Hawksmoor

by Peter Ackroyd

  Ah Mr Dyer, says she, I see you suffer mightily from the Gout as it was with my husband of dear Remembrance: you do not know the perpetual Watchings, the numberless Toils, the frequent Risings in the Night which Mr Best brought me to. Then she busied herself about my Bedside and gave me, as she said, her best advice: what lies in me, she whispered, will be at your Service. She rose to go, but turned like a dry leaf in a wind before reaching the Door: I could not forebear taking notice, she said, that you are enamoured of the old Books and does this mean that you have the Poets for Recreation? (I lay back in Pain, which she took for assent.) May I, she continu'd in a very familiar Manner, show you the Product of my Idle hours? And with that she went down to her Parlour and brought up with her again several Epitaphs and Elegies of her own composing. Do you wish to hear, Nat Eliot? she ask'd my Boy, feigning to be Coy with me, and as he gaped up at her she spoke thus: O Blessed letters, that combine in one All ages past; and make one live with all!

  Make us confer with those who now are gone, And the dead living unto counsel call!

  There is a want of Sense in that line, she mutters before continuing quickly: By you th'unborn shall have communion Of what we feel, and what does us befall.

  Do you like? said she fetching a deep Sigh as Nat wept like a Tapster without good liquor. You say true, he murmured, you say true and the Relict gave a little satisfied Grin. I was like to have hurled back at her: Twas not the Muse but her strong beer that stung Her mouth being stopt, the Words came through the Bung.

  But I held my peece: I am not yet an ancient Tenent, and can not be merry with her in my Fashion.

  It is good Fortune, Nat said after she had departed, to have such Company: for what do we know that the Poets may not teach us, and this Mistress can spout well in Rhyme. And why is it, he went on, that Rhyme touches my Memory?

  Let it touch nothing, 1 told him, or you will be a poor Boy indeed.

  But Nat had already gone off in a Dream: Where were you, Master, he asks, before I was born and thought of?

  I was here and there, I answered gazing out of the Window.

  But where were you in this City?

  I have had so many Dwellings, Nat, that I know these Streets as well as a strowling Beggar: I was born in this Nest of Death and Contagion and now, as they say, I have learned to feather it. When first I was with Sir Chris. I found lodgings in Phénix Street off Hogg Lane, close by St Giles and Tottenham Fields, and then in later times I was lodged at the corner of Queen Street and Thames Street, next to the Blew Posts in Cheapside. (It is still there, said Nat stirring up from his Seat, I have passed it!) In the time before the Fire, Nat, most of the buildings in London were made of timber and plaister, and stones were so cheap that a man might have a cart-load of them for six-pence or seven- pence; but now, like the Aegyptians, we are all for Stone. (And Nat broke in, I am for Stone!) The common sort of People gawp at the prodigious Rate of Building and exclaim to each other London is now another City or that House was not there Yesterday or the Situacion of the Streets is quite Chang'd (I contemn them when they say such things! Nat adds). But this Capital City of the World of Affliction is still the Capitol of Darknesse, or the Dungeon of Man's Desires: still in the Centre are no proper Streets nor Houses but a Wilderness of dirty rotten Sheds, allways tumbling or takeing Fire, with winding crooked passages, lakes of Mire and rills of stinking Mud, as befits the smokey grove of Moloch. (I have heard of that Gentleman, says Nat all a quiver). It is true that in what we call the Out-parts there are numberless ranges of new Buildings: in my old Black-Eagle Street, Nat, tenements have been rais'd and where my Mother and Father stared without understanding at their Destroyer (Death! he cryed) new-built Chambers swarm with life. But what a Chaos and Confusion is there: meer fields of Grass give way to crooked Passages and quiet Lanes to smoking Factors, and these new Houses, commonly built by the London workmen, are often burning and frequently tumbling down (I saw one, says he, I saw one tumbling!). Thus London grows more Monstrous, Straggling and out of all Shape: in this Hive of Noise and Ignorance, Nat, we are tyed to the World as to a sensible Carcasse and as we cross the stinking Body we call out What News? or What's a dock?.

  And thus do I pass my Days a stranger to mankind. I'll not be a Stander-by, but you will not see me pass among them in the World.

  (You will disquiet your self, Master, says Nat coming towards me).

  And what a World is it, of Tricking and Bartering, Buying and Selling, Borrowing and Lending, Paying and Receiving; when I walk among the Piss and Sir-reverence of the Streets I hear, Money makes the old Wife trot, Money makes the Mare to go (and Nat adds, What Words won't do, Gold will). What is their God but shineing Dirt and to sing its Devotions come the Westminster-Hall-Whores, the Charing-cross whores, the Whitehall whores, the Channel-row whores, the Strand whores, the Fleet Street whores, the Temple-bar whores; and they are followed in the same Catch by the Riband weavers, the Silver-lace makers, the Upholsterers, the Cabinet-makers, Watermen, Carmen, Porters, Plaisterers, Lightemen, Footmen, Shopkeepers, Journey-men… and my Voice grew faint through the Curtain of my Pain.

  Thus did I speak to Nat on the first Day of my Sicknesse and, thinking now on those work men that I mencioned, I see them as they pass by me in the thorow-fare of my Memory: Richard Vining, Jonathan Penny, Geoffrey Strode, Walter Meyrick, John Duke, Thomas Style, Jo Cragg. I speak these Names into the Air and the Tears run down my Face, for I know not what Reason. And now my Thoughts are all suspended and like a Pilgrim moving into the Glare of the Sun I am lost in the wastes of Time.

  I was in the middle of this earnest Business when Nat comes in, returned from delivering my Letter to Walter, with his Will you drink a Dish of Tea with your Bread and Butter or will you have a Glass of Ale? He put me in such Confusion that I would have dismist him with a kick in the Arse, and yet the Particles of Memory gather around me and I am my self again.

  And so I may return from this Digression to the Narrative of my trew History: I ought in method to have informed the Reader a few pages ago of my Life as a Street-Boy after my strange converse with Mirabilis, and so I shall go back a little here to where I left off. I will save you from Ruin, little Faustus he had said to me, and I have already imparted to you my Reasons for staying with his Assembly in Black Step Lane; for being a Boy pennyless and friendless as I then was, the Key to his Door burned a Hole in my Breeches (as they say) until I imployed it. For altho' my Rambling mood was not yet extinguish'd, it was still my Pleasure to studdye with Mirabilis when I so desired it: he did not press me to stay, nor did he so much as Hint at it, and when the Assembly arrived at Dusk I hasten'd into the Streets and made my self a child of Hazard. There was a Band of little Vagabonds who met by moon-light in the Moorfields, and for a time I wandred with them; most of them had been left as Orphans in the Plague and, out of the sight of Constable or Watch, would call out to Passers by Lord Bless you give us a Penny or Bestow a half penny on us: I still hear their Voices in my Head when I walk abroad in a Croud, and some times I am seiz'd with Trembling to think I may be still one of them.

  For I was then much like a Glass-Bottle-House Boy, dealing always in the Street dirt: I slept in the days before Winter in Bulk-heads and Shop-doors where I was known (I cou'd not sleep in the House of Mirabilis, where the Noises affrighted me) and in the Winter, when the Plague had abated and the Streets were lighted again, I got into Ash-holes and was the very Figure of a Beggar boy, despicable and miserable to the last degree. Those in their snug Bed-chambers may call the Fears of Night meer Bugbears, but their Minds have not pierced into the Horror of the World which others, who are adrift upon it, know. So those who looked upon me in those past Evil Days shook their Heads and cryed Poor boy! or Tis a Pity!, but they offred me no Help and let me go: I did not make a Noise then but I laid up all these things in my Heart so that I was as well read in Men as in Books.

  Truly, said Mirabilis gazing at my Raggs, you are Ship-wracked upon the Isle of Man but do not be downcast; read these Bo
okes, studdye them well and learn from me, and these Christian Gentlemen who turn their Faces from you will then be Dust under your Feet: when they are consum'd in Flame, the Lords of the Earth will do you no Harm. And thus was I comforted, even though my Portion did seem to be presently one of Confinement and a Gaol.

  In this manner I lived from the months August until December when, the Plague almost ceas'd, my Aunt, the sister of my Mother, returned from the town of Watford where she had travelled to escape the Distemper. She began to make enquiries about me in the neigh bourhood of Spittle-Fields and, since I was now in the way of strowl ing abroad in the Streets where I had played as a Child, she soon became acquainted with my sad Condition and thereupon I was had into her House in Coleman-Street. I was now near Fourteen-year-old and she was at a Loss what to do with me for, though she carried fair weather in her Countenance, she was a perfect bundle of Contradictions and would no sooner hit upon a Course than tack herself round and choose another. Nick, says she to me, Fetch me that Book and yet let it alone too: but let me see it however, and yet 'tis no great matter either. Her Head was just like a squirrel's Cage, and her Mind was the Squirrel that whirled it round: that I should be bound Apprentice was her first Consideration, but she wearied her self over the question whether it be to a Book-seller, or Toy-man, or Coach-maker. I kept my Peace in this, understanding from Mirabilis that my Fate was already determined, but my Silence only kept this whirligig a spinning: And then again, says she, we might go back to the Country, tho' perhaps it is not wise if there is no good Company there, and yet I am all for Quietness.

  Her Reflections were soon at a stand, however, for I was only with my Aunt for two month when London was put in to the Oven and the Fire burnt it. It would tire the Reader should I dwell on the Lamentable Judgment or God's Terrible Voyce (as they call'd it) but I have layed by in Memory how, when the Sun looked red like Blood as it peeped through the Smoke, the People cryed aloud to Heaven, raked in the dung of their rotten Hearts and voiced abroad their inward Filthinesse. As the Houses tumbled upon the Streets with a great roaring Noise, they cryed out We are undone! We are great Sinners! and the like: and yet as soon as the Danger was passed, they came back with their Hey ho the Devil is Dead!

  Eat, drink, and go merry to Bed!

  Thus the Sick confesse to their Contagion only when they are like to Die of it, even tho' they carry their Death with them every where. I saw one Gentlewoman who was burned into a very Emblemme of Mortality: her face, legs and feet were quite consumed to Ashes, the trunk of her Body was much burnt, but her Heart, her filthy Heart, was hanging like a Cole in the midst of it.

  My Aunt was in the last stages of Uncertainty. We shall certainly be burnt, says she but she could not determine to remove her self and her goods to the open Fields. She ran into the Street and then came back againe: It is a hotte wind, Nick, she cries, does it blow this way? I think it does, she continues without waiting for my Answer, but perhaps in a little while it might Abate: the Noise is frightful, and yet do I hear it lessen? Hang out your cloathes, I told her, and the winde will dry them.

  For I had no fear of the Flames: they were not for me, as Mirabilis had prophesied, and the Fire came to a Stop at the lower end of Coleman- Street.

  At which my Aunt rejoyced exceedingly, and complimented herself upon her Resolution.

  Little of the City remayned save part of Bread and Bishop-gate Street, all Leadenhall Street, and some of the adjacent Lanes about Algate and Cretchett Fryers. With the old Houses of Timber gone, new Foundations could be layed -and it was for this Reason that I soon came to Stand upon my own Legs. For I conceeved a great Fancy to become a Mason, which occurred to me in the following Fashion: 1 returned after the Fire to the House of Mirabilis in Black Step Lane (which had been saved from the Flames) and, meeting there my good Master, asked his Counsel now that the City had been laid waste. You will build, he replied, and turn this Paper-work house (by which he meant the Meeting-place) into a Monument: let Stone be your God and you will find God in the Stone. Then he pickt up his dark Coat, and in the dusk of the Evening departed away whither I never saw him afterwards.

  But to make short this part of my Discourse: my Aunt having no Objection, and the Trade much in need of fresh Hands after the Fire, I was put out as a Mason's Apprentice to one Richard Creed. He was recommended as a Master capable of instructing me, and indeed he was a sober and honest Man. My Aunt could in no wise advance any Money for me, and therefore it was agreed that I should be taken as an Apprentice without Money on condition that I should serve for a while in his House in Ave Mary Lane, near Ludgate Street and by St Pauls Church: my Master promising to teach me the Art and Mysteries of his Trade, the which Promise was fulfill'd. And so fourteen years of my Life were run when I took my present Course, and yet such is the power of Memory that I am to this day troubled, and my Dreams filled with concern, often times imagining that I am still bound to my said Master, and that my Time will never be out. And it is true yet of Time, tho' in quite another sense.

  Mr Creed was a pritty learned man and, for the two years which I served in his House as a Factotum so much as a Prentice, he very readily allowed me to use the Library in his private Closet. Here I read Vitruvius his De Architecture! but newly translated, and I was mov'd exceedingly when I saw in its Ninth Book the pyrammide of stone with the little Cell at its top, and this Inscription at the bottome of the Page: O pigmy Man, how transient compared to Stone! And in Master Freart his Paralell of Architecture, in a translation of Mr Evelyn, I saw the engraveing of a very antient Sepulture, with Pyrammides beyond, buried in a wild and uncultivated Place: that Figure so impress'd it self upon my Mind that I have been in a manner walking towards it all my Life. Then I peered into Wendel Dietterlin his Architecture!, and there were unveiled to me the several Orders: of the Tuscan, which is now mine own, I was then mov'd by its Strangeness and Awefulness; the obscured Shapes, the Shaddowes and the massie Openings so in- chanted my Spirit that when looking on them I imagined my self to be lock'd in some dark and Enclosed space. The heavinesse of Stone did so oppress me that I was close to Extinction, and I fancied that I could see in the Engraver's lines the sides of Demons, crumbled Walls, and half-humane Creatures rising from the Dust. There was some thing that waited for me there, already in Ruines.

  Thus did I learn of Architecture and, appriz'd that workmen could advance to the degree of Architect in these times, I coveted that office for my self: to become the Structorum Princeps, as Mr Evelyn has it, the ingenious Artificer who must be learned in Astrologie and Arith metick, Musick no less than Geometry, Philosophy as well as Opticks, History no less than Law, was my set Purpose. But you cannot build out of Books, unless it be Castles in the Air, and I decided to step into the World for further Information: I listen'd to the Discourse of the work men in my Master's yard (next St Pauls on which he was then imployed) and held them in Conversation concerning matters of Practice; I also sought occasions to visit the brick-burnings in Whitechappell and here I learned of the earth which lies beneath London: these and like Matters I laid up in my Head, for there was no knowing to what Use they might come.

  My Master, as I said, was set to work upon St Pauls after the Fire but the first time that ever I saw Sir Chris. Wren was in my Seventeenth year when I was working in the Yard. Sir Chris, walked in and, tho' even then he was a person of the last Importance, being both Surveyor-General and principall Architect for rebuilding the whole City, I did not know his Face. He had come into the Yard to inquire after the new Stone which had been promis'd but, my Master being absent for a Moment, Sir Chris, talked in a familiar manner to the Clerke who accompanied him. He pointed to some stone saying, This is not in good condition, it is mere Ragg: do you see how the Demand has debased the Materialls?

  That is a softer Stone, says 1, and is about to be placed in Shelter: but it is no Ragg for, look, there are no flint beds nor clay holes near the face.

  Then he gave me one of his sharp Looks: where is the Reigate stone, he a
sks (for it was this which he had order'd).

  I do not know why you wish for Reigate, I replied (thinking him a simple Citizen), for tho' you may be able to cut through it like Wood it takes in Water: good Stone ought to defend itself by gathering a Crust.

  The better Stone, I went on, is out of Oxfordshire, down the river from the Quarries about Burford. But if you will wait for my Master No need of a Master with such an Apprentice, says Sir Chris. smiling at his Clerk. Then turning to me quickly he ask'd, Can you name Stones? and glanced at my Hands to see what rough Usage they had had in this Trade.

  Willingly I expressed to him what I had already learned by Rote: Free-stone, says I, and also Brick, Ragg, Flint, Marchasite, Pibble, Slate, Tile, Whetstone, Touch-stone, Pumice, Emry, Alabaster Hold! he exclaimed, There is more Method in you than in Vitruvius.

  I take my Method, I replied, from Master Dietterling.

  I don't remember the Book was translated into English that you mention, says he taking a Step backward.

  No, I answer'd a little abashed, but 1 have looked upon the Pictures.

  At this time my Master was come back into the Yard and Sir Chris, (whom I still did not know) said easily to him, Well, Dick Creed, here is a Boy who will teach you some new Tricks. And my Master assured him that I was but a simple Prentice. Well, says Sir Chris, again, Master Palladio was a stone mason and he was called lapicida long before he was ever known as architetto. And then he turned to me and tweaked me by the Chin: And what of Roofs, young architetto?