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 breeks."
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,