he was a friar, remarks:
'The Chinese are comely enough, but colourless, having beards of long
straggling hair like mousers, cats I mean. And as for the women, they are
the most beautiful in the world.' Marco Polo likewise never fails to note
when the women of a district are specially lovely, in the same way that that

other traveller Arthur Young always notes the looks of the chambermaids at
the French inns among the other details of the countryside, and is so much
affronted if waited on by a plain girl. Marco Polo gives the palm for beauty
to the women of the Province of Timochain (or Damaghan) on the north-
east border of Persia, of which, he says, 'The people are in general a
handsome race, especially the women, who, in my opinion, are the most
beautiful in the world.'--Marco Polo, op. cit., p. 73. Of the women of Kinsai
he reports thus: 'The courtesans are accomplished and are perfect in the arts
of blandishment and dalliance, which they accompany with expressions
adapted to every description of person, insomuch that strangers who have
once tasted of their charms, remain in a state of fascination, and become so
enchanted by their meretricious arts, that they can never divest themselves
of the impression. Thus intoxicated with sensual pleasures, when they
return to their homes they report that they have been in Kinsai, or the
celestial city, and pant for the time when they may be enabled to revisit
paradise.' Of the respectable ladies, wives of the master craftsmen he
likewise says: 'They have much beauty and are brought up with languid and
delicate habits. The costliness of their dresses, in silks and jewellery, can
scarcely be imagined.'--op. cit., pp. 296, 297-8.
13. Yule, op. cit., II, p. 184.
14. For Prester John see Sir Henry Yule's article 'Prester John' in the
Encyclopædia Britannica, and Lynn Thorndike, A History of Magic and
Experimental Science (1923), II, pp. 236-45. There is a pleasant popular
account in S. Baring Gould, Popular Myths of the Middle Ages (1866-8).
15. For their accounts see The Journal of William of Rubruck to the Eastern
Parts, 1253-5, by himself, with two accounts of the Earlier Journey of John
of Pian da Carpine, trans. and ed. with notes by W.W. Rockhill (Hakluyt
Soc., 1900). Rubruck especially is a most delightful person.
16. This, together with the whole account of the first journey of the elder
Polos, the circumstances of the second journey, and of their subsequent
return occurs in the first chapter of Marco Polo's book, which is a general
introduction, after which he proceeds to describe in order the lands through
which he passed. This autobiographical section is unfortunately all too
short.

17. As a matter of fact, William of Rubruck had seen and described it before
him.
18. For Marco Polo's account of this custom in the province which he calls
'Kardandan', see op. cit., p. 250. An illustration of it from an album
belonging to the close of the Ming dynasty is reproduced in S.W. Bushell,
Chinese Art (1910), fig. 134.
19. Marco Polo, op. cit., pp. 21-2.
20. A certain Poh-lo was, according to the Chinese annals of the Mongol
dynasty, appointed superintendent of salt mines at Yangchow shortly after
1282. Professor Parker thinks that he may be identified with our Polo, but
M. Cordier disagrees. See E.H. Parker Some New Facts about Marco Polos
Book in Imperial and Asiatic Quarterly Review (1904), p. 128; and H.
Cordier, Ser Marco Polo, p. 8. See also Yule, Marco Polo, I, Introd., p. 21.
21. P. Parrenin in Lett. Edis., xxiv, 58, quoted in Yule, op. cit., I, Introd., p.
II.
22. On Marco Polo's omissions see Yule, op. cit., I, Introd., p. 110.
23. Marco Polo, op. cit., p. 288.
24. On Chao Mêng-fu see S.W. Bushell, Chinese Art (1910), II, pp. 133-
-59; H.A. Giles, Introd. to the History of Chinese Pictorial Art (Shanghai,
2nd ed., 1918), pp. 159 ff.; the whole of c. VI of this book on the art which
flourished under the Mongol dynasty is interesting. See also L. Binyon,
Painting in the Far East (1908), pp. 75-7, 146-7. One of Chao Mêng-fu's
horse pictures, or rather a copy of it by a Japanese artist, is reproduced in
Giles, op. cit., opposite p. 159. See also my notes on illustrations for an
account of the famous landscape roll painted by him in the style of Wang
Wei.
25. Bushell, op. cit., p. 135.
26. Ibid., pp. 135-6, where the picture is reproduced.
27. For the episode of the mangonels constructed by Nestorian mechanics
under the directions of Nicolo and Maffeo see Marco Polo, op. cit., pp. 281-
2.

28. Marco Polo, op. cit., bk. III, c. I, pp. 321-3.
29. Ramusio's preface, containing this account, and also the story of how
Rusticiano came to write the book at Marco Polo's dictation at Genoa, is
translated in Yule, op. cit., I, Introd., pp. 4-8.
30. He mentions these in Marco Polo, op. cit., pp. 136, 138, 344.
31. Yule, op. cit., I, Introd., p. 79.
32. On Rusticiano (who is mistakenly called a Genoese by Ramusio), see
ibid., Introd., pp. 56 ff.
33. Paulin Paris, quoted ibid., Introd., p. 61.
34. Ibid., Introd., pp. 67-73.
35. Extract from Jacopo of Acqui's Imago Mondi, quoted ibid., Introd., p.
54.
36. M. Ch.-V. Langlois in Hist. Litt. de la France, XXXV (1921), p. 259.
For tributes to Marco Polo's accuracy see Aurel Stein, Ancient Khotan
(1907) and Ruins of Desert Cathay (1912); Ellsworth Huntington, The
Pulse of Asia (1910); and Sven Hedin, Overland to India (1910).
37. Yule, op. cit., I, Introd., pp. 106-7.
38. For these later missions and traders see Yule, Cathay and the Way
Thither, Introd., pp. cxxxii-iv, and text, passim.
39. Ibid., II, p. 292; and App., p. lxv.
40. Concerning the marginal notes by Columbus see Yule, op. cit., II, App.
H, p. 558. The book is preserved in the Colombina at Seville. I must,
however, frankly admit that modern research, iconoclastic as ever, not
content with white-washing Lucrezia Borgia and Catherine de Medicis, and
with reducing Catherine of Siena to something near insignificance, is also
making it appear more and more probable that Columbus originally set sail
in 1492 to look for the islands of the Antilles, and that, although on his
return after his great discovery in 1493 he maintained that his design had
always been to reach Cipangu, this was a post hoc story, the idea of

searching for Cipangu having probably come from his partner, Martin
Pinzon. It is a pity that we do not know when he made his notes in the
edition (the probable date of publication of which was 1485) of Marco
Polo's book, which might settle the matter. On the whole question see
Henry Vignaud, Études critiques sur la vie de Colomb avant ses
découvertes (Paris, 1905) and Histoire de la Grande Enterprise de 1492, 2
vols. (Paris, 1910), and the summary and discussion of his conclusions by
Professor A.P. Newton in History, VII (1922), pp. 38-42 (Historical
Revisions XX.--'Christopher Columbus and his Great Enterprise.') The idea
that a new road to the East was being sought at this time, primarily because
the Turks were blocking the old trade routes, has also been exploded. See
A.H. Lybyer, The Ottoman Turks and the Routes of Oriental Trade in Eng.
Hist. Review, XXX (1915), pp.577-88.

CHAPTER IV
MADAME EGLENTYNE
A. Raw Material
1. Chaucer's description of the Prioress in the Prologue to the Canterbury
Tales.
2. Miscellaneous visitation reports in episcopal registers. On these registers,
and in particular the visitation documents therein, see R.C. Fowler,
Episcopal Registers of England and Wales (S.P.C.K. Helps for Students of
History, No. 1), G.G. Coulton, The Interpretation of Visitation Documents
(Eng. Hist. Review, 1914), and c. XII of my book, cited below. A great
many registers have been, or are being, published by learned societies,
notably by the Canterbury and York Society, which exists for this purpose.
The most important are the Lincoln visitations, now in the course of
publication, by Dr A. Hamilton Thompson, Visitations of Religious Houses
in the Diocese of Lincoln, ed. A. Hamilton Thompson (Lincoln Rec. Soc.
and Canterbury and York Soc., 1915 ff.); two volumes have appeared so far,
of which see especially vol. II, which contains part of Bishop Alnwick's
visitations (1436-49); each volume contains text, translation, and an
admirable introduction. See also the extracts from Winchester visitations

trans. in H.G.D. Liveing, Records of Romsey Abbey (1912). Full extracts
from visitation reports and injunctions are given under the accounts of
religious houses in the different volumes of the Victoria County Histories
(cited as V.C.H.).
3. The monastic rules. See The Rule of St Benedict, ed. F.A. Gasquet (Kings
Classics, 1909), and F.A. Gasquet, English Monastic Life (4th ed., 1910).
4. For a very full study of the whole subject of English convent life at this
period see Eileen Power, Medieval English Nunneries c. 1275 to
1535(1922).

B. Notes to the Text
1. The Register of Walter de Stapeldon, Bishop of Exeter (1307-26), ed. F.
Hingeston Randolph (1892), p. 169. The passage about Philippa is
translated in G.G. Coulton, Chaucer and His England (1908), p. 181.
2. See the account of expenses involved in making Elizabeth Sewardby a
nun of Nunmonkton (1468) in Testamenta Eboracensia, ed. James Raine
(Surtees Soc., 1886), III, p. 168; and Power, op. cit., p. 19.
3. Year Book of King Richard II, ed. C.F. Deiser (1904), pp. 71-7; and
Power, op. cit., pp. 36-8.
4. G.J. Aungier, Hist. of Syon (1840), p. 385.
5. As at Gracedieu (1440-1), Alnwick's Visit, ed. A.H. Thompson, pp. 120-3.
6. G.J. Aungier, op. cit., pp. 405-9.
7. Translated from John de Grandisson's Register in G.G. Coulton, A
Medieval Garner (1910), pp. 312-14.
8. Rule of St Benedict, c. 22.
9. V.C.H. Lincs., II, p. 131.
10. Translated in G.G. Coulton, A Medieval Garner.

11. Myroure of Oure Ladye, ed. J.H. Blunt (E.E.T.S., 1873), p. 54. On
Tittivillus see my article in The Cambridge Magazine (1917), pp.158-60.
12. Linc. Visit., ed. A.H. Thompson, II, pp. 46-52; and Power, op. cit. pp.
82-7.
13. V.C.H. Oxon, II. p. 77.
14. Linc. Visit., ed. A.H. Thompson, I, p. 67.
15. On these gaieties see Power, op. cit. pp. 309-14.
16. Linc. Visit., II, pp. 3-4; and see Power, op. cit., pp. 75-7, 303-5, on gay
clothes in nunneries.
17. Linc. Visit., II. p. 175.
18. Power, op. cit., p. 307. On pet animals see ibid., pp. 305-9, and Note E
('Convent Pets in Literature'), pp. 588-95.
19. Power, op. cit., p. 77.
20. Ibid., pp. 351-2; and see Chap. IX passim on the Bull Periculoso and
the wandering of nuns in the world.
21. Linc. Visit., II, p. 50.
22. V.C.H. Yorks., III, p. 172.

CHAPTER V
THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE
A. Raw Material
I. Le Ménagier de Paris, Traité de Morale et d'Economie Domestique,
compose vers 1393 par un Bourgeois Parisien ... publié pour la première
fois par la Société des Bibliophiles Francois. (Paris, 1846). 2 vols., edited
with an introduction by Jérôme Pichon. There is a notice of it by Dr F.J.
Furnivall, at the end of his edition of A Booke of Precedence (Early English

Text Soc., 1869 and 1898), pp. 149-54. It was a book after his own heart,
and he observes that it well deserves translation into English.
2. On the subject of medieval books of deportment for women see A.A.
Hentsch, De la littérature didactique du moyen âge s'addressant
spécialement aux femmes (Cahors, 1903), an admirably complete collection
of analyses of all the chief works of this sort produced in western Europe
from the time of St Jerome to the eve of the Renaissance. It is full of plums
for adventurous Jack Horners.
3. With the Ménagier's cookery book there may profitably be compared Two
Fifteenth Century Cookery Books, ed. by Thomas Austin (E.E.T.S., 1888).
B. Notes to the Text
1. Pp. 1-2.
2. These long moral treatises on the seven deadly sins and the even deadlier
virtues were very popular in the Middle Ages. The best known to English
readers occurs in the Parson's Tale in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and is
taken from the Somme de Vices et de Vertus of Frère Lorens, a thirteenth-
century author. The sections on the deadly sins are usually, however, well
worth reading, because of the vivid illustrative details which they often give
about daily life. The Ménagier's sections are full of vigour and colour, as
one would expect. Here, for instance, is his description of the female
glutton: 'God commands fasting and the glutton says: "I will eat". God
commands us to get up early and go to church and the glutton says: "I must
sleep. I was drunk yesterday. The church is not a hare; it will wait for me."
When she has with some difficulty risen, do you know what her hours are?
Her matins are: "Ha! what shall we have to drink? is there nothing left over
from last night?" Afterwards she says her lauds thus: "Ha! we drank good
wine yesterday." Afterwards she says thus her orisons: "My head aches, I
shan't be comfortable until I have had a drink." Certes, such gluttony putteth
a woman to shame, for from it she becomes a ribald, a disreputable person
and a thief. The tavern is the Devil's church, where his disciples go to do
him service and where he works his miracles. For when folk go there they
go upright and well spoken, wise and sensible and well advised, and when
they return they cannot hold themselves upright nor speak; they are all
foolish and all mad, and they return swearing, beating and giving the lie to

each other.'--Op. cit., I, pp. 47-8. The section on Avarice is particularly
valuable for its picture of the sins of executors of wills, rack-renting lords,
extortionate shopkeepers, false lawyers, usurers, and gamblers.--See ibid., I,
pp. 44-5.
3. Prudence and Melibeus is worth reading once, either in Chaucer's or in
Renault de Louens' version, because of its great popularity in the Middle
Ages, and because of occasional vivid passages. Here, for instance, is the
episode in Chaucer's version, in which Melibeus, the sages, and the young
men discuss going to war, and the sages advise against it: 'Up stirten thanne
the yonge folk at ones, and the mooste partie of that compaignye scorned
the wise olde men, and bigonnen to make noyse, and seyden that "Right so
as, whil that iren is hoot, men sholden smyte, right so men sholde wreken
hir wronges while that they been fresshe and newe"; and with loud voys
they criden, "Werre! werre!" Up roos tho oon of thise olde wise, and with
his hand made contenaunce that men sholde holden hem stille, and yeven
hym audience. "Lordynges," quod he, "ther is ful many a man that crieth
'Werre! werre!' that woot ful litel what werre amounteth. Werre at his
bigynnyng hath so greet an entryng and so large, that every wight may entre
whan hym liketh and lightly fynde werre; but certes, what ende that shal
ther-of bifalle it is nat light to knowe; for soothly, whan that werre is ones
bigonne ther is ful many a child unborn of his mooder that shal sterve yong
by cause of that ilke werre, or elles lyve in sarwe, and dye in
wrecchednesse; and therefore, er that any werre bigynne, men moste have
greet conseil and greet deliberacioun."--Chaucer, Tale of Melibeus,§ 12; and
see the French version, op. cit., I, p. 191.
4. II, p. 72-9.
5. I, pp. 71-2. These medieval games are very difficult to identify. The
learned editor remarks that bric, which is mentioned in the thirteenth
century by Rutebeuf was played, seated, with a little stick; qui féry is
probably the modern game called by the French main chaude; pince
merille, which is mentioned among the games of Gargantua, was a game in
which you pinched one of the players' arms, crying 'Mérille' or 'Morille'.
Though the details of these games are vague, there are many analagous
games played by children today, and it is easy to guess the kind of thing
which is meant.

6. I, pp. 13-15.
7. I, 92, 96.
8. The story of Jeanne la Quentine is reproduced in the Heptameron of
Margaret of Navarre (the 38th tale, or the 8th of the 4th day), where it is
attributed to a bourgeoise of Tours, but it is probable that the Ménagier's is
the original version, since he says that he had it from his father; although,
knowing the ways of the professional raconteur, I should be the first to
admit that this is not proof positive.
9. I, pp. 125-6.
10. I, p. 139.
11. This was a favourite saying. It occurs in the story of Melibeus, 'Trois
choses sont qui gettent homme hors de sa maison, c'est assavoir la fumée, la
goutière et la femme mauvaise.'--Ibid., I, p. 195. Compare Chaucer's use of
it: 'Men seyn that thre thynges dryven a man out of his hous,--that is to
seyn, smoke, droppyng of reyn and wikked wyves.'--Tale of Melibeus, §15;
and

'Thou seyst that droppying houses, and eek smoke,
And chidyng wyves, maken men to flee
Out of hir owene hous.'

--Wife of Bath's Prologue, LL, 278-80.

12. I, pp. 168-71, 174-6.
13. II, p. 54. The Ménagier also warns against running up long bills on
credit. 'Tell your folk to deal with peaceable people and to bargain always
beforehand and to account and pay often, without running up long bills on
credit by tally or on paper, although tally or paper are better than doing
everything by memory, for the creditors always think it more and the
debtors less, and thus are born arguments, hatreds, and reproaches; and
cause your good creditors to be paid willingly and frequently what is owed
to them, and keep them in friendship so that they depart not from you, for
one cannot always get peaceable folk again.'

14. II, pp. 56-9.
15. It is curious here to note the antiquity of the term 'bloody' as an
expletive. The Ménagier says: 'Forbid them ... to use ugly oaths, or words
which are bad or indecent, as do certain evil or ill bred persons who swear
at bad bloody fevers, the bad bloody week, the bad bloody day ('de males
sanglantes fièvres,' 'de male sanglante sepmaine,' 'de male sanglante
journée'), and they know not, nor should they know, what a bloody thing is,
for honest women know it not, since it is abominable to them to see the
blood but of a lamb or a pigeon, when it is killed before them.'--Ibid., II, p.
59.
16. The section on household management described above occupies sec. II,
art. 2, of the Ménagier's book (II, pp. 53-72).
17. I, pp. 171-2.
18. I, pp. 172-3.
19. The cookery book occupies sec. II, arts. 4 and 5 (II, pp. 80-272).
20. II, pp. 222-3. Translated by Dr Furnivall in A Booke of Precedence
(E.E.T.S.), pp. 152-3.
21. II, pp. 108-18, 123. The feast was still a thing of the future when the
Ménagier thus gathered all the details. He calls it 'L'ordenance de nopces
que fera maistre Helye en May, à un mardy ... l'ordonnance du souper que
fera ce jour.'
22. 'The office of the woman is to make provision of tapestries, to order and
spread them, and in especial to dight the room and the bed which shall be
blessed.... And note that if the bed be covered with cloth, there is needed a
fur coverlet of small vair, but if it be covered with serge, or broidery, or
pinwork of cendal, not.'--II, p. 118. The editor quotes the following
ceremony for blessing the wedding bed: 'Benedictio thalami ad nuptias et
als, Beredic, Domine, thalamum hunc et omnes habitantes in eo, ut in tua
voluntate permaneant, requiescant et multiplicentur in longitudinem dierum.
Per Christum, etc. Tunc thurificet thalamum in matrimonio, postea sponsum
et sponsam sedentes vel jacentes in lecto suo. Benedicentur dicendo:
Benedic, Domine, adolescentulos istos; sicut benedixisti Thobiam et Sarram

filiam Raguelis, ita benedicere eos digneris, Domine, ut in nomine tuo
vivant et senescant, et multiplicentur in longitudinem dierum. Per Christum,
etc. Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti descendat
super vos et maneat super vobiscum. In nomine Patris, etc.'--Ibid., I, Introd.,
p. lxxxvi.
23. Chaucer, Tale of Melibeus, § 15.

CHAPTER VI
THOMAS BETSON
A. Raw Material
1. The Stonor Letters and Papers, 1290-1483, ed. C.L. Kingsford (Royal
Hist. Soc., Camden, 3rd Series), 2 vols., 1919. The Betson correspondence
is in vol. II.
2. The Cely Papers, selected from the Correspondence and Memoranda of
the Cely Family, Merchants of the Staple, 1475-88, ed. H.E. Malden (Royal
Hist. Soc., Camden 3rd series), 1900.
I am much beholden to the excellent introductions to these two books,
which are models of what editorial introductions should be.
3. The best introduction to the history of the Company of the Staple is to be
found in Mr Malden's aforesaid introduction to The Cely Papers, which also
contains a masterly account of the political relations of England, France and
Burgundy during the period. I have constantly relied upon Mr Malden's
account of the working of the Staple system. Other useful short accounts of
the wool trade and the Stapler's Company may be found in the following
works: Sir C.P. Lucas, The Beginnings of English Overseas Enterprise
(1917), c. II; and A.L. Jenckes, The Staple of England (1908).
B. Notes to the Text
1. Four interesting contemporary illustrations of Parliament in 1523, 1585,
some date during the seventeenth century, and 1742 respectively, are

reproduced in Professor A.F. Pollard's stimulating study of The Evolution of
Parliament (1920).
2. The Lybelle of Englyshe Polycye, in Political Poems and Songs, ed. Thos.
Wright (Rolls Ser., 1861), II, p. 162. This remarkable poem was written in
1436 or 1437, in order to exhort the English 'to kepe the see enviroun and
namelye the narowe see' between Dover and Calais, since in the author's
opinion the basis of England's greatness lay in her trade, for the
preservation of which she needed the dominion of the seas. Its chief value
lies in the very complete picture which it gives of English import and export
trade with the various European countries. There is a convenient edition of
it in The Principal Navigations Voyages Traffiques and Discoveries of the
English Nation by Richard Hakluyt (Everyman's Lib. Edition, 1907), I, pp.
174-202.
3. G.W. Morris and L.S. Wood, The Golden Fleece (1922), p. 17.
4. For accounts of these brasses see H. Druitt, A Manual of Costume as
Illustrated by Monumental Brasses (1906), pp. 9, 201, 205, 207, 253. John
Fortey's brass and William Greville's brass are conveniently reproduced in
G.W. Morris and L.S. Wood, op. cit., pp. 28, 32, together with several other
illustrations, pertinent to the wool trade.
5. Gower, Mirour de l'Omme in The Works of John Gower. I. The French
Works, ed. G.C. Macaulay (1899), p. 280-1.
6. The Paston Letters, ed. J. Gairdner (London, 1872-5); Supplement 1901.
See also H.S. Bennett, The Pastons and their England (1922).
7. Plumpton Correspondence, ed. T. Stapleton (Camden Soc., 1839).
8. Cely Papers, p. 72; and compare below p. 134.
9. Stonor Letters, II, p. 2.
10. Ibid., II, pp. 2-3.
11. The brasses of his father 'John Lyndewode, woolman', and of his
brother, also 'John Lyndewode, woolman' (d. 1421), are still in Linwood
Church. They both have their feet on woolpacks, and on the son's woolpack
is his merchant's mark. See H. Druitt, op. cit., pp. 204-5.

12. See Magna Vita S. Hugonis Episcopi Lincolniensis, ed. J.F. Dimock
(Rolls Series, 1864), pp. 170-7.
13. For these extracts see a vastly entertaining book, Child Marriages and
Divorces in the Diocese of Chester, 1561-6, ed. F.J. Furnivall (E.E.T.S.,
1897), pp. xxii, 6, 45-7.
14. Stonor Letters, II, pp. 6-8.
15. Ibid., II, pp. 28, 64.
16. Ibid., II, p. 64.
17. Ibid., II, pp. 42-43.
18. Ibid., II, p. 44.
19. Ibid., II, pp. 61, 64-5.
20. Ibid., II, pp. 46-8.
21. Ibid., II, p. 53.
22. Ibid., II, p. 28.
23. Ibid., II, p. 47.
24. Ibid., II, p. 53.
25. Ibid., II, pp. 54-5.
26. Ibid., II, pp. 56-7.
27. Ibid., II, p. 69.
28. Ibid., II, pp. 87-8.
29. Ibid., II, pp. 88-9.
30. Ibid., II, p. 89.
31. Ibid., II, pp. 102-3, 117.

32. See Richard Cely's amusing account of the affair in a letter to his
brother George, written on May 13, 1482, Cely Papers, pp. 101-4. For other
references to the wool dealer William Midwinter see ibid., pp. 11, 21, 28,
30, 32, 64, 87, 89, 90, 105, 124, 128, 157, 158.
33. Stonor Letters, II, p. 3.
34. Ibid., II, p. 64.
35. Testamenta Eboracensia (Surtees Soc.), II, p. 56. He was a well-known
wool merchant of York, at different times member of the town council of
twelve, sheriff and mayor, who died in 1435. He is constantly mentioned in
the city records; see York Memorandum Book, ed. Maud Sellers (Surtees
Soc., 1912 and 1915), vols. I and II, passim.
36. Cely Papers, pp. 30-1.
37. Ibid., p. 64.
38. See his will (1490) in Test. Ebor., IV, p. 61, where he is called 'Johannes
Barton de Holme juxta Newarke, Stapulae villae Carlisiae marcator,' and
ordains 'Volo quod Thomas filius meus Johannem Tamworth fieri faciat
liberum hominem Stapulae Carlis,' ibid., p. 62.
39. Ibid., p. 45.
40. Ibid., p. 48.
41. Ibid., pp. 154-5.
42. The Lybelle of Englysche Polycye in loc. cit., pp. 174-7, passim.
Compare Gower's account of the machinations of the Lombards, op. cit.,
pp. 281-2.
43. See the clear account of all these operations in Mr Malden's introduction
to the Cely Papers, pp. xi-xiii, xxxviii.
44. Ibid., p. vii.
45. Cely Papers, pp. 194-6; and see Introd., pp. xxxvi-viii.
46. Ibid., pp. 71-2.

47. Ibid., pp. 174-88, a book entitled on the cover 'The Rekenyng of the
Margett Cely,' and beginning, 'The first viage of the Margaret of London
was to Seland in the yere of our Lord God m iiijciiijxxv. The secunde to
Caleis and the thrid to Burdews ut videt. Md to se the pursers accomptes of
the seide viages. G. Cely.'
48. Ibid., p. xxxviii.
49. Stonor Letters, II, p. 2.
50. Ibid., II, p. 4.
51. Cely Papers, pp. 112-13.
52. Ibid., p. 106; compare ibid., p. 135.
53. 'Sir, the wool ships be come to Calais all save three, whereof two be in
Sandwich haven and one is at Ostend, and he hath cast over all his wool
overboard.'--Ibid., p. 129. 'Item, sir, on Friday the 27 day of February came
passage from Dover and they say that on Thursday afore came forth a
passenger from Dover to Calais ward and she was chased with Frenchmen
and driven in to Dunkirk haven.'--Ibid., p. 142. (There are many records of
similar chases; see Introd., pp. xxxiv-v.)
54. Ibid., p. 135.
55. 'Sir, I cannot have your wool yet awarded, for I have do cast out a
sarpler, the which is [ap]pointed by the lieutenant to be casten out toward
the sort by, as the ordinance now is made that the lieutenant shall [ap]point
the [a]warding sarplers of every man's wool, the which sarpler that I have
casten out is No. 24, and therein is found by William Smith, packer, a 60
middle fleeces and it is a very gruff wool; and so I have caused William
Smith privily to cast out another sarpler No. 8, and packed up the wool of
the first sarpler in the sarpler of No. 8, for this last sarpler is fair wool
enough, and therefore I must understand how many be of that sort and the
number of the[m], for they must be packed again' (12 Sept., 1487).--Ibid., p.
160. Item, sir, your wool is awarded by the sarpler that I cast out last, etc.
Item, sir, this same day your mastership is elected and appointed here by the
Court one of the 28, the which shall assist the Master of the Staple now at
this parliament time.'-Ibid., p. 162.

56. Gower, op. cit., p. 281.
57. Cely Papers, pp. xii, xxiv-v.
58. Stonor Letters, II, pp. 62-3; see also Cely Papers, pp. 1, 10, 13.
59. Stonor Letters, II, p. 4.
60. Chaucer, Canterbury Tales (Shipman's Tale) LL, 1243-6.
61. Stonor Letters, II, p. 48.
62. Cely Papers, p. xxiii.
63. Lybelle of Englysshe Polycye in loc. cit., pp. 179-81.
64. With deference, I think that Mr Malden in his introduction to the Cely
Papers, App. II, pp. lii-iii, is mistaken in seeking to identify Synchon Mart
with a particular fair at Antwerp on St John's Day, Bammes mart with the
fair at St Rémy (a Flemish name for whom is Bamis) on August 8, and Cold
Mart with Cortemarck near Thourout. The names simply refer to the
seasons in which there were fairs in most of the important centres, though
doubtless in one place the winter and in another the spring, summer, or
autumn fair was the more important. That the names refer to seasons and
not to places appears quite clearly in various letters and regulations relating
to the Merchant Adventurers of York. See The York Mercers and Merchant
Adventurers, 1356-1917, ed. M. Sellers (Surtees Soc., 1918), pp. 117, 121-
5, 160, 170-1; see Miss Sellers' note, ibid., p. 122, quoting W. Cunningham:
'The ancient Celtic fairs ... were a widespread primitive institution and
appear to have been fixed for dates marked by the change of seasons.'--
Scottish Hist. Review, xiii, p. 168. For instance, a document of 1509 ('For
now att this cold marte last past, holdyn at Barow in Brabond,' loc. cit. p.
121) disposes of the idea that the Cold mart was the mart at Cortemarck,
while another document refers to merchants intending to ship 'to the cold
martes' and 'to the synxon martes' in the plural. Ibid., p. 123. The
identification of Balms mart with the fair at St Rémy on August 8 is,
moreover, belied by the same document (1510-11), which runs, 'Whereas
this present marte ... we have lycensed and set you at libertie to shipp your
commodities to the balmes marte next coming. Nevertheless ... we thinke it
good ... that upon the recepte of these our letters ye ... assemble and consult

together, and if ye shall thinke good amongest yourselffs ... discretly to
withdraw and with holde your hands from shippyng to the said balmes
marte.... Wryten at Andwarp the xvij day of August.' Ibid., p. 124. The
Balms mart was obviously the autumn fairtide, and Mr Malden is no doubt
right in identifying Balms (Bammys, Bammes) with Bamis, the local
Flemish name of St Rémy; St Rémy's Day was October 28, and the Balms
mart was not the mart held on August 8 at St Rémy, but the mart held on
and round about St Rémy's Day. Another document of 1552 gives
interesting information about the shippings for three of the marts: 'The last
daye of shippinge unto the fyrst shippinge beinge for the pasche marte is
ordeyned to be the laste of Marche nexte ensuyinge; and the seconde
shippinge which is appointed for the sinxon marte the laste day to the same,
is appoynted the laste of June then nexte followinge; and unto the colde
marte the laste day of shippinge is appoynted to be the laste of November
then nexte insuyinge.'--Ibid., p. 147. The Merchant Adventurers tried
sometimes to restrict merchants to the Cold and the Synxon marts, which
were the most important.
65. Cely Papers, p. xl, and passim.
66. Ibid., p. 74. Richard Cely the younger to George: 'I understand that ye
have a fair hawk. I am right glad of her, for I trust to God she shall make
you and me right great sport. If I were sure at what passage ye would send
her I would fetch her at Dover and keep her till ye come. A great infortune
is fallen on your bitch, for she had 14 fair whelps, and after that she had
whelped she would never eat meat, and so she is dead and all her whelps;
but I trust to purvey against your coming as fair and as good to please that
gentleman.'--Ibid., p. 74.
67. Ibid., p. xlix.
68. Ibid., App. I., pp. xlix-lii, a very interesting note on contemporary
coinage, identifying all the coins mentioned in the letters.
69. Ibid., p. 159.
70. Ibid., p. 161.
71. Stonor Letters, II, p. 43. So Dame Elizabeth Stonor ends a letter to her
husband: 'Written at Stonor, when I would fain have slept, the morrow after

our Lady day in the morning,'--Ibid., p. 77.
72. Chaucer, Canterbury Tales (Shipman's Tale), LL, 1265-78, in Works
(Globe Ed., 1903), p. 80.
73. The will is P.C.C. 24 Logge at Somerset House. For this analysis of its
contents and information about the life of Thomas Betson after his breach
with the Stonors see Stonor Letters, I, pp. xxviii-ix.
74. They are (1) John Bacon, citizen and woolman, and Joan, his wife (d.
1437); (2) Thomas Gilbert, citizen and draper of London and merchant of
the Staple of Calais (d. 1483), and Agnes, his wife (d. 1489); (3)
Christopher Rawson, mercer of London and merchant of the Staple of
Calais, Junior Warden of the Mercers' Company in 1516 (d. 1518), and his
two wives. Thomas Betson was doubtless acquainted with Gilbert and
Rawson.

CHAPTER VII
THOMAS PAYCOCKE OF COGGESHALL

A. Raw Material
1. The raw material for this chapter consists of Paycocke's House, presented
to the Nation in 1924 by the Right Hon. Noel Buxton, M.P., which stands in
West Street, Coggeshall, Essex (station, Kelvedon); the Paycocke brasses,
which lie in the North aisle of the parish church of St Peter ad Vincula at
Coggeshall; and the wills of John Paycocke (d. 1505), Thomas Paycocke (d.
1518), and Thomas Paycocke (d. 1580), which are now preserved at
Somerset House (P.C.C. Adeane 5, Ayloffe 14, and Arundell 50,
respectively), and of which that of the first Thomas has been printed in Mr
Beaumont's paper, cited below, while I have analysed fully the other two in
my book, The Paycockes of Coggeshall (1920), which deals at length with
the history of the Paycockes and their house. See also G.F. Beaumont,
Paycocke's House, Coggeshall, with some Notes on the Families of
Paycocke and Buxton (reprinted from Trans. Essex Archæol. Soc., IX, pt.

V) and the same author's History of Coggeshall (1890). There is a
beautifully illustrated article on the house in Country Life (June 30, 1923),
vol. LIII, pp. 920-6.
2. For an apotheosis of the clothiers, see The Pleasant History of John
Winchcomb, in his younger days called Jack of Newbery, the famous and
worthy Clothier of England and Thomas of Reading, or the Six Worthy
Yeomen of the West, in The Works of Thomas Deloney, ed. F.O. Mann
(1912), nos. II and V. The first of these was published in 1597 and the other
soon afterwards and both went through several editions by 1600.
3. On the cloth industry in general see G. Morris and L. Wood, The Golden
Fleece (1922); E. Lipson, The Woollen Industry (1921); and W.J. Ashley,
Introd. to English Economic History (1909 edit.). For the East Anglian
woollen industry see especially the Victoria County Histories of Essex and
Suffolk. For a charming account of another famous family of clothiers see
B. McClenaghan, The Springs of Lavenham (Harrison, Ipswich, 1924).

B. Notes to the Text
1. Deloney's Works, ed. F.O. Mann, p. 213.
2. Thomas Fuller, The Worthies of England (1622), p. 318.
3. A convenient introduction to the study of monumental brasses, with
illustrations and a list of all the surviving brasses in England, arranged
according to counties, is W. Macklin, Monumental Brasses (1913). See also
H. Druitt, Costume on Brasses (1906). These books also give details as to
the famous early writers on the subject, such as Weaver, Holman, and A.J.
Dunkin.
4. Testamenta Eboracensia, a selection of wills from the Registry at York,
ed. James Raine, 6 vols. (Surtees Soc., 1836-1902). The Surtees Society has
also published several other collections of wills from Durham and
elsewhere, relating to the northern counties. A large number of wills have
been printed or abstracted. See, for instance, Wills and Inventories from the
Registers of Bury St Edmunds, ed. S. Tymms (Camden Soc., 1850);
Calendar of Wills Proved and Enrolled in the Court of Hastings, London,

ed. R.R. Sharpe, 2 vols. (1889); The Fifty Earliest English Wills in the
Court of Probate, London, ed. F.J. Furnivall (E.E.T.S., 1882); Lincoln Wills,
ed. C.W. Foster (Lincoln Record Soc., 1914); and Somerset Medieval Wills,
1383-1558, ed. F.W. Weaver, 3 vols. (Somerset Record Soc., 1901-5).
5. The will of the other Thomas Paycocke 'cloathemaker', who died in 1580,
also refers to the family business. He leaves twenty shillings 'to William
Gyon my weaver'; also 'Item, I doe give seaven poundes tenne shillinges of
Lawful money of Englande to and amongest thirtie of the poorest
Journeymen of the Fullers occupacion in Coggeshall aforesaide, that is to
every one of them fyve shillinges.' William Gyon or Guyon was related to a
very rich clothier, Thomas Guyon, baptized in 1592 and buried in 1664,
who is said to have amassed £100,000 by the trade. Thomas Paycocke's
son-in-law Thomas Tyll also came of a family of clothiers, for in a
certificate under date 1577 of wool bought by clothiers of Coggeshall
during the past year there occur the names of Thomas Tyll, William Gyon,
John Gooddaye (to whose family the first Thomas Paycocke left legacies),
Robert Lytherland (who receives a considerable legacy under the will of the
second Thomas), and Robert Jegon (who is mentioned incidentally in the
will as having a house near the church and was father of the Bishop of
Norwich of that name). See Power, The Paycockes of Coggeshall, pp. 33-4.
6. Quoted in Lipson, Introd. to the Econ. Hist, of England (1905), I, p. 421.
7. Quoted ibid., p. 417.
8. On John Winchcomb Power, op. cit., pp. 17-18; and Lipson, op. cit., p.
419.
9. Deloney's Works, ed. F.C. Mann, pp. 20-1.
10. Ibid., p. 22.
11. Quoted in C.L. Powell, Eng. Domestic Relations, 1487-1563 (1917), p.
27.
12. The house subsequently passed, it is not quite clear at what date, into
the hands of another family of clothiers, the Buxtons, who had intermarried
with the Paycockes some time before 1537. William Buxton (d. 1625)
describes himself as 'clothyer of Coggeshall' and leaves 'all my Baey Lombs

[Looms]' to his son Thomas. Thomas was seventeen when his father died
and lived until 1647, also carrying on business as a clothier, and the house
was certainly in his possession. He or his father may have bought it from
John Paycocke's executors. By him it was handed down to his son Thomas,
also a clothier (d. 1713), who passed it on to his son Isaac, clothier (d.
1732). Isaac's two eldest sons were clothiers likewise, but soon after their
father's death they retired from business. He apparently allowed his third
son, John, to occupy the house as his tenant, and John was still living there
in 1740. But Isaac had left the house by will in 1732 to his youngest son,
Samuel, and Samuel, dying in 1737, left it to his brother Charles, the fourth
son of Isaac. Charles never lived in it, because he spent most of his life in
the pursuit of his business as an oil merchant in London, though he is buried
among his ancestors in Coggeshall Church. In 1746 he sold the house to
Robert Ludgater and it passed completely out of the Paycocke-Buxton
connexion, and in the course of time fell upon evil days and was turned into
two cottages, the beautiful ceilings being plastered over. It was on the verge
of being destroyed some years ago when it was bought and restored to its
present fine condition by Mr Noel Buxton, a direct lineal descendant of the
Charles Buxton who sold it. See Power, op. cit., pp. 38-40.
13. Deloney's Works, ed. F.O. Mann, p. 213.
14. Defoe, Tour through Great Britain, 1724 (1769 edit.), pp. 144-6.
15. 'This shire is the most fatt, frutefull and full of profitable thinges,
exceeding (as far as I can finde) anie other shire for the general
commodities and the plentie, thowgh Suffolk be more highlie comended by
some (wherewith I am not yet acquainted). But this shire seemeth to me to
deserve the title of the Englishe Goshen, the fattest of the lande, comparable
to Palestina, that flowed with milk and hunnye.'--Norden, Description of
Essex (1594), (Camden Soc.), p. 7.
16. According to Leake, writing about 1577, 'About 1528 began the first
spinning on the distaffe and making of Coxall clothes.... These Coxall
clothes weare first taught by one Bonvise, an Italian.'--Quoted V.C.H. Essex,
II, p. 382.

Notes on Illustrations

PLATE I. Bodo at his work
From an eleventh-century Anglo-Saxon calendar in the British Museum
(MS. Tit., B.V., pt. I), showing the occupations of Bodo, or of his masters,
for each month of the year. The months illustrated are January (ploughing
with oxen), March (breaking clods in a storm), August (reaping), and
December (threshing and winnowing). The other pictures represent
February (pruning), April (Bodo's masters feasting), May (keeping sheep),
June (mowing), July (woodcutting), September (Bodo's masters boar-
hunting), October (Bodo's masters hawking), and November (making a
bonfire).

PLATE II. Embarkation of the Polos at Venice
From the magnificent MS. of Marco Polo's book, written early in the
fifteenth century and now preserved at the Bodleian Library, Oxford (MS.
no. 264, f. 218). The artist gives an admirable view of medieval Venice,
with the Piazetta to the left, and the Polos embarking on a rowing boat to go
on board their ship. In the foreground are depicted (after the medieval
fashion of showing several scenes of a story in the same picture) some of
the strange lands through which they passed. Note the Venetian trading
ships.

PLATE III. Part of a landscape roll by Chao Mêng-fu
This very beautiful scene is taken from a roll painted by Chao Mêng-fu in
1309 in the style of Wang Wei, a poet and artist of the T'ang dynasty (A.D.
699-759). A fine description of it is given by Mr Laurence Binyon: 'In the
British Museum collection is a long roll, over seventeen feet long, painted

almost entirely in blues and greens on the usual warm brown silk.... It is one
continuous landscape, in which the scenes melt into one another. Such rolls
are not meant to be exhibited or looked at all at once, but enjoyed in small
portions at a time, as the painting is slowly unrolled and the part already
seen rolled up again. No small mastery is requisite, as may be imagined, to
contrive that wherever the spectator pauses an harmonious composition is
presented. One has the sensation, as the roll unfolds, of passing through a
delectable country. In the foreground water winds, narrowing and
expanding, among verdant knolls and lawns, joined here and there by little
wooden bridges; and the water is fed by torrents that plunge down among
pine-woods from crags of fantastic form, glowing with hues of lapis-lazuli
and jade; under towering peaks are luxuriant valleys, groves with glimpses
of scattered deer, walled parks, clumps of delicate bamboo, and the distant
roofs of some nestling village. Here and there is a pavilion by the water in
which poet or sage sits contemplating the beauty round him. These happy
and romantic scenes yield at last to promontory and reed-bed on the borders
of a bay where a fisherman's boat is rocking on the swell. It is possible that
a philosophic idea is intended to be suggested--the passage of the soul
through the pleasant delights of earth to the contemplation of the infinite.'--
Laurence Binyon, Painting in the Far East (1908), pp. 75-6. The section of
the roll which has been chosen for reproduction here has already been
reproduced in S.W. Bushell, Chinese Art (1910), II, Fig. 127, where it is
thus described: 'A lake with a terraced pavilion on an island towards which
a visitor is being ferried in a boat, while fishermen are seen in another boat
pulling in their draw-net; the distant mountains, the pine-clad hills in the
foreground, the clump of willow opposite, and the line of reeds swaying in
the wind along the bank of the water are delightfully rendered, and skilfully
combined to make a characteristic picture.'--Ibid., II, p. 134. Other sections
of the same roll are reproduced in H.A. Giles, Introd. to the Hist, of Chinese
Pictorial Art (2nd ed., 1918) facing p. 56; and in L. Binyon, op. cit., plate
III (facing p. 66). It is exceedingly interesting to compare this landscape roll
with the MS of Marco Polo, illuminated about a century later, from which
the scene of the embarkation at Venice has been taken; the one is so
obviously the work of a highly developed and the other of an almost naïve
and childish civilization.

PLATE IV. Madame Eglentyne at home
This is a page from a fine manuscript of La Sainte Abbaye, now in the
British Museum (MS. Add. 39843, f. 6 vo). At the top of the picture a priest
with two acolytes prepares the sacrament; behind them stands the abbess,
holding her staff and a book, and accompanied by her chaplain and the
sacristan, who rings the bell; behind them is a group of four nuns, including
the cellaress with her keys, and nuns are seen at the windows of the dorter
above. At the bottom is a procession of priest, acolytes and nuns in the
choir; notice the big candles carried by the young nuns (perhaps novices) in
front, and the notation of the music books.

PLATE V. The Ménagier's wife has a garden party
This beautiful scene is taken from a fifteenth-century manuscript of the
Roman de la Rose (Harl. MS. 4425), which is one of the greatest treasures
of the British Museum.

PLATE VI. The Ménagier's wife cooks his supper with the aid of his book
From MS. Royal, 15 D. I, f. 18, in the British Museum which is part of a
petite bible historiale, or biblical history, by Guyart des Moulins, expanded
by the addition of certain books of the Bible, in French. It was made at
Bruges by the order of Edward IV, King of England by one J. du Ries and
finished in 1470, so that it is about eighty years later than the Ménagier's
book. The illustration represents a scene from the story of Tobias; Tobit,
sick and blind, is lying in bed, and his wife Anna is cooking by the fire,
with the help of a book and a serving maid. The right-hand half of the
picture, which is not reproduced here, shows the outside of the house, with
Tobias bringing in the angel Raphael. The illuminated border of the page
from which this scene is taken contains the arms of Edward IV, with the
garter and crown.

PLATE VII. Calais about the time of Thomas Betson

This plan of Calais in 1546 is reproduced from a 'Platt of the Lowe
Countrye att Calleys, drawne in October, the 37th Hen. VIII, by Thomas
Pettyt,' now in the British Museum. (Cott. MS. Aug. I, vol. II, no. 70).
There is only room to show the top corner of the plan, with the drawing of
Calais itself, but the whole plan is charming, with its little villages and great
ships riding in the channel.

PLATE VIII. Thomas Paycocke's house at Coggeshall
From a photograph of the front of the house, standing on the street. Note the
long carved breastsummer that supports the overhanging upper story. On
the left can be seen, much foreshortened, the archway and double doors of
linen fold panels. The windows are renovations on the original design, flat
sash windows having been put in in the eighteenth century.

Index

ABU LUBABAH, 33
Acqui, Jacapo of, 66, 182
Acre, 51, 53
Adrianople, 7, 42
Adriatic, 39, 41, 42, 63, 179
Aegean, 42, 179
Aelfric, Colloquium, 174, 175
Agnes, Dame, see Beguine
Aldgate, 121
Alexander, 54
Alexandria, 40, 42
Alnwick, William, Bishop of Lincoln, 77, 184
Ambrose, 9
Andaman Islands, 69, 70
Anglia, East, 153, 156
Antilha, Antilles, 72, 183
Antwerp, 121, 145, 147
Arab, Arabia, 43, 47, 61, 171
Ararat, Mount, 54
Aretino, Pietro, 180
Arghun, Khan of Persia, 60, 61
Armenia, 42, 49, 53, 179
Arnold, Matthew, 51
Arras, 147
Asia: Central, 40, 49, 50, 51, 54, 67, 71, 72; Minor, 49
Attila, 8, 49
Audley, Lady, 91
Augustine, St, 9, 175
Augustus, 3
Ausonius, 5 ff; his country estate, 6 ff; his friends, 6 ff; and University of
Bordeaux, 5
Austin Friars, 93
Auvergne, 5 ff

Bacon, Francis, 122
Badakhshan, 43, 54, 67

Bagdad, 43, 54
Baku, 54
Bale: Peter, 131; Wyllikyn, 131
Balk, 54
Ballard: James, 127; Jane, 127
Balms (Bammers, Bamis, Bammys) Mart, 147, 193
Barbarians, 1-17
Babarian invasions, 7
Bardi, 71
Barton, John, of Holme, 138
Base, Jacob van de, 149
Bath, Wife of, 84, 104, 118, 152
Bayard, 138
Bays and Says, 172
Beauchamp St Pauls, 169, 170
Becerillo, 33
Beguine, Dame Agnes the, 107, 116, 117
Bellela, see Polo
Benedict, St, 81, 82, 184
Betson: Agnes, Alice, Elizabeth, John, Thomas (the younger), 150;
Katherine, see Riche
Betson, Thomas; Chap VI passim, 158; children of, 150; death of, 150;
illness of, 133-5; letters of, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 189;
member of Fishmongers Company, 150; partnership with Sir W.
Stonor, 125, 137; will of, 134, 150, 194
Bevice, Mistress, 134
Bishops' registers, 74, 75, 76, 78, 183
Bicorne, 104
Black Death, 108, 109
Black Prince, 19
Black Sea, 40, 42, 50, 71
Blakey, Sir Roger, 127
Booking, 154
Bodo, Chap II passim, 18-38, 174-5, 198
Bokhara, 51, 52
Bolgana, wife of Khan of Persia, 60
Bordeaux, Burdews, 142; University of, 6

Bordelais, the, 6, 7
Brabant, 146, 148
Brad well, 140
Brasses, 123, 136, 151, 155, 156, 157, 159, 190, 195
Braunch, Robert, 156
Brenner Pass, 40
Brescia, Albertano de, 99
Breten, Will, 137
Brews, Margery, 125-6
Bridge, John, 119
Briggs, Henry, 169
Brightlingsea, 140
Brinkley, 135
Brittany, 147
Broadway, Whyte of, 137
Brogger, 137
Bruges, 121, 122, 145, 147, 178
Bruyant, Jean, 100
Bucephalus, 54
Buddha, 59
Bullinger, Henry, 165
Burgundy, Dukes of, 114, 148
Burma, 57, 67
Bury, 15
Busshe, John, 137
Buxton: Charles, Isaac, Samuel, Thomas, William, 197; Mr Noel, 195
Byzantium, see Constantinople

Caffa, 42
Calais, 121, 125, 137, 138, 139, 140, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148,
150, 200
Cambaluc (see Peking), 57, 59, 60, 61, 67
Cambrensis, Giraldus, 176
Canale, Martino da, 43-5, 48, 50, 177, 179, 180
Candia, 42
Canterbury, 74
Canterbury Tales, 74, 75, 91, 183, 186

Canton, 70
Ca' Polo, 62, 63
Carrara, Francesco, 179
Carsy, Anthony, 149
Caspian Sea, 40, 54
Cassiodorus, 39, 180
Castro, Diego da, 149
Cathay (see also China), 47, 50, 58, 70, 71, 72, 178
Caucasus, 49, 180
Cely: family of wood merchants, 137-47 passim; George, 125, 137, 138,
142, 147; Richard, 125, 137, 138, 142; William, 125, 138, 142, 149
Cely papers, 125, 137, 142, 145, 147, 148, 189
Ceylon, 43, 47, 61, 70
Chagatai, Khan of, 51
Chao Mêng-fu, 59, 182, 198
Chao Yung, 59
Charlemagne, 2, 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 74, 176
Charms (see also superstition), 27-9, 100, 116, 175
Châtelet, 100
Chaucer, 26, 43, 74, 75, 81, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 99, 104, 112, 119,
138, 142, 148, 152, 183
Chelmsford, 168
Chesne, Jean du, 114
Chichevache, 104
Chi'en Hsüan, 59
Child-marriages, 126-7, 190
Chilperic, King, 2, 13
Chilterns, 125
China (see also Cathay), 43, 46-50, 52, 57-61, 66, 67-70, 178, 180, 181
Chioggia, War of, 179
Church, attitude to: child marriages, 126, 190; convent pets, 91; dancing,
30, 31, 88; decline of Roman Empire, 9; monastic intercourse with
the world, 92, 93; nuns' dowries, 78; superstition, 28, 29, 30; attack
on worldliness of, 74; bequests to (see also Wills), 151,
168; brasses in, see brasses; councils of, 174
Churches of: Barking, All Hallows, 123, 151; Beauchamp St Pauls, 168;
Bradwell, 168; Calais, Our Lady, 151; Chipping Campden, 123;

Chipping Norton, 123; Cirencester, 123, 157; Clare, 164, 168;
Coggeshall, St Peter ad Vincula, 157, 159, 168, 172, 195;
Constantinople, St Sophia, 41; East Anglia, 159; Lechlade, 123;
London, St Olave's, 124; Linwood, 123, 190; Markswell, 168;
Newbury, 163; Newland, 157; Northleach, 136, 157; Ovington, 168;
Pattiswick, 168; Peking, 71; Poslingford, 168; Stoke Nayland, 168;
Venice, St Mark's, 41, 44, 46, 60, 66, 179
Cipangu (Japan), 72, 183
Cistercian, Citeaux, 83, 136
Clare, 154, 164, 168, 178
Clarke, Thomas, 144
Cloth, see Chapter VII passim, 195; capitalism in industry, 164; Coxall's
whites, 178, 197; growth of English manufacture of, 122-3; makers
of, 120, 161; merchants of, see Merchants, Paycocke, Staple;
processes in manufacture, 153, 154, 161, 164; where made, 122-3,
154, 155
Cochin China, 57, 67
Coggeshall, see Chapter VII passim, 154, 155, 159, 160, 164, 166, 167,
168, 169, 170, 172
Coinage, debasement and rates of exchange of, 148
Coins: crown, new and old, of France, 148; David, of Utrecht, 148; Falewe,
of Utrecht, 148; florin, Rhenau, 148; groat, Carolus, Hettinus,
Limburg, of Milan, of Nimueguen, 148, 149; Venetian, 48; guilder,
Andrew (of Scotland), Arnoldus (of Gueldres) Rhenish, 148, 149;
Lewe, Louis d'or, 148; noble, 148; Philippus (Philipe d'or) of
Brabant, 148; Plaques, of Utrecht, 148; Postlate, 148; Rider, Scots,
of Burgundy, 148; Ryall, English, 148; Setiller, 148
Colchester, 140, 154, 168
Cold Mart, 147, 193
Coleridge, 57
Colne, curate of, 127
Cologne, 148
Coloni, 21-2
Columbina, The (Seville), 183
Columbus, 71, 183
Company: East India ('John Company'), 156; Fishmongers, 150;
Haberdashers, 151; Mercers, 149; Merchant Adventurers, 122;

Staplers. Chapter VI passim
Compline, 79, 82
Consrater, 168
Constantinople (see Byzantium), 41, 42, 46, 50, 51, 62
Convent, see Nunneries
Cookery, Medieval, 100, 112-17, 186
Corea, 49
Corte Milioni, 63
Cotswolds, 123, 125, 129, 136, 137, 138, 145, 147, 150
Cotton, Ann, 166
Court Rolls, 26
Coverdale, 165
Coxall, see Coggeshall
Coxall's Whites, 178, 197
Crimea, 42, 50
Croke, Mistress, 129
Crusader, Crusades, 41, 157

Dalmatia, 41, 42
Dalton, William, 141, 144
Damaghan, 180
Dancing: at clothier's wedding, 165; Church's attitude to, 30, 31, 88; in
churchyard, 30, 31; of dancers of Kölbigk, 30, 176; of nun at
Northampton, 93
Dandolo, Doge, Enrico, 41
Danube, River, 49
Danyell, John, 141
Dardanelles, 40
Dean, Forest of, 157
Decasoun, Benynge, 149
Dedham, 154
Defoe, 152, 167
Defuye, Gabriel, 149
Deloney, Thomas, 160, 163-4, 165, 167, 195
Delowppys, John, 149
Denys, St, Abbey of, 36; fair of, 36, 37
Destermer, John, 137