"Sir," he said, "you are welcome. I had never expected or looked to converse in the flesh, or in the spirit—I know not which this visit may be called—with one from after generations; from our children and grandchildren. May I ask to which generation—"
"I belong to the late nineteenth century."
"It is nearly three hundred years to come. Bones o' me! Ten generations! I take this visit, sir, as an encouragement; even a special mark of favor bestowed upon me by the Lord, to show His servant that his work will not be forgotten."
"Forgotten? Nay, Master Stow, there are not many men of your age whom we would not lose before you are forgotten. Believe me, the Survey by John Stow will last as long as the City itself."
"Truly, sir," the old man replied, "my sole pains and care have ever been to write the truth. It is forty years— Ah, what a man was I at forty! What labors could I then accomplish between uprising and downlying! Forty years, I say, since I wrote the lines:
Of smooth and feathering speech remember to take heed,
For truth in plain words may be told; of craft a lie hath need.
"Of craft," he repeated, "a lie hath need. If the world would consider—well, sir, I am old and my friends are mostly dead, and men, I find, care little for the past wherein was life, but still regard the present and push on towards the future, wherein are death and the grave. And for my poor services the king hath granted letters patent whereby I am licensed to beg. I complain not, though for one who is a London citizen, and the grandson of reputable citizens, to beg one's bread is to be bankrupt, and of bankrupts this city hath great scorn. Yet, I say, I complain not."
"In so long a life," I said, "you must have many memories."
"So many, sir, that they fill my mind. Often, as I sit here, whither cometh no one now to converse about the things of old, my senses are closed to the present, and my thoughts carry me back to the old days. Why"—his eyes looked back as he spoke—"I remember King Harry the Eighth himself, the like of whom for masterfulness this realm hath never seen. Who but a strong man could by his own will overthrow—yea, and tear up by the very foundations—the religion which seemed made to endure forever? Sure I am that when I was a boy there was no thought of any change. I remember when in the streets every second man was priest or monk. The latter still wore his habit—grey, white, or black. But you could not tell the priest from the layman, for the priests were so proud that they went clothed in silks and furs; yea, and of bright colors like any court gallant; their shoes spiked; their hair crisped; their girdles armed with silver; and in like manner their bridles and their spurs; their caps laced and buttoned with gold. Now our clergy go in sober attire, so that the gravity of their calling is always made manifest to their own and others' eyes by the mere color of their dress. I remember, being then a youth, how the Houses were dissolved and the monks turned out. All were swept away. There was not even left so much as an hospital for the sick; even the blind men of Elsing's were sent adrift, and the lepers from the Lazar house, and the old priests from the Papey. There was no help for the poor in those days, and folk murmured, but below breath, and would fain, but dared not say so, have seen the old religion again. The king gave the houses to his friends. Lord Cromwell got Austin Friars, where my father, citizen and tallow-chandler, had his house. Nay, so greedy of land was my lord that he set back my father's wall, and so robbed him of his garden, and there was no redress, because he was too strong."
He got up and walked about the room, talking as he paced the narrow limits. He talked garrulously, as if it pleased him to talk about the past. "When we came presently to study Holy Scripture," he said, "where there is an example or a warning for everything, we read the history of Ahab and of Naboth's vineyard; and for my own part I could never avoid comparing my Lord Cromwell with Ahab, and the vineyard with my father's garden, though Naboth had never to pay rent for the vineyard which was taken from him as my father had. The end of my Lord Cromwell was sudden and violent, like the end of King Ahab."