Читать книгу One Snowy Night - Emily Sarah Holt - Страница 5

“For men must work, and women must weep,

And the sooner ’tis over, the sooner to sleep.”

Reverend Charles Kingsley.

“Flemild!”

“Yes, Mother.”

It was not a cross voice that called, but it sounded like a very tired one. The voice which answered was much more fresh and cheerful.

“Is Romund come in yet?”

“No, Mother.”

“Nor Haimet either?”

“I have not seen him, Mother.”

“Oh dear, those boys! They are never in the way when they are wanted.”

The speaker came forward and showed herself. She was a woman of some forty years or more, looking older than she was, and evidently very weary. She wore a plain untrimmed skirt of dark woollen stuff, short to the ankles, a long linen apron, and a blue hood over her head and shoulders. Resting her worn hands on the half-door, she looked drearily up and down the street, as if in languid hope of catching a glimpse of the boys who should have been there, and were not.

“Well, there’s no help for it!” she said at last, “Flemild, child, you must go for the water to-night.”

“I? O Mother!” The girl’s tone was one of manifest reluctance.

“It can’t be helped, child. Take Derette with you, and be back as quick as you can, before the dusk comes on. The lads should have been here to spare you, but they only think of their own pleasure. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, for my part.”

“Father Dolfin says it’s going to be burnt up,” said a third voice—that of a child—from the interior of the house.

“Time it was!” replied the mother bluntly. “There’s nought but trouble and sorrow in it—leastwise I’ve never seen much else. It’s just work, work, work, from morning to night, and often no rest to speak of from night to morning. You get up tireder than you went to bed, and you may just hold your tongue for all that any body cares, as the saints know. Well, well!—Come, make haste, child, or there’ll be a crowd round Saint Martin’s Well.” (Note 1.)

“O Mother! mayn’t I go to Plato’s Well?”

“What, and carry your budget four times as far? Nonsense, Flemild!”

“But, Mother, please hear me a minute! It’s a quiet enough way, when you are once past the Bayly, and I can step into the lodge and see if Cousin Stephen be at home. If he be, he’ll go with me, I know.”

“You may go your own way,” said the mother, not quite pleasantly. “Young folks are that headstrong! I can’t look for my children to be better than other folks’. If they are as good, it’s as much as one need expect in this world.”

Flemild had been busily tying on a red hood while her mother spoke, and signing to her little sister to do the same. Then the elder girl took from a corner, where it hung on a hook, a budget or pail of boiled leather, a material then much used for many household vessels now made of wood or metal: and the girls went out into the narrow street.

The street was called Kepeharme Lane, and the city was Oxford. This lane ran, in old diction, from the Little Bayly to Fish Street—in modern language, from New Inn Hall Street to Saint Aldate’s, slightly south of what is now Queen Street, and was then known as the Great Bayly. The girls turned their backs on Saint Aldate’s, and went westwards, taking the way towards the Castle, which in 1159 was not a ruined fortress, but an aristocratic mansion, wherein the great De Veres held almost royal state.

“Why don’t you like Saint Martin’s Well, Flemild?” demanded the child, with childish curiosity.

“Oh, for lots of reasons,” answered her sister evasively.

“Tell me one or two.”

“Well, there is always a crowd there towards evening. Then, very often, there are ragamuffins on Penniless Bench (Note 2) that one does not want to come too near. Then—don’t you see, we have to pass the Jewry?”

“What would they do to us?” asked the child.

“Don’t talk about it!” returned her sister, with a shudder. “Don’t you know, Derette, the Jews are very, very wicked people? Hasn’t Mother told you so many a time? Never you go near them—now, mind!”

“Are they worse than we are?”

Flemild’s conscience pricked her a little as she replied, “Of course they are. Don’t you know they crucified our Lord?”

“What, these Jews?” asked Derette with open eyes. “Old Aaron, and Benefei at the corner, and Jurnet the fletcher, and—O Flemild, not, surely not Countess and Regina? They look so nice and kind, I’m sure they never could do any thing like that!”

“No, child, not these people, of course. Why, it was hundreds and hundreds of years ago. But these are just as bad—every one of them. They would do it again if they had the chance.”

“Countess wouldn’t, I know,” persisted the little one. “Why, Flemild, only last week, she caught pussy for me, and gave her to me, and she smiled so prettily. I liked her. If Mother hadn’t said I must never speak to any of them, I’d have had a chat with her; but of course I couldn’t, then, so I only smiled back again, and nodded for ‘thank you.’ ”

“Derette!” There was genuine terror in the tone of the elder sister. “Don’t you know those people are all wicked witches? Regular black witches, in league with the Devil. There isn’t one of them would not cast a spell on you as soon as look at you.”

“What would it do to me?” inquired the startled child.

“What wouldn’t it do? you had better ask. Make you into a horrid black snake, or a pig, or something you would not like to be, I can tell you.”

“I shouldn’t quite like to be a black snake,” said Derette, after a minute’s pause for reflection. “But I don’t think I should much mind being a pig. Little, tiny pigs are rather pretty things; and when they lie and grunt, they look very comfortable.”

“Silly child!—you’d have no soul to be saved!”

“Shouldn’t I? But, Flemild, I don’t quite see—if I were the pig—would that be me or the pig?”

“Hi, there! Where are you going?”

Flemild was not very sorry to be saved the solution of Derette’s difficult problem. She turned to the youth of some fifteen years, who had hailed her from the corner of Castle Street.

“Where you should have gone instead, Haimet—with the budget for water. Do go with me now.”

“Where on earth are you going—to Osney?”

“No, stupid boy: to Plato’s Well.”

“I’m not going there. I don’t mind Saint Maudlin’s, if you like.”

“We are out of the way to Saint Maudlin’s, or else I shouldn’t have minded—”

“No, my lady, I rather think you wouldn’t have minded the chance of a dance in Horsemonger Street. However, I’m not going to Plato’s Well. If you go with me, you go to Saint Maudlin’s; and if you don’t, you may find your way back by yourselves, that’s all.”

And laying his hands on the budget, Haimet transferred it from his sister’s keeping to his own.

Plato’s Well stood in Stockwell Street, on the further side of the Castle, and on the south of Gloucester Hall, now Worcester College. Fortified by her brother’s presence, Flemild turned after him, and they went up Castle Street, and along North Bayly Street into Bedford Lane, now the northern part of New Inn Hall Street. When they reached the North Gate, they had to wait to go out, for it was just then blocked by a drove of cattle, each of which had to pay the municipal tax of a halfpenny, and they were followed by a cart of sea-fish, which paid fourpence. The gate being clear, they passed through it, Flemild casting rather longing looks down Horsemonger Street (the modern Broad Street), where a bevy of young girls were dancing, while their elders sat at their doors and looked on; but she did not attempt to join them. A little further, just past the Church of Saint Mary Magdalen, they came to a small gothic building over a well. Here, for this was Saint Maudlin’s Well, Haimet drew the water, and they set forth on the return journey.

“Want to go after those damsels?” inquired the youth, with a nod in the direction of the dancers, as they passed the end of the street.

“N-o,” said Flemild. “Mother bade me haste back. Beside, they won’t be out many minutes longer. It isn’t worth while.”

“Like a woman,” retorted Haimet with a satirical grin; “the real reason always comes last.”

“What do you know about it?” answered his sister, not ill-humouredly, as they paused again at the North Gate. “O Haimet, what are those?”

A small company of about thirty—men, women, and a few children—were coming slowly down Horsemonger Street. They were attired in rough short tunics, warm sheepskin cloaks, heavy boots which had seen hard service, and felt hats or woollen hoods. Each man carried a long staff, and all looked as though they were ending a wearisome journey. Their faces had a foreign aspect, and most of the men wore beards—not a very common sight in England at that date, especially with the upper classes. And these men were no serfs, as was shown by the respectability of their appearance, and the absence of the brazen neck-collar which marked the slave.

The man who walked first of the little company, and had a look of intelligence and power, addressed himself to the porter at the gate in excellent French—almost too excellent for comprehension. For though French was at that date the Court tongue in England, as now in Belgium, it was Norman French, scarcely intelligible to a Parisian, and still less so to a Provençal. The porter understood only the general scope of the query—that the speaker wished to know if he and his companions might find lodging in the city.

“Go in,” said he bluntly. “As to lodgings, the saints know where you will get them. There are dog-holes somewhere, I dare say.”

The leader turned, and said a few words to his friends in an unknown tongue, when they at once followed him through the gate. As he passed close by the girls, they noticed that a book hung down from his girdle—a very rare sight to their eyes. While they were watching the foreigners defile past them, the leader stopped and turned to Haimet, who was a little in advance of his sisters.

“My master,” he said, “would you for the love of God tell us strangers where we can find lodging? We seek any honest shelter, and ask no delicate fare. We would offend no man, and would gladly help with any household work.”

Haimet hesitated, and gnawed his under lip in doubtful fashion. Flemild pressed forward.

“Master,” she said, “if in truth you are content with plain fare and lodging, I think my mother would be willing to give room to one or two of the women among you, if they would pay her by aid in household work: and methinks our next neighbour would maybe do as much. Thinkest thou not so, Haimet?—Will you follow us and see?”

“Most gladly, maiden,” was the answer.

“My word, Flemild, you are in for it!” whispered Haimet. “Mother will be right grateful to you for bringing a whole army of strangers upon her, who may be witches for all you know.”

“Mother will be glad enough of a woman’s arms to help her, and let her rest her own,” replied Flemild decidedly; “and I am sure they look quite respectable.”

“Well, look out for storms!” said Haimet.

Flemild, who had acted on an impulse of compassionate interest, was herself a little doubtful how her action would be received at home, though she did not choose to confess it. They passed down North Gate Street (now the Corn-market), and crossing High Street, went a few yards further before they readied their own street. On their right hand stood the cooks’ shops, and afterwards the vintners’, while all along on their left ran the dreaded Jewry, which reached from High Street to what is now the chief entrance of Christ Church. The fletchers’ and cutlers’ stalls stood along this side of the street. Eastwards the Jewry stretched to Oriel Street, and on the south came very near the Cathedral Church of Saint Frideswide. The (now destroyed) Church of Saint Edward stood in the midst of it.

As our friends turned into their own street, they passed a girl of some seventeen years of age—a very handsome girl, with raven hair and dark brilliant eyes.

She smiled at Derette as she passed, and the child returned the silent salutation, taking care to turn her head so that her sister should not see her. A moment later they came to their own door, over which hung a panel painted with a doubtful object, which charity might accept as the walnut tree for which it was intended. Just as this point was reached, their mother came to the door, carrying a tin basin, from which she threw some dirty water where every body then threw it, into the gutter.

“Saint Benedict be merciful to us!” she cried, nearly dropping the basin. “What on earth is all this ado? And the children here in the midst of it! Holy Virgin, help us! There is nothing but trouble for a poor woman in this world. And me as good as a widow, and worse, too. Haimet! Flemild! whatever are you about?”

“Mother,” said Flemild in politic wise, “I have brought you some help. These good women here seek lodging for the night—any decent kind will serve them—and they offer to pay for it in work. It will be such a rest for you, Mother, if you will take in one or two; and don’t you think Franna would do the same, and old Turguia be glad of the chance?”

Isel stood with the basin in her hand, and a look half vexed, half amused, upon her face.

“Well! what is to be will be,” she said at last. “I suppose you’ve arranged it all. It’ll be grand rest to have every thing smashed in the house. Come in, friends, as many of you as like. Those that can’t find straw to lie on can sit on a budget. Blessed saints, the shiftlessness of girls!”

And with a tone of voice which seemed to be the deeper depth below despair itself, Isel led the way into the house.

Derette had fallen a little back, entranced by a sight which always attracted her. She loved any thing that she could pet, whether a baby or a kitten; and had once, to the horror of her mother’s housekeeping soul, been discovered offering friendly advances to a whole family of mice. In the arms of the woman who immediately followed the leader, lay what seemed to Derette’s eyes a particularly fascinating baby. She now edged her way to her mother’s side, with an imploring whisper of “There’s a baby, Mother!”

“There’s three, child. I counted them,” was the grim reply.

“But, Mother, there’s one particular baby—”

“Then you’d better go and fetch it, before you lose it,” said Isel in the same tone.

Derette, who took the suggestion literally, ran out, and with many smiles and encouraging nods, led in the baby and its mother, with a young girl of about eighteen years, who came after them, and seemed to belong to them.

“I suppose I shall have to go with you, at any rate through this street,” said Haimet, returning after he had set down the bucket. “Our folks here won’t understand much of that lingo of yours. Come along.”

The tone was less rough than the words—it usually was with Haimet—and the little company followed him down the street, very ready to accept the least attempt at kindness.

Isel and Flemild were somewhat dismayed to discover that their chosen guests could not understand a word they said, and were quite as unintelligible to them. Derette’s mute offer to hold the baby was quickly comprehended; and when Isel, taking the woman and girl up the ladder, showed them a heap of clean straw, on which two thick rough rugs lay folded, they quite understood that their sleeping-place for the night was to be there. Isel led the way down again, placed a bowl of apples before the girl, laid a knife beside it, and beginning to pare one of the apples, soon made known to her what she required. In a similar manner she seated the woman in the chimney-corner, and put into her hands a petticoat which she was making for Derette. Both the strangers smiled and nodded, and went to work with a will, while Isel set on some of the fresh water just brought, and began to prepare supper.

“Well, this is a queer fix as ever I saw!” muttered Isel, as she cleaned her fish ready for boiling. “It’s true enough what my grandmother used to say—you never know, when you first open your eyes of a morning, what they’ll light on afore you shut them at night. If one could talk to these outlandish folks, there’d be more sense in it. Flemild, I wonder if they’ve come across your father.”

“O Mother, couldn’t we ask them?”

“How, child? If I say, ‘Have you seen aught of an Englishman called Manning Brown?’ as like as not they’ll think I’m saying, ‘Come and eat this pie.’ ”

Flemild laughed. “That first man talks,” she said.

“Ay, and he’s gone with the lot. Just my luck!—always was. My father was sure to be killed in the wars, and my husband was safe to take it into his head to go and fight the Saracens, instead of stopping at home like a decent fellow to help his wife and bring up his children the way they should go. Well!—it can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“Why did Father go to fight the Saracens?” demanded Derette, looking up from the baby.

“Don’t you know, Derette? It is to rescue our Lord’s sepulchre,” said Flemild.

“Does He want it?” replied Derette.

Flemild did not know how to answer. “It is a holy place, and ought not to be left in the hands of wicked people.”

“Are Saracens wicked people?”

“Yes, of course—as bad as Jews. They are a sort of Jews, I believe; at any rate, they worship idols, and weave wicked spells.” (Note 3.)

“Is all the world full of wicked people?”

“Pretty nigh, child!” said her mother, with a sigh. “The saints know that well enough.”

“I wonder if the saints do know,” answered Derette meditatively, rocking the baby in her arms. “I should have thought they’d come and mend things, if they did. Why don’t they, Mother?”

“Bless you, child! The saints know their own business best. Come here and watch this pan whilst I make the sauce.”

The supper was ready, and was just about to be dished up, when Haimet entered, accompanied by the leader of the foreigners, to the evident delight of the guests.

“Only just in time,” murmured Isel. “However, it is as well you’ve brought somebody to speak to. Where’s all the rest of them folks?”

“Got them all housed at last,” said Haimet, flinging his hat into a corner. “Most in the town granary, but several down this street. Old Turguia took two women, and Franna a man and wife: and what think you?—if old Benefei did not come forth and offer to take in some.”

“Did they go with him?”

“As easy in their minds, so far as looks went, as if it had been my Lord himself. Didn’t seem to care half a straw.”

“Sweet Saint Frideswide! I do hope they aren’t witches themselves,” whispered Isel in some perturbation.

To open one’s house for the reception of passing strangers was not an unusual thing in that day; but the danger of befriending—and yet more of offending—those who were in league with the Evil One, was an ever-present fear to the minds of men and women in the twelfth century.

The leader overheard the whisper.

“Good friends,” he said, addressing Isel, “suffer me to set your minds at rest with a word of explanation. We are strangers, mostly of Teutonic race, that have come over to this land on a mission of good and mercy. Indeed we are not witches, Jews, Saracens, nor any evil thing: only poor harmless peasants that will work for our bread and molest no man, if we may be suffered to abide in your good country for this purpose. This is my wife—” he laid his hand on the shoulder of the baby’s mother—“her name is Agnes, and she will soon learn your tongue. This is my young sister, whose name is Ermine; and my infant son is called Rudolph. Mine own name is Gerhardt, at your service. I am a weaver by trade, and shall be pleased to exercise my craft in your behalf, thus to return the kindness you have shown us.”

“Well, I want some new clothes ill enough, the saints know,” said Isel in answer; “and if you behave decent, and work well, and that, I don’t say as I might be altogether sorry for having taken you in. It’s right, I suppose, to help folks in trouble—though it’s little enough help I ever get that way, saints knows!—and I hope them that’s above ’ll bear it in mind when things come to be reckoned up like.”

That was Isel’s religion. It is the practical religion of a sadly large number of people in this professedly Christian land.

Agnes turned and spoke a few words in a low voice to her husband, who smiled in answer.

“My wife wishes me to thank you,” he said, “in her name and that of my sister, for your goodness in taking us strangers so generously into your home. She says that she can work hard, and will gladly do so, if, until she can speak your tongue, you will call her attention, and do for a moment what you wish her to do. Ermine says the same.”

“Well, that’s fair-spoken enough, I can’t deny,” responded Isel; “and I’m not like to say I shan’t be glad of a rest. There’s nought but hard work in this world, without it’s hard words: and which is the uglier of them I can’t say. It’ll be done one of these days, I reckon.”

“And then, friend?” asked Gerhardt quietly.

“Well, if you know the answer to that, you know more than I do,” said Isel, dishing up her salt fish. “Dear saints, where ever is that boy Romund? Draw up the form, Haimet, and let us have our supper. Say grace, boy.”

Haimet obeyed, by the short and easy process of making a large cross over the table, and muttering a few unintelligible words, which should have been a Latin formula. The first surprise received from the foreign guests came now. Instead of sitting down to supper, the trio knelt and prayed in silence for some minutes, ere they rose and joined their hosts at the table. Then Gerhardt spoke aloud.

“God, who blessed the five barley loaves and the two fishes before His disciples in the wilderness, bless this table and that which is set on it, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

“Oh, you do say your prayers!” remarked Isel in a tone of satisfaction, as the guests began their supper. “But I confess I’d sooner say mine while the fish isn’t getting cold.”

“We do, indeed,” answered Gerhardt gravely.

“Oh, by the way, tell me if you’ve ever come across an English traveller called Manning Brown? My husband took the cross, getting on for three years now, and I’ve never heard another word about him since. Thought you might have chanced on him somewhere or other.”

“Whither went he, and which way did he take?”

“Bless you, I don’t know! He went to foreign parts: and foreign parts are all one to me.”

Gerhardt looked rather amused.

“We come from Almayne,” he said; “some of us in past years dwelt in Provence, Toulouse, and Gascony.”

“Don’t tell me!” said Isel, holding up her hands. “It’s all so much gibberish. Have you met with my man?—that’s all I want to know.”

“I have not,” replied Gerhardt. “I will ask my friends, and see if any of them have done so.”

Supper over, a second surprise followed. Again Gerhardt offered his special blessing—“God, who has given us bodily food, grant us His spiritual life; and may God be with us, and we always with Him!” Then they once more knelt and silently prayed. Gerhardt drew his wife and sister into a corner of the house, and opening his book, read a short portion, after which they engaged in low-toned conversation.

Derette, with the baby in her arms, had drawn near the group. She was not at all bashful.

“I wish I could understand you,” she said. “What are you talking about?”

Gerhardt lifted his cap before answering.

“About our blessed Lord Christ, my maiden,” he said.

Derette nodded, with an air of satisfaction at the wide extent of her knowledge. “I know. He’s holy Mary’s Son.”

“Ay, and He is our Saviour,” added Flemild.

“Is He thy Saviour, little one?” asked Gerhardt.

“I don’t know what you mean,” was the answer.

“O Derette! you know well enough that our Lord is called the Saviour!” corrected her sister in rather a shocked tone.

“I know that, but I don’t know what it means,” persisted the child sturdily.

“Come, be quiet!” said her mother. “I never did see such a child for wanting to get to the bottom of things.—Well, Romund! Folks that want supper should come in time for it. All’s done and put by now.”

“I have had my supper at the Lodge,” responded a tall young man of twenty-two, who had just entered. “Who are those people?”

His mother gave the required explanation. Romund looked rather doubtfully at the guests. Gerhardt, seeing that this was the master of the house, at least under present circumstances, rose, and respectfully raising his cap, apologised for their presence.

“What can you do?” inquired Romund shortly.

“My trade is weaving,” replied Gerhardt, “but I can stack wood or cut it, put up shelves, milk cows, or attend to a garden. I shall be glad to do any thing in my power.”

“You may nail up the vine over the back door,” said Romund, “and I dare say my mother can find you some shelves and hooks to put up. The women can cook and sew. You may stay for a few days, at any rate.”

Gerhardt expressed his thanks, and Romund, disappearing outside the back door, returned with some pieces of wood and tools, which he laid down on the form. He was trying to carve a wooden box with a pattern of oak leaves, but he had not progressed far, and his attempts were not of the first order. Haimet noticed Gerhardt’s interested glance cast on his brother’s work.

“Is that any thing in your line?” he asked with a smile.

“I have done a little in that way,” replied Gerhardt modestly. “May I examine it?” he asked of Romund.

The young carver nodded, and Gerhardt took up the box.

“This is an easy pattern,” he said.

“Easy, do you call it?” replied Romund. “It is the hardest I have done yet. Those little round inside bits are so difficult to manage.”

“May I try?” asked Gerhardt.

It was not very willingly that Romund gave permission, for he almost expected the spoiling of his work: but the carving-tool had not made more than a few cuts in the German’s fingers, before Romund saw that his guest was a master in the art. The work so laborious and difficult to him seemed to do itself when Gerhardt took hold of it.

“Why, you are a first-class hand at it!” he cried.

Gerhardt smiled. “I have done the like before, in my own country,” he said.

“Will you teach me your way of working?” asked Romund eagerly. “I never had any body to teach me. I should be as glad as could be to learn of one that really knew.”

“Gladly,” said Gerhardt. “It will give me pleasure to do any thing for the friends who have been so kind to me.”

“Derette, it is your bedtime,” came from the other corner—not by any means to Derette’s gratification. “Give the baby to its mother, and be off.”

Very unwillingly Derette obeyed: but Gerhardt, looking up, requested Isel’s permission for his wife and sister to retire with the child. They had had a long journey that day, and were quite worn out. Isel readily assented, and Derette with great satisfaction saw them accompany her up the ladder.

The houses of the common people at that time were extremely poor. This family were small gentlefolks after a fashion, and looked down upon the tradesmen by whom they were surrounded as greatly their inferiors: yet they dwelt in two rooms, one above the other, with a ladder as the only means of communication. Their best bed, on which Isel and Flemild slept, was a rough wooden box filled with straw, on the top of which were a bed and a mattress, covered by coarse quilts and a rug of rabbit-skin. Derette and the boys lay on sacks filled with chaff, with woollen rugs over them.

The baby was already asleep, and Agnes laid it gently on one of the woollen rugs, while she and Ermine, to Derette’s amazement, knelt and prayed for some time. Derette herself took scarcely five minutes to her prayers. Why should she require more, when her notion of prayer was not to make request for what she wanted to One who could give it to her, but to gabble over one Creed, six Paternosters, and the doxology, with as much rapidity as she could persuade her lips to utter the words? Then, in another five minutes, after a few rapid motions, Derette drew the woollen rug over her, and very quickly knew nothing more, for that night at least.

The city of Oxford, as then inhabited, was considerably smaller than it is now. The walls ran, roughly speaking, on the north, from the Castle to Holywell Street, on the east a little lower than the end of Merton Street, thence on the south to the other side of the Castle. Beyond the walls the houses extended northwards somewhat further than to Beaumont Street, and southwards about half-way to Friar Bacon’s Tower. The oldest church in the city is Saint Peter’s in the East, which was originally built in the reign of Alfred; the University sermons used to be delivered in the stone pulpit of this church.

There was a royal palace in Oxford, built by Henry First, who styled it le Beau Mont; it stood in Stockwell Street, nearly on the site of the present workhouse. It had not been visited by royalty since 1157, when a baby was born in it, destined to become a mighty man of valour, and to be known to all ages as King Richard Coeur-de-Lion. In 1317 King Edward Second bestowed it on the White Friars, and all that now remains of it is a small portion of the wall built into the workhouse.

The really great man of the city was the Earl of Oxford, at that time Aubrey de Vere, the first holder of the title. He had been married to a lady who was a near relative of King Stephen, but his second and present Countess, though of good family, came from a lower grade.

Modern ideas of a castle are often inaccurate. It was not always a single fortified mansion, but consisted quite as frequently of an embattled wall surrounding several houses, and usually including a church. The Castle of Oxford was of the latter type, the Church of Saint George being on its western side. The keep of a castle was occupied by the garrison, though it generally contained two or three special chambers for the use of the owner, should necessity oblige him and his family to take refuge there in a last extremity. The entrance was dexterously contrived, particularly when the fortress consisted of a single house, to present as much difficulty as possible to a besieger. It was always at some height in the wall, and was reached by a winding, or rather rambling, stairway leading from the drawbridge, and often running round a considerable part of the wall. One or more gates in the course of this stair could be closed at pleasure. A large and imposing portal admitted the visitor to a small tower occupied by the guards, through which the real entrance was approached. This stood in the thickness of the outer wall, and was protected by another pair of gates and a portcullis, just inside which was the porter’s lodge. On the ground-floor the soldiers were lodged; on the midmost were the state and family apartments, while the uppermost accommodated the household servants and attendants. A special tower was usually reserved for the ladies of the family, and was often accompanied by a tiny garden. In the partition wall a well was dug, which could be reached on every floor; and below the vestibule was a dungeon. The great banqueting-hall was the general sitting-room to which every one in the castle had access; and here it was common for family, servants, and guard to take together their two principal meals—dinner at nine a.m., supper at four or five o’clock. The only distinction observed was that the board and trestles for the family and guests were set up on the daïs, for the household and garrison below. The tables were arranged in the form of a horse-shoe, the diners sitting on the outer or larger side, while the servants waited on the inner. The ladies had, beside this, their own private sitting-room, always attached to the bedchamber, and known as the “bower,” to which strangers were rarely admitted. Here they sat and sang, gossiped, and worked their endless embroidery. The days were scarcely yet over when English needlework bore the palm in Europe and even in the East, while the first illuminators were the monks of Ireland. Ladies were the spinners, weavers, surgeons, and readers of the day; they were great at interpreting dreams, and dearly loved flowers. The gentlemen looked upon reading as an occupation quite as effeminate as sewing, war and hunting being the two main employments of the lords of creation, and gambling the chief amusement. Priests and monks were the exceptions to this rule, until Henry First introduced a taste for somewhat more liberal education. Even more respectful to letters was his grandson Henry Second, who had a fancy for resembling his grandfather in every thing; yet he allowed the education of his sons to be thoroughly neglected.

The popular idea that the University of Oxford is older than King Alfred is scarcely borne out by modern research. That there was some kind of school there in Alfred’s day is certain: but nothing like a university arose before the time of Henry First, and the impetus which founded it came from outside. A Frenchman with a Scotch education, and a Jewish Rabbi, are the two men to whom more than any others must be traced the existence of the University of Oxford.

Theodore d’Etampes, a secular priest, and apparently a chaplain of Queen Margaret of Scotland, arrived at Oxford about the year 1116, where he taught classes of scholars from sixty to a hundred in number. But every thing which we call science came there with the Jews, who settled under the shadow of Saint Frideswide shortly after the Conquest. Hebrew, astronomy, astrology, geometry, and mathematics, were taught by them, at their hostels of Lombard Hall, Moses Hall, and Jacob Hall; while law, theology, and the “humanities,” engaged the attention of the Christian lecturers. Cardinal Pullus, Robert de Cricklade, and the Lombard jurist Vacario, each in his turn made Oxford famous, until King Stephen closed the mouth of “the Master” of civil law, and burned at once the law-books and the Jews. Henry Second revived and protected the schools, in the churchyard outside the west door of Saint Mary’s Church; the scriveners, binders, illuminators, and parchmenters, occupying Schools Street, which ran thence towards the city wall.

The special glory of Oxford, at that time, was not the University, but the shrine of Saint Frideswide. This had existed from the eighth century, when the royal maiden whom it celebrated, after declining to fulfil a contract of matrimony which her father had made for her (as she was much too holy to be married), had added insult to injury by miraculously inflicting blindness on her disappointed lover when he attempted to pursue her. She had, however, the grace to restore his sight on due apologies being made. Becoming Prioress of the convent which she founded, she died therein on October 14th, 740, which day was afterwards held as a gaudy day. Possibly because her indignant lover was a king, it was held ominous for any monarch to enter the Chapel of Saint Frideswide in her convent church. King John, who was as superstitious on some points as he was profane on others, never dared to pass the threshold.

His father, being gifted with more common sense, was present at the translation of the saint in 1180. The bones of Saint Frideswide still sleep in Christ Church; but at the Reformation they were purposely mingled with those of Katherine Vermilia, wife of Peter Martyr, and on the grave where the two were interred was carved the inscription, “Here lieth Religion with Superstition.” Of course the object of this was to prevent any further worship of the relics, as it would be impossible to discern the bones of the saint from those of the heretic. It is not improbable that both were good women according to their light; but the saint was assuredly far the less enlightened. To common sense, apart from tradition and sentiment, it is difficult to understand why a certain group of persons, who lived in an age when education was very limited, superstition and prejudice very rife, spirituality almost dormant, and a taste for childish follies and useless hair-splitting the commonest things in literature, should be singled out for special reverence as “saints,” or under the honourable name of “the Fathers,” be deemed higher authorities in respect to the interpretation of Holy Writ than the far more intelligent and often far more spiritual writers of later date. If this curious hero-worship were confined to the generation immediately following the Apostles, it would be a little more intelligible; as such men might possibly have derived some of their ideas from apostolic oral teaching. But to those who know the history of the early ages of Christianity, and are not blinded by prejudice, it is simply amazing that the authority of such men as Basil, Cyprian, and Jerome, should be held to override that of the spiritual giants of the Puritan era, and of those who have deeply and reverently studied Scripture in our own times. To appeal to the views held by such men as decisive of the burning questions of the day, is like referring matters of grave import to the judgment of little children, instead of consulting men of ripe experience. We know what followed a similar blunder on the part of King Rehoboam. Yet how often is it repeated! It would seem that not only is “no prophet accepted in his own country,” but also in his own day.

Note 1. Saint Martin’s Well stood in the junction of the “four-ways” from which Carfax takes its name.

Note 2. Penniless Bench, which ran along the east end of Carfax Church, was the original of all “penniless benches.” It was not always occupied by idle vagrants, for sometimes the scholars of the University used to congregate there, as well as the Corporation of the city.

Note 3. All Christians believed this at that date.