“Here is the Abbot’s Prison,” said Skelton; “the prison of those who break the laws of Westminster, and of debtors, and sometimes of traitors. The debtors lie there like sheep; and the longer they live the leaner they grow, because, look you, if a man is shut up he cannot work nor earn his daily bread, much less can he pay his debts.” As he spoke a long pole was pushed out of window with a box hanging at the end. “It is their almsbox,” said Skelton. “Bestow something upon them, so that they may eat and drink.”
As we stood in the gateway, looking out upon the pleasant fields and green pastures beyond, there came forth from a tavern—at the sign of the Eagle—a girl, the like of whom I had never seen for size and comeliness. She was over six feet high, and had shoulders for breadth like those of a porter, and arms—her sleeves rolled up—which belonged rather to a waterman than a maid. And at sight of her John Skelton began to laugh, and called out, “Meg! Long Meg! come hither. Let me gaze upon thee.” So the tall maid obeyed, showing by her smiles that she was willing to talk with the old man. “Look at her, I say,” said Skelton, laughing. “Saw’st ever woman so tall and strong? This is Long Meg. She is as lusty as she is tall. Let her tell how she knocked over Sir James of Castile, and cudgelled the robber, and fought the Vicar from the Abbey, so that he lay in the Infirmary for three weeks, and how she dragged the Catchpole through the pond, and how she bobbed Huffling Dick on the noll. And she is as good as she is tall and lusty. My modest Meg! my merry Meg! my valiant Meg! my pigsny Meg! Tell the gentleman, Meg.” But the girl hung her head modestly, and only said, “Nay, Sir John, it becomes me not to tell these things.” Then replied Skelton, “I will tell him for thee. And Meg, we will come presently, in the afternoon, for a flask of Malmsey. Go, sweet maid! I would I were forty years younger for thy sake. Stay! what were the verses I made upon thee when first thou didst come to Westminster?”
Meg laughed, and, folding her hands behind her like a girl that says a lesson, began:
“‘Domine, Domine, unde hoc?
What is she in the gray cassock?’”
“Right, Meg—right. But go on.”
“‘Methinks she is of a large length,
Of a tall pitch and a good strength.
With strange armes and stiff bones;
This is a wench for the nones.
I tell thee, Hostesse, I do not mocke,
Take her in the gray cassocke.’
“But I have no gray cassock now,” Meg added, laughing. “This afternoon, Sir John, Will Sommers comes. There will be merry tales and songs. Farewell, good sir.”
So, with a reverence, this comely giantess, this thumping, handsome wench, ran back to the tavern.
“Now,” said Sir John, “we will take a walk. First, I will show thee where Will Caxton put up his first printing press, at the sign of the Red Pale. ’Tis nigh on thirty years since he is dead. Ha! he printed books of mine. The printed book remains; for there are hundreds of each book, and the trade of the scrivener is well-nigh gone. So much the better for the poet. I am in good company on the shelf with Caxton’s books; in the company of Virgil and Ovid; of Boethius, Chaucer, and Gower, and Alain Chartier. I march with uplifted head in such a company. Laureate of Oxford and Louvain, friend of these immortals. My Lord the Cardinal turns green when he thinks upon it. Next,” he continued, “we will walk about the Abbey. I cannot show thee the wealth of the monks, because that is spread out over the whole country—here