A flight further to Bray, home of the immortal vicar, Simon Alleyn, who, most dexterous of helmsmen, steered his bark safely through the conflicting troubles of Henry the Eighth, when the axe was always ready for malcontents—of Edward the Sixth, when the Tower's dangerous doors so often opened and shut—of Queen Mary, when the fires were always ready for heretics—and of Queen Elizabeth, when the rack was always on the strain for conspirators. He was first a Papist, then a Protestant, then a Papist, and then a Protestant again. Bland soul, so ready to explain away past sermons and write new ones, what a calm face he must have turned on all violent controversialists! How difficult he must have found it to preach his first sermon after an accession. How he must have exhausted himself in prudent efforts to buy up his last violent invective against Protestantism—now newly re-established. What confusion he must have got into, between gowns and robes. Fuller says the vicar had once seen some martyrs burnt at Windsor, and found the fire too hot for his tender temper. When some ribalds accused him of being a shameless turncoat without a conscience, a mere shifty trickster, and a poor frightened changeling, who went which way the wind blew him—
"Nay, nay," said he, smiling, "I have always kept one principle, which is this: whoever rules, to live and die the Vicar of Bray."
Glancing on to Maidenhead the crow alights on the chapel roof to pick up a tradition of another and less lucky Vicar of Bray.
James the First, one day, when hunting, rode on before his dogs and huntsmen to seek for luncheon. He rode up to the inn at Maidenhead, quite ravenous. He tumbled himself off his horse and shouted for the landlord. Beef and ale—a pasty—anything. The landlord, careless of stray guests, shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing ready but one roast, and the Worshipful Vicar of Bray and his curate were already busy at that; perhaps they might (as a favour) allow him to join them. King James caught at the offer, strode up stairs, knocked at the door, and asked permission. The vicar churlishly scowled up from his full and smoking platter. The curate, jovial and hearty, begged James to be seated. The king sat down and plied a good knife and fork. He tossed off his ale; he told racy stories; he made both his reluctant and his willing host roar with laughter. At last there came the mauvais quart d'heure of Rabelais; the bill arrived. The curate put down his money with careless frankness; the vicar paid his bill gloomily; but the luckless guest could not pay at all. "Eh, mon! he'd left his purse behind him in his other brecks." The vicar saw no joke in this matter, and flatly refused to pay for the suspicious stranger. The happy and guileless curate expressed his pleasure in being able to make some return for the amusement he had received, and paid the stranger's share. Then the three men went out on the balcony. A huntsman then came riding up, and, seeing the king, leaped off his horse and went down on one knee in the street. The sullen vicar threw himself at the feet of James, and implored forgiveness: to which King Jamie replied: "I shall not turn you out of your living, and you shall always remain vicar of Bray; but I shall make my good friend the curate a canon of Windsor, whence he will be able to look down both upon you and your vicarage."
The crow also takes record of Maidenhead (so called, either from the head of one of the eleven thousand virgins once preserved there, or from the timber-wharves that existed there in the Saxon times) that it has a tradition which forms a touching episode in English history. Charles the First, after several years' separation from his children—swarthy little Charles, grave James, and poor little Elizabeth—was allowed to meet them at the Greyhound Inn, at Maidenhead, thanks to the amiability of Lord Fairfax and the kindliness of the army. "The greatest satisfaction the king could have," says Clarendon. Poor king! Poor children!
Towards the Thames, the crow glides off for a moment, to rest on the ivy-covered gable of Medmenham Abbey. In a lovely spot, close by the ferry house, the building stands: the tower and cloister being modern, and little remaining of the old Cistercian monastery which at the Reformation contained only two inmates. It was here that Francis Dashwood, afterwards Lord le-Despencer, founded the infamous club of the Franciscans, of which Wilkes and Lord Sandwich were members. "The twelve monks of Medmenham" celebrated orgies, which shocked even that coarse age. Sterne's friend, John Hall Stevenson, of Crazy Castle, was said to be one of them. Over a door in the ivied gable still exists the Franciscan motto. "Fay ce que voudras." A mystery hung over all the feasts of the Franciscan Club. The workmen who furnished and adorned the abbey were kept locked up in the house, and were hurried back to London when their work was done. The dinner was always passed in at the half-opened door, and no servants were allowed to wait. Devil worship, said some; Bacchic festivals, said others. Country people trembled to see the abbey windows gleam till daybreak, and to hear the mad laughter of the revellers. The story went that the consciences of the monks were so tormented that they could only sleep at night in cradles, and part of Wilkes's cradle is still shown. A curious set of pictures at the Thatched House Tavern in London, belonging to the Dilettanti Society, has preserved reminiscences of some of the brothers, who, dressed like monks, are represented as ridiculing sacred rites. How these portraits have got mixed up with the Dilettanti Society the crow knoweth not. Wilkes is said to have broken up the Franciscan Club by a mischievous trick. One night when the wine was circulating fast, and the orgies were at their highest, a huge ape, hideously dressed, with horns and other satanic additions, was lowered down the chimney. The candles were at the same time extinguished by a pre-arranged plan,
