The Printer's Devil (5 page)

—Mistress Ann, how camest you in this pickle? he cries, but she hath no time to make reply for her captor draws his sword. Roger presently takes hold of the man’s wrist and wrenches the blade from his grip (Roger being a long man, and timbersome, this tale is easy to credit), punching him in the face with the hilt; the man falls sense-less to the ground and Roger goes to the aid of Mistress Ann, who is fallen in a swoon.

Therefore hath he taken her to his own lodging and left her in the care of his land-lady, one
Doll Fawcett,
till the morrow when that she is well enow to return to her father.

The witty Roger hath recited this flummery with an air of great delight, and I begged him to tell me what truly had befallen yesternight.

—I do not believe that you do not know;
futuo,
what other thing? he replied. We were away to my lodging and I had her maidenhead of her (I felt mine own yard stirring at this tale) and when that we were done we slipped down-stairs and I wakened the good Doll with my tale of rescuing a distressed maiden.

—Cracked-piece, more like, says I.

—Ay, for I docked the dell in her plum-tree sweet, he replied with a smile.

—And what now will befall? I asked.

—Why, Fabian, quoth he, is it not as plain as a pike-staff? Our master believes me to be a stout man and a man of honour and much else besides, and hath given me leave to pay court to Ann.

—An you’ve filled her panniers, I asked, what happens an she be brought to bed of a child? Will you wed her? But to this he merely smiled and made no reply.

I watched him go with his swashbuckling way and did wonder what would befall, although such matters

I do not wish to learn; although there be fortune-tellers enough, and Gypsies willing to speak of such things (an a man do pay them); indeed that Thos. Audley of whom I spake had his fortune told by such an one and he said it was a mean petty thing that told him many things common, but had him beware of some body who should be with him to borrow money of him, but that he should lend them none.

Which advice Tho Audley never did need for he never had no coin that I ever did see, being so close-pursed as a Scotchman. Nor did I ever hear any fulfilment of this prophecy.

Now for a space of time all is of an even tenor with us: we rang our bells and drank our ale (when that we had coin to buy it) and I did meet a girl named Catherine Alsop, a very pretty girl, whom I would fain pay court to, but she would have none of me because of my lowly station; But Nate Mundy told me of a cut he knew who would swive for a farthing.

—Does she then live on Cheap-side, I asked, and they all laughed. But I did not forget her name, not being in the habit of losing sight of useful things.

Roger paid his court to Ann Pakeman, and I watched with care but she did not quicken; whether this was Roger’s luck or his art I never did know.

In all his dealings he did seem a very gentleman
justum et tenacem proposti
⁶
which was a great miracle to me who knew the man and of his thoughts could guess somewhat, and would never believe he had ceased from drabbing.

That this was his art I did not think neither, for he had his rut and I do believe the love of Ann Pakeman withall; moreover since that I had used his unguent I had come to learn the sensation of magic: There is a taste and savour in the air when that it is in use, a smell and a brightness. I only mentioned this but the once and that to Matthew Boys and Hugh Bishop, only to find that they them-selves never felt such a thing at all; and that was the strangest thing of all to me.

In the meantime I did not cease to think about many things: how to construe or compose or make a new method for ringing that should be different from any before designed. How that I should make Catherine Alsop look on me with favour. How (and to this end I have made notes in another place) to work towards producing a book of changes and all the peals rang set down therein (the which is a matter closely mewed up with
Imprimis);
this mayhap I must have another write the book, for I have no great opinion of my prose. But to print it, when that I have mine own workshop (although that lieth some years in the future), to publish such a book and bring knowledge of the art to all those who would learn
(littera scripta manet)
¹
.

So might
Hermes Trismegistus
in the ancient past have contemplated the dissemination of his alchemical art; so that now we see such as Roger Southwell using this same art, the art of ^gypt, whence come the
Gypsies,
for happiness, the which is surely the aim of every man.

Another Roger there was once, Roger Bacon, and he had in his study a brazen Head that would tell a man true things an he asked it; and a man named Michael Scot, that both could fly, men say; and they say this too of Saint Adhelm, once Abbot of Malmesburie, but he was a papist.

Also I observed my master, when that mine own tasks and duties allowed; choleric he ever was, of a fiery humour, and yet since that Roger first paid court to his daughter all that did seem quenched in him. Though I myself heard her say to him that she did indeed love Roger, still did he bear the semblance of a man unbelieving; but why he should seem so shrunken and old I never did know. However he retained his serpent’s tongue, but it was less of a venomous thing than lately.

⁶
upright and tenacious
(Odyssey)

⁷
the written word is permanent

Further persecution by the usurper; an old Knight, instiled Sir Henry Vane, is imprisoned on Isle of Wight for a book he published, only one of many sent to prison.

Rec’d a letter from my brother
Francis
at Oxford, who states that his friend
Richard Duckworth
(A ringer of distinction, says Francis; but Francis thinks any man that can ring a plain course of
Granser Bob
is a very great Ringer) has made many notes for a book on the art, the which I found greatly strange because of mine own inclination in this matter. I determined to write back appraising Francis of this and mayhap one day to meet this Richard Duckworth; though while that I am a prentice printer in London and he a nascent Sir-John in Oxford such a meeting will be nigh impossible; unless like unto a magus I could fly thither.

I do think that a book is a small miracle: in it is distilled wisdom of a man who is dead, or whom he that reads shall never know; but also it is of its self a wondrous thing; for as with changes, there exists an infinitum of faces of type, each shewing forth his own pattern and making his own music, if this be not too extravagant a fancy: what mysteries lie within the capabilities of bold type, or italic type; Roman, Gothic, Dutch and German; It was this, I do believe, which took my fancy as a mere Infant, for I do remember my Mother telling me that even before that I went to school and could read, I wished for naught better than to look upon my Father’s books; and when she most carefully shewed a page to me I would stare transfixed at nothing more than a line of type: I was a very
helluo liberorum
.
⁸

My Father being a man of the cloth I am sure had hoped this to be an early manifestation of a similar calling in myself (believing with the poet that

The World’s a Printing-house: our words, our thoughts,

Our Deeds, are Characters of sev’rall sizes;

Each Soule is a Compos’tor; of whose faults The Levits are Correctors; Heavn revises;

Death in the common Press; from whence, being driven,

W’aregather’d Sheet by Sheet,& bound for Heav’n.)

But he was disappointed in me, being very much
asinus ad lyram
^,9
as tis said; damn him any way, an I’d not spent years at the Universitie I had been out on my indentures ere now; for myself I do believe two clergy more than sufficient for any family; and trust my Father was satisfied when that my brother followed him on the church’s path.

For myself I think that I am too easily tempted by the sins of the flesh to have sat comfortably with the cloth, nor do I find it in my heart to give credence to many of those things they would have us believe or feel proper awe for the Jack-in-the-box. (That one in the pulpit, I mean, and not him beneath the bed.) And, indeed, had I not gone off for a printer I would not have witnessed such wonders as Roger Southwell hath shewn to me.

Around this time Master Pakeman’s sister (a widow-woman) came to live with my master; and it is true that she misliked Roger Southwell exceedingly, and it is my belief that she set her son (a roynish mean-featured villain) to spy upon him. And the name of this scab was Hawkin Kemp (which is to say Harry) and the name of Daniel Pakeman’s sister was Elizabeth Kemp.

⁸
glutton for books

⁹
one unsuited to an occupation (lit. an ass with a lyre)

And howsoever it was that it happened, this Kemp did spy Roger in an Inn with some doxy who was not Ann (tis my belief, knowing Roger, that twas but a whore, for the place was little better than a stew); thereafter every time I turned around when that I was with Roger I did spy the villain.

—He can do naught, Roger said when I spoke of it. Mine is the power, and Ann Pakeman is mine too.

—Have a care, Roger, quoth I, that one is as full of malice as an egg is full of meat, and his dam not less; And they mean you ill. For all your powers you are not proof against a stiletto in the heart.

—Come now, Fabian, he replied, I can keep myself safe; But hold, I have a thing for thee; And he put in my hand a small stone jar, saying, Dost thou not open it now, but twill come to thine aid in the matter of that Catherine-kitling that thou art afire for.

—Is’t a love-philtre? I asked.

—Not exactly, but twill give aid. Tis for to thank thee.

—For what? says I.

—Why, for being an honest rogue, says Roger, and clapped me on the shoulder.

And I was right glad to have it; for it is true that
amare et sapere vix deo conceditur
¹⁰
and thoughts of Catherine were taking my thoughts away from my labours.

At the door of the inn I turned, but all that I did see was the back of Roger Southwell as he went into the nether rooms, the which was not a thing that honest men were wont to do; but then I never did take Roger for an honest man. Truth to tell I was now more concerned with the stone jar in my hand and immodest thoughts of Catherine Alsop which the farthing drab (who did not live on Cheap-side after all) had failed to make me forget.

To look backwards on an event and consider how better to have acted that it should better have concluded is likelier the work of a philosopher and of no use to them that suffered thereby; But an Roger had taken more heed on Hawkin Kemp (or I had thought him of more account); mayhap certain things would not have happened. For certes it is that this Kemp worked for the downfall of Roger Southwell and that was all that filled his Mind.

Under the watchful Eye of Bartholomew Knox I was putting type in the bed and trying with little success to banish lewd thoughts of Catherine Alsop, when that this Kemp comes crying for Master Pakeman.

—Do you, Fabian, take the gentleman up, says Knox, the which vexed me mightily as that part of the trade I was learning ran more in accord with my taste than others on which I must needs spend much more of my time. Kemp was all in a fine fluster and more like a frighted horse than a man, half of a shiver and half like a man
maris appetens.

—Master Pakeman here’s Hawkin come to see you, says I, and Kemp scowls at me like as if to say, Tis your turn next; but I am damned ere I will be civil to the cur. My master seems as much pleased as I to see him but he bade me show the fellow in, the which I did do; but without the door I lingered, breathing so quiet as a bird.

—Well and then, I heard Master Pakeman say, what do you here, Hawkin, when that I am at my work.

—O nuncle, quoth the puppy, I have found that thing which you want, do you just come and see with your own eyes.

¹⁰
Even gods rarely have love and wisdom at the same time

—I need no convincing, boykin, says Master Pakeman, tis my daughter that’s bemused by the wretch.

—O I have a plan, cries Kemp, a most quaint plan, for to show her the effeminacy of this sauce-Jack.

—And how may I do that, villain? Would you have me take my daughter into a vile inn amongst the common whores and drabs? My master’s voice was chill as ice. And there followed a silence in which my breath seemed to come loud as a raging wind, although I felt I was nigh unto not breathing at all.

And then Bartholomew Knox did come up the stairs and beheld me; he opened his eyes very wide and seemed like to speak, but I gestured him to stay silent; he did so but beckoned me to come away, the which command I must needs obey. And when that we were come down and away he took me by the arm and spake sternly.

—Give me none of your long-tongued tales, Master Fabian, but tell me straight what you are at.

I was in a confusion at this for I knew not what to say;
Certes,
I could not tell the whole story. Why, I said, I do doubt that this Kemp means my master ill; therefore I listened, to hear what mischief I might.

—Do you get about your business, quoth Bartholomew Knox, and he but cuffed me lightly.

I bent my head once more to my tasks but now hearkened but imperfectly to the words of Master Knox; but I see no sign of Roger in the workshop, whom I must inform of what I had lately heard. And in a pissing-while Kemp passed me by and I spit at him, but missed.

Now I am at pains to discover where Roger might be; yet I must needs wait until the end of the day, when I might encounter him in the
Swan,
or the
George,
or the
Saracen’s Head,
or any of an hundred taverns; and am like to be too late to foil the designs of Kemp, soever end he worketh towards.