The Constable of the Tower by W. Harrison Ainsworth

Other devices there were, very gorgeous and curious, but we cannot pause to particularize them. The populace were in high good humor, largesse being liberally distributed by the heralds; while all who listed could drink the king’s health, for the conduits ran wine instead of water. Cheers of the most enthusiastic kind attended the youthful monarch during his progress, and blessings were showered on his head.

At length, after repeated delays, the cavalcade approached St. Paul’s, then a noble Gothic pile, with which the modern cathedral can in no wise be compared. Independently of its magnitude and beauty, the ancient cathedral possessed at this time the loftiest steeple in Europe, its height being five hundred and twenty feet from the ground, while the spire itself, which was of wood, and which was destroyed by fire in the subsequent reign of Elizabeth, sprang two hundred and sixty feet above the Tower. From the summit of this lofty tower, strains which might well be termed seraphic, now resounded. Thither the well-trained choir of the cathedral had mounted, and pouring down their voices on the assemblage beneath, ravished the ears of all who listened to them.

As these strains ceased, the great door of the cathedral was thrown open, allowing the deep diapasons of the organ to be heard, amid which, preceded by his cross, came forth the Bishop of London, in his mitre and robes, and bearing his crosier. He was followed by the dean, canons, and chaplains in their copes and surplices, and proceeded to cense the king.

To this impressive ceremony succeeded an exhibition of a widely different character. We omitted to mention that from the battlements of the great tower a cable had been drawn, which was made fast to a ring fixed in the masonry of the dean’s gate. While Edward, who had been enchanted by the almost angelic music he had heard, was looking upwards, as if in expectation of further melody of the same nature, he perceived a man step forth upon the giddy verge of the tower battlements with a small silk flag in either hand, which he waved to the assemblage below. The appearance of this personage, who, seen from that great height, looked like one of the grotesque stone sculptures of the edifice, was greeted with loud shouts by the spectators.

At this juncture, Xit, who had contrived to work his way to the king, called out, “‘Tis Pacolet, sire. I know him even at this distance.”

Just as the words were uttered, the mountebank—for it was he—threw himself with his breast on the cable, and stretching out his hands, which still grasped the flags, shot down the rope with amazing swiftness, but happily reached the ground unhurt. The rapidity of Pacolet’s descent, which resembled the flight of a meteor, took away the breath of the spectators, but as soon as he was safely landed a tremendous shout arose. The applause was redoubled as the mountebank, nothing daunted by his perilous exploit, nimbly reascended the cable, and when he had attained a sufficient altitude for the purpose, began to execute various extraordinary and hazardous-looking feats. Perhaps no one of the thousand spectators who witnessed it was more delighted with the performance than Xit. He screamed like a child with delight; and his satisfaction was completed, when he was ordered by the king to see a dozen marks bestowed upon the adventurous mountebank.

Quitting the cathedral, the cavalcade then went on. At Ludgate, however, another brief stoppage occurred, for here a fresh pageant had to be exhibited.

From this part of the old city walls, an admirable view was commanded of the procession both on its approach from Saint Paul’s and during its descent of Ludgate Hill. The long line of gorgeously-attired horsemen could be seen crossing the narrow bridge over the Fleet, and proceeding slowly along Fleet Street. In other respects, however, the view from this point was exceedingly striking. As the spectator looked eastward, the noble cathedral in all its grandeur rose before him. Nearer, at the foot of the majestic pile, was Paul’s Cross, where homilies were now constantly preached. Turning in the opposite direction, after surveying the then sharp descent of Ludgate Hill, and the open ground watered by the Fleet, he could plunge his gaze through the narrow but picturesque streets almost as far as Temple Bar.