“It would be a strong one,” said Master Silas unto me, pointing his remark, as witty men are wont, with the elbow-pan.
But Sir Thomas, who waited for an answer, and received none, continued,—
“Would a man be called a good man who tended and pushed on toward evil?”
William Shakspeare.
“I stand corrected. I could sail to Cathay or Tartary[46a]with half the nautical knowledge I have acquired in this glorious hall.
“The devil impelling a mortal to wrong courses, is thereby known to be the devil. He, on the contrary, who exciteth to good is no devil, but an angel of light, or under the guidance of one. The devil driveth unto his own home; so doth the south wind, so doth the north wind.
“Alas! alas! we possess not the mastery over our own weak minds when a higher spirit standeth nigh and draweth us within his influence.”
Sir Thomas.
“Those thy words are well enough,—very well, very good, wise, discreet, judicious beyond thy years. But then thatsailingcomes in an awkward, ugly way across me,—thatCathay, thatTartarus!
“Have a care! Do thou nothing rashly. Mind! an thou stealest my punt for the purpose, I send the constable after thee or e’er thou art half way over.”
William Shakspeare.
“He would make a stock-fish of me an he caught me. It is hard sailing out of his straits, although they be carefully laid down in most parishes, and may have taken them from actual survey.”
Sir Silas.
“Sir, we have bestowed on him already well-nigh a good hour of our time.”
Sir Thomas, who was always fond of giving admonition and reproof to the ignorant and erring, and who had found the seeds (little mustard-seeds, ’t is true, and never likely to arise into the great mustard-tree of the Gospel) in the poor lad Willy, did let his heart soften a whit tenderer and kindlier than Master Silas did, and said unto Master Silas,—
“A good hour of our time! Yea, Silas! and thou wouldst givehimeternity!”
“What, sir! would you let him go?” said Master Silas. “Presently we shall have neither deer nor dog, neither hare nor coney, neither swan nor heron; every carp from pool, every bream from brook, will be groped for. The marble monuments in the church will no longer protect the leaden coffins; and if there be any ring of gold on the finger of knight or dame, it will be torn away with as little ruth and ceremony as the ring from a butchered sow’s snout.”
“Awful words! Master Silas,” quoth the knight, musing; “but thou mistakest my intentions. I let him not go; howbeit, at worst I would only mark him in the ear, and turn him up again after this warning, peradventure with a few stripes to boot athwart the shoulders, in order to make them shrug a little, and shake off the burden of idleness.”
Now I, having seen, I dare not say the innocence, but the innocent and simple manner of Willy, and pitying his tender years, and having an inkling that he was a lad, poor Willy! whom God had endowed with some parts, and into whose breast he had instilled that milk of loving-kindness by which alone we can be like unto those little children of whom is the household and kingdom of our Lord,—I was moved, yea, even unto tears. And now, to bring gentler thoughts into the hearts of Master Silas and Sir Thomas, who, in his wisdom, deemed it a light punishment to slit an ear or two, or inflict a wiry scourging, I did remind his worship that another paper was yet unread, at least to them, although I had been perusing it.
This was much pleasanter than the two former, and overflowing with the praises of the worthy knight and his gracious lady; and having an echo to it in another voice, I did hope thereby to disarm their just wrath and indignation. It was thus couched:—
“FIRST SHEPHERD.
“Jesu! what lofty elms are here!Let me look through them at the clear,Deep sky above, and bless my starThat such a worthy knight’s they are!
“SECOND SHEPHERD.
“Innocent creatures! how those deerTrot merrily, and romp and rear!
“FIRST SHEPHERD.
“The glorious knight who walks besideHis most majestic lady bride,
“SECOND SHEPHERD.
“Under these branches spreading wide,
“FIRST SHEPHERD.
“Carries about so many caresTouching his ancestors and heirs,That came from Athens and from Rome—
“SECOND SHEPHERD.
“As many of them as are come—
“FIRST SHEPHERD.
“Nought else the smallest lodge can findIn the vast manors of his mind;Envying not Solomon his wit—
“SECOND SHEPHERD.
“No, nor his women not a bit;Being well-built and well-behavèdAs Solomon, I trow, or David.
“FIRST SHEPHERD.
“And taking by his jewell’d handThe jewel of that lady bland,He sees the tossing antlers passAnd throw quaint shadows o’er the grass;While she alike the hour beguiles,And looks at him and them, and smiles.
“SECOND SHEPHERD.
“With conscience proof ’gainst Satan’s shock,Albeit finer than her smock,[50a]Marry! her smiles are not of vanity,But resting on sound Christianity.Faith, you would swear, had nail’d[50b]her ears onThe book and cushion of the parson.”
“Methinks the rhyme at the latter end might be bettered,” said Sir Thomas. “The remainder is indited not unaptly. But, young man, never having obtained the permission of my honourable dame to praise her in guise of poetry, I cannot see all the merit I would fain discern in the verses. She ought first to have been sounded; and it being certified that she disapproved not her glorification, then might it be trumpeted forth into the world below.”
“Most worshipful knight,” replied the youngster, “I never could take it in hand to sound a dame of quality,—they are all of them too deep and too practised for me, and have better and abler men about ’em. And surely I did imagine to myself that if it were asked of any honourable man (omitting to speak of ladies) whether he would give permission to be openly praised, he would reject the application as a gross offence. It appeareth to me that even to praise one’s self, although it be shameful, is less shameful than to throw a burning coal into the incense-box that another doth hold to waft before us, and then to snift and simper over it, with maidenly, wishful coyness, as if forsooth one had no hand in setting it asmoke.”
Then did Sir Thomas, in his zeal to instruct the ignorant, and so make the lowly hold up their heads, say unto him,—
“Nay, but all the great do thus. Thou must not praise them without leave and license. Praise unpermitted is plebeian praise. It is presumption to suppose that thou knowest enough of the noble and the great to discover their high qualities. They alone could manifest them unto thee. It requireth much discernment and much time to enucleate and bring into light their abstruse wisdom and gravely featured virtues. Those of ordinary men lie before thee in thy daily walks; thou mayest know them by converse at their tables, as thou knowest the little tame squirrel that chippeth his nuts in the open sunshine of a bowling-green. But beware how thou enterest the awful arbours of the great, who conceal their magnanimity in the depths of their hearts, as lions do.”
He then paused; and observing the youth in deep and earnest meditation over the fruits of his experience, as one who tasted and who would fain digest them; he gave him encouragement, and relieved the weight of his musings by kind interrogation.
“So, then, these verses are thine own?” The youth answered,—
“Sir, I must confess my fault.”
Sir Thomas.
“And who was the shepherd written hereSecond Shepherd, that had the ill manners to interrupt thee? Methinks, in helping thee to mount the saddle, he pretty nigh tossed thee over,[53a]with his jerks and quirks.”
Without waiting for any answer, his worship continued his interrogations.
“But do you woolstaplers call yourselves by the style and title of shepherds?”
William Shakspeare.
“Verily, sir, do we; and I trust by right. The last owner of any place is called the master more properly than the dead and gone who once held it. If that be true (and who doubts it?) we, who have the last of the sheep, namely, the wool and skin, and who buy all of all the flock, surely may more properly be called shepherds than those idle vagrants who tend them only for a season, selling a score or purchasing a score, as may happen.”
Here Sir Thomas did pause a while, and then said unto Master Silas,—
“My own cogitations, and not this stripling, have induced me to consider and to conclude a weighty matter for knightly scholarship. I never could rightly understand before how Colin Clout, and sundry others calling themselves shepherds, should argue like doctors in law, physic, and divinity.
“Silas! they were woolstaplers; and they must have exercised their wits in dealing with tithe-proctors and parsons, and moreover with fellows of colleges from our two learned universities, who have sundry lands held under them, as thou knowest, and take the small tithes in kind. Colin Clout, methinks, from his extensive learning, might have acquired enough interest with the Queen’s Highness to change his name for the better, and, furthermore, her royal license to carry armorial bearings, in no peril of taint from so unsavoury an appellation.”
Master Silas did interrupt this discourse, by saying,—
“May it please your worship, the constable is waiting.”
Whereat Sir Thomas said, tartly,—
“And let him wait.”[55a]
Then to me,—
“I hope we have done with verses, and are not to be befooled by the lad’s nonsense touching mermaids or worse creatures.”
Then to Will,—
“William Shakspeare! we live in a Christian land, a land of great toleration and forbearance. Three score cartsful of fagots a year are fully sufficient to clear our English air from every pestilence of heresy and witchcraft. It hath not alway been so, God wot! Innocent and guilty took their turns before the fire, like geese and capons. The spit was never cold; the cook’s sleeve was ever above the elbow. Countrymen came down from distant villages into towns and cities, to see perverters whom they had never heard of, and to learn the righteousness of hatred. When heretics waxed fewer the religious began to grumble that God, in losing his enemies, had also lost his avengers.
“Do not thou, William Shakspeare, dig the hole for thy own stake. If thou canst not make men wise, do not make them merry at thy cost. We are not to be paganised any more. Having struck from our calendars, and unnailed from our chapels, many dozens of decent saints, with as little compunction and remorse as unlucky lads throw frog-spawn and tadpoles out of stagnant ditches, never let us think of bringing back among us the daintier divinities they ousted. All these are the devil’s imps, beautiful as they appear in what we falsely call works of genius, which really and truly are the devil’s own,—statues more graceful than humanity, pictures more living than life, eloquence that raised single cities above empires, poor men above kings. If these are not Satan’s works, where are they? I will tell thee where they are likewise. In holding vain converse with false gods. The utmost we can allow in propriety is to call a knight Phœbus, and a dame Diana. They are not meat for every trencher.
“We must now proceed straightforward with the business on which thou comest before us. What further sayest thou, witness?”
Euseby Treen.
“His face was toward me; I saw it clearly. The graver man followed him into the punt, and said, roughly, ‘We shall get hanged as sure as thou pipest.’
“Whereunto he answered,—
‘Naturally, as fall upon the groundThe leaves in winter and the girls in spring.’
And then began he again with the mermaid; whereat the graver man clapped a hand before his mouth, and swore he should take her in wedlock, to have and to hold, if he sang another stave. ‘And thou shalt be her pretty little bridemaid,’ quoth he gaily to the graver man, chucking him under the chin.”
Sir Thomas.
“And what did Carnaby say unto thee, or what didst thou say unto Carnaby?”
Euseby Treen.
“Carnaby said unto me, somewhat tauntingly, ‘The big squat man, that lay upon thy bread-basket like a nightmare, is a punt at last, it seems.’
“‘Punt, and more too,’ answered I. ‘Tarry awhile, and thou shalt see this punt (so let me call it) lead them into temptation, and swamp them or carry them to the gallows; I would not stay else.’”
Sir Thomas.
“And what didst thou, Joseph Carnaby?”
Joseph Carnaby.
“Finding him neither slack nor shy, I readily tarried. We knelt down opposite each other, and said our prayers; and he told me he was now comfortable. ‘The evil one,’ said he, ‘hath enough to mind yonder: he shall not hurt us.’
“Never was a sweeter night, had there been but some mild ale under it, which any one would have sworn it was made for. The milky way looked like a long drift of hail-stones on a sunny ridge.”
Sir Thomas.
“Hast thou done describing?”
Joseph Carnaby.
“Yea, an please your worship.”
Sir Thomas.
“God’s blessing be upon thee, honest Carnaby! I feared a moon-fall. In our days nobody can think about a plum-pudding but the moon comes down upon it. I warrant ye this lad here hath as many moons in his poems as the Saracens had in their banners.”
William Shakspeare.
“I have not hatched mine yet, sir. Whenever I do I trust it will be worth taking to market.”
Joseph Carnaby.
“I said all I know of the stars; but Master Euseby can run over half a score and upward, here and there. ‘Am I right, or wrong?’ cried he, spreading on the back of my hand all his fingers, stiff as antlers and cold as icicles. ‘Look up, Joseph! Joseph! there is no Lucifer in the firmament!’ I myself did feel queerish and qualmy upon hearing that a star was missing, being no master of gainsaying it; and I abased my eyes, and entreated of Euseby to do in like manner. And in this posture did we both of us remain; and the missing star did not disquiet me; and all the others seemed as if they knew us and would not tell of us; and there was peace and pleasantness over sky and earth. And I said to my companion,—
“‘How quiet now, good Master Euseby, are all God’s creatures in this meadow, because they never pry into such high matters, but breathe sweetly among the pig-nuts. The only things we hear or see stirring are the glow-worms and dormice, as though they were sent for our edification, teaching us to rest contented with our own little light, and to come out and seek our sustenance where none molest or thwart us.’”
William Shakspeare.
“Ye would have it thus, no doubt, when your pockets and pouches are full of gins and nooses.”
Sir Thomas.
“A bridle upon thy dragon’s tongue! And do thou, Master Joseph, quit the dormice and glow-worms, and tell us whither did the rogues go.”
Joseph Carnaby.
“I wot not after they had crossed the river they were soon out of sight and hearing.”
Sir Thomas.
“Went they toward Charlecote?”
Joseph Carnaby.
“Their first steps were thitherward.”
Sir Thomas.
“Did they come back unto the punt?”
Joseph Carnaby.
“They went down the stream in it, and crossed the Avon some fourscore yards below where we were standing. They came back in it, and moored it to the sedges in which it had stood before.”
Sir Thomas.
“How long were they absent?”
Joseph Carnaby.
“Within an hour, or thereabout, all the three men returned. Will Shakspeare and another were sitting in the middle, the third punted.
“‘Remember now, gentles!’ quoth William Shakspeare, ‘the road we have taken is henceforward a footpath for ever, according to law.’
“‘How so?’ asked the punter, turning toward him,
“‘Forasmuch as a corpse hath passed along it,’ answered he.
“Whereupon both Euseby and myself did forthwith fall upon our faces, commending our souls unto the Lord.”
Sir Thomas.
“It was then really the dead body that quivered so fearfully upon the water, covering all the punt! Christ, deliver us! I hope the keeper they murdered was not Jeremiah. His wife and four children would be very chargeable, and the man was by no means amiss. Proceed! what further?”
“On reaching the bank, ‘I never sat pleasanter in my lifetime,’ said William Shakspeare, ‘than upon this carcass.’”
Sir Thomas.
“Lord have mercy upon us! Thou upon a carcass, at thy years!”
And the knight drew back his chair half an ell farther from the table, and his lips quivered at the thought of such inhumanity.
“And what said he more? and what did he?” asked the knight.
Joseph Carnaby.
“He patted it smartly, and said, ‘Lug it out; break it.’”
Sir Thomas.
“These four poor children! who shall feed them?”
Sir Silas.
“Sir! in God’s name have you forgotten that Jeremiah is gone to Nuneaton to see his father, and that the murdered man is the buck?”
Sir Thomas.
“They killed the buck likewise. But what, ye cowardly varlets! have ye been deceiving me all this time? And thou, youngster! couldst thou say nothing to clear up the case? Thou shalt smart for it. Methought I had lost by a violent death the best servant ever man had—righteous, if there be no blame in saying it, as the prophet whose name he beareth, and brave as the lion of Judah.”
William Shakspeare.
“Sir, if these men could deceive your worship for a moment, they might deceive me for ever. I could not guess what their story aimed at, except my ruin. I am inclined to lean for once toward the opinion of Master Silas, and to believe it was really the stolen buck on which this William (if indeed there is any truth at all in the story) was sitting.”
Sir Thomas.
“What more hast thou for me that is not enigma or parable?”
Joseph Carnaby.
“I did not see the carcass, man’s or beast’s, may it please your worship, and I have recited and can recite that only which I saw and heard. After the words of lugging out and breaking it, knives were drawn accordingly. It was no time to loiter or linger. We crope back under the shadow of the alders and hazels on the high bank that bordereth Mickle Meadow, and, making straight for the public road, hastened homeward.”
Sir Thomas.
“Hearing this deposition, dost thou affirm the like upon thy oath, Master Euseby Treen, or dost thou vary in aught essential?”
Euseby Treen.
“Upon my oath I do depose and affirm the like, and truly the identical same; and I will never more vary upon aught essential.”
Sir Thomas.
“I do now further demand of thee whether thou knowest anything more appertaining unto this business.”
Euseby Treen.
“Ay, verily; that your worship may never hold me for timorsome and superstitious, I do furthermore add that some other than deer-stealers was abroad. In sign whereof, although it was the dryest and clearest night of the season, my jerkin was damp inside and outside when I reached my house-door.”
William Shakspeare.
“I warrant thee, Euseby, the damp began not at the outside. A word in thy ear—Lucifer was thy tapster, I trow.”
Sir Thomas.
“Irreverent swine! hast no awe nor shame. Thou hast aggravated thy offence, William Shakspeare, by thy foul-mouthedness.”
Sir Silas.
“I must remind your worship that he not only has committed this iniquity afore, but hath pawed the puddle he made, and relapsed into it after due caution and reproof. God forbid that what he spake against me, out of the gall of his proud stomach, should move me. I defy him, a low, ignorant wretch, a rogue and vagabond, a thief and cut-throat, a —[66a]monger and mutton-eater.”
William Shakspeare.
“Your worship doth hear the learned clerk’s testimony in my behalf. ‘Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings’—”
Sir Thomas.
“Silas, the youth has failings—a madcap; but he is pious.”
William Shakspeare.
“Alas, no, sir! Would I were! But Sir Silas, like the prophet, came to curse, and was forced to bless me, even me, a sinner, a mutton-eater!”
Sir Thomas.
“Thou urgedst him. He beareth no ill-will toward thee. Thou knewedst, I suspect, that the blackness in his mouth proceeded from a natural cause.”
William Shakspeare.
“The Lord is merciful! I was brought hither in jeopardy; I shall return in joy. Whether my innocence be declared or otherwise, my piety and knowledge will be forwarded and increased; for your worship will condescend, even from the judgment-seat, to enlighten the ignorant where a soul shall be saved or lost. And I, even I, may trespass a moment on your courtesy. I quail at the wordsnatural cause. Be there any such?”
Sir Thomas.
“Youth! I never thought thee so staid. Thou hast, for these many months, been represented unto me as one dissolute and light, much given unto mummeries and mysteries, wakes and carousals, cudgel-fighters and mountebanks and wanton women. They do also represent of thee—I hope it may be without foundation—that thou enactest the parts, not simply of foresters and fairies, girls in the green-sickness and friars, lawyers and outlaws, but likewise, having small reverence for station, of kings and queens, knights and privy-counsellors, in all their glory. It hath been whispered, moreover, and the testimony of these two witnesses doth appear in some measure to countenance and confirm it, that thou hast at divers times this last summer been seen and heard alone, inasmuch as human eye may discover, on the narrow slip of greensward between the Avon and the chancel, distorting thy body like one possessed, and uttering strange language, like unto incantation. This, however, cometh not before me. Take heed! take heed unto thy ways; there are graver things in law even than homicide and deer-stealing.”
Sir Silas.
“And strong against him. Folks have been consumed at the stake for pettier felonies and upon weaker evidence.”
Sir Thomas.
“To that anon.”
William Shakspeare did hold down his head, answering nought. And Sir Thomas spake again unto him, as one mild and fatherly, if so be that such a word may be spoken of a knight and parliament-man. And these are the words he spake:—
“Reason and ruminate with thyself now. To pass over and pretermit the danger of representing the actions of the others, and mainly of lawyers and churchmen, the former of whom do pardon no offences, and the latter those only against God, having no warrant for more, canst thou believe it innocent to counterfeit kings and queens? Supposest thou that if the impression of their faces on a farthing be felonious and rope-worthy, the imitation of head and body, voice and bearing, plume and strut, crown and mantle, and everything else that maketh them royal and glorious, be aught less? Perpend, young man, perpend! Consider, who among inferior mortals shall imitate them becomingly? Dreamest thou they talk and act like checkmen at Banbury fair? How can thy shallow brain suffice for their vast conceptions? How darest thou say, as they do: ‘Hang this fellow; quarter that; flay; mutilate; stab; shoot; press; hook; torture; burn alive’? These are royalties. Who appointed thee to such office? The Holy Ghost? He alone can confer it; but when wert thou anointed?”
William was so zealous in storing up these verities that he looked as though he were unconscious that the pouring-out was over. He started, which he had not done before, at the voice of Master Silas; but soon recovered his complacency, and smiled with much serenity at being called low-minded varlet.
“Low-minded varlet!” cried Master Silas, most contemptuously, “dost thou imagine that king calleth king, like thy chums,filcherandfibber,whirligigandnincompoop? Instead of this low vulgarity and sordid idleness, ending in nothing, they throw at one another such fellows as thee by the thousand, and when they have cleared the land, render God thanks and make peace.”
Willy did now sigh out his ignorance of these matters; and he sighed, mayhap, too, at the recollection of the peril he had run into, and had ne’er a word on the nail.[70a]
The bowels of Sir Thomas waxed tenderer and tenderer; and he opened his lips in this fashion:—
“Stripling! I would now communicate unto thee, on finding thee docile and assentaneous, the instruction thou needest on the signification of the wordsnatural cause, if thy duty toward thy neighbour had been first instilled into thee.”
Whereupon Master Silas did interpose, for the dinner hour was drawing nigh.
“We cannot do all at once,” quoth he. “Coming out of order, it might harm him. Malt before hops, the world over, or the beer muddies.”
But Sir Thomas was not to be pricked out of his form even by so shrewd a pricker; and like unto one who heareth not, he continued to look most graciously on the homely vessel that stood ready to receive his wisdom.
“Thy mind,” said he, “being unprepared for higher cogitations, and the groundwork and religious duty not being well rammer-beaten and flinted, I do pass over this supererogatory point, and inform thee rather, that bucks and swans and herons have something in their very names announcing them of knightly appurtenance; and (God forfend that evil do ensue therefrom!) that a goose on the common, or a game-cock on the loft of a cottager or villager, may be seized, bagged, and abducted, with far less offence to the laws. In a buck there is something so gainly and so grand, he treadeth the earth with such ease and such agility, he abstaineth from all other animals with such punctilious avoidance, one would imagine God created him when he created knighthood. In the swan there is such purity, such coldness is there in the element he inhabiteth, such solitude of station, that verily he doth remind me of the Virgin Queen herself. Of the heron I have less to say, not having him about me; but I never heard his lordly croak without the conceit that it resembled a chancellor’s or a primate’s.
“I do perceive, William Shakspeare, thy compunction and contrition.”
William Shakspeare.
“I was thinking, may it please your worship, of the game-cock and the goose, having but small notion of herons. This doctrine of abduction, please your worship, hath been alway inculcated by the soundest of our judges. Would they had spoken on other points with the same clearness. How many unfortunates might thereby have been saved from crossing the Cordilleras!”[72a]
Sir Thomas.
“Ay, ay! they have been fain to fly the country at last, thither or elsewhere.”
And then did Sir Thomas call unto him Master Silas, and say,—
“Walk we into the bay-window. And thou mayest come, Ephraim.”
And when we were there together, I, Master Silas, and his worship, did his worship say unto the chaplain, but oftener looking toward me,—
“I am not ashamed to avouch that it goeth against me to hang this young fellow, richly as the offence in its own nature doth deserve it, he talketh so reasonably; not indeed so reasonably, but so like unto what a reasonable man may listen to and reflect on. There is so much, too, of compassion for others in hard cases, and something so very near in semblance to innocence itself in that airy swing of lightheartedness about him. I cannot fix my eyes (as one would say) on the shifting and suddenshade-and-shine, which cometh back to me, do what I will, and mazes me in a manner, and blinks me.”
At this juncture I was ready to fall upon the ground before his worship, and clasp his knees for Willy’s pardon. But he had so many points about him, that I feared to discompose ’em, and thus make bad worse. Besides which, Master Silas left me but scanty space for good resolutions, crying,—
“He may be committed, to save time. Afterward he may be sentenced to death, or he may not.”
Sir Thomas.
“’T were shame upon me were he not; ’t were indication that I acted unadvisedly in the commitment.”
Sir Silas.
“The penalty of the law may be commuted, if expedient, on application to the fountain of mercy in London.”
Sir Thomas.
“Maybe, Silas, those shall be standing round the fount of mercy who play in idleness and wantonness with its waters, and let them not flow widely, nor take their natural course. Dutiful gallants may encompass it, and it may linger among the flowers they throw into it, and never reach the parched lip on the wayside.
“These are homely thoughts—thoughts from a-field, thoughts for the study and housekeeper’s room. But whenever I have given utterance unto them, as my heart hath often prompted me with beatings at the breast, my hearers seemed to bear toward me more true and kindly affection than my richest fancies and choicest phraseologies could purchase.
“’T were convenient to bethink thee, should any other great man’s park have been robbed this season, no judge upon the bench will back my recommendation for mercy. And, indeed, how could I expect it? Things may soon be brought to such a pass that their lordships shall scarcely find three haunches each upon the circuit.”
“Well, Sir!” quoth Master Silas, “you have a right to go on in your own way. Make him only give up the girl.”
Here Sir Thomas reddened with righteous indignation, and answered,—
“I cannot think it! such a stripling! poor, penniless; it must be some one else.” And now Master Silas did redden in his turn, redder than Sir Thomas, and first asked me,—
“What the devil do you stare at?” And then asked his worship,—
“Who should it be if not the rogue?” and his lips turned as blue as a blue-bell. Then Sir Thomas left the window, and again took his chair, and having stood so long on his legs, groaned upon it to ease him. His worship scowled with all his might, and looked exceedingly wroth and vengeful at the culprit, and said unto him,—
“Harkye, knave! I have been conferring with my learned clerk and chaplain in what manner I may, with the least severity, rid the county (which thou disgracest) of thee.”
William Shakspeare raised up his eyes, modestly and fearfully, and said slowly these few words, which, had they been a better and nobler man’s, would deserve to be written in letters of gold. I, not having that art nor substance, do therefore write them in my largest and roundest character, and do leave space about ’em, according to their rank and dignity:—
“Worshipful sir!”
“Aword in the ear is often as good as a halter under it, and saves the groat.”
“Thou discoursest well,” said Sir Thomas, “but others can discourse well likewise. Thou shalt avoid; I am resolute.”
William Shakspeare.
“I supplicate your honour to impart unto me, in your wisdom, the mode and means whereby I may surcease to be disgraceful to the county.”
Sir Thomas.
“I am not bloody-minded.
“First, thou shalt have the fairest and fullest examination. Much hath been deposed against thee; something may come forth for thy advantage. I will not thy death; thou shalt not die.
“The laws have loopholes, like castles, both to shoot from and to let folks down.”
Sir Silas.
“That pointed ear would look the better for paring, and that high forehead can hold many letters.”
Whereupon did William, poor lad! turn deadly pale, but spake not.
Sir Thomas then abated a whit of his severity, and said, staidly,—
“Testimony doth appear plain and positive against thee; nevertheless am I minded and prompted to aid thee myself, in disclosing and unfolding what thou couldst not of thine own wits, in furtherance of thine own defence.
“One witness is persuaded and assured of the evil spirit having been abroad, and the punt appeared unto him diversely from what it appeared unto the other.”
William Shakspeare.
“If the evil spirit produced one appearance, he might have produced all, with deference to the graver judgment of your worship.
“If what seemedpuntwasdevil, what seemedbuckmight have beendeviltoo; nay, more easily, the horns being forthcoming.
“Thieves and reprobates do resemble him more nearly still; and it would be hard if he could not make free with their bodies, when he has their souls already.”
Sir Thomas.
“But, then, those voices! and thou thyself, Will Shakspeare!”
William Shakspeare.
“O might I kiss the hand of my deliverer, whose clear-sightedness throweth such manifest and plenary light upon my innocence!”
Sir Thomas.
“How so? What light, in God’s name, have I thrown upon it as yet?”
William Shakspeare.
“Oh! those voices! those faeries and spirits! whence came they? None can deal with ’em but the devil, the parson, and witches. And does not the devil oftentimes take the very form, features, and habiliments of knights, and bishops, and other good men, to lead them into temptation and destroy them? or to injure their good name, in failure of seduction?
“He is sure of the wicked; he lets them go their ways out of hand.
“I think your worship once delivered some such observation, in more courtly guise, which I would not presume to ape. If it was not your worship, it was our glorious lady the queen, or the wise Master Walsingham, or the great Lord Cecil. I may have marred and broken it, as sluts do a pancake, in the turning.”
Sir Thomas.
“Why! ay, indeed, I had occasion once to remark as much.”
William Shakspeare.
“So have I heard in many places; although I was not present when Matthew Atterend fought about it for the honour of Kineton hundred.”
Sir Thomas.
“Fought about it!”
William Shakspeare.
“As your honour recollects. Not but on other occasions he would have fought no less bravely for the queen.”
Sir Thomas.
“We must get thee through, were it only for thy memory,—the most precious gift among the mental powers that Providence hath bestowed upon us. I had half forgotten the thing myself. Thou mayest, in time, take thy satchel for London, and aid good old Master Holingshed.
“We must clear thee, Will! I am slow to surmise that there is blood upon thy hands!”
His worship’s choler had all gone down again; and he sat as cool and comfortable as a man sitteth to be shaved. Then called he on Euseby Treen, and said,—
“Euseby Treen! tell us whether thou observedst anything unnoticed or unsaid by the last witness.”
Euseby Treen.
“One thing only, sir!
“When they had passed the water an owlet hooted after them; and methought, if they had any fear of God before their eyes they would have turned back, he cried so lustily.”
William Shakspeare.
“Sir, I cannot forbear to take the owlet out of your mouth. He knocks them all on the head like so many mice. Likely story! One fellow hears him cry lustily, the other doth not hear him at all!”
Joseph Carnaby.
“Not hear him! A body might have heard him at Barford or Sherbourne.”
Sir Thomas.
“Why didst not name him? Canst not answer me?”
Joseph Carnaby.
“Hedoubted whether punt were punt; I doubted whether owlet were owlet, after Lucifer was away from the roll-call.
“We say,Speak the truth and shame the devil; but shaming him is one thing, your honour, and facing him another! I have heard owlets, but never owlet like him.”
William Shakspeare.
“The Lord be praised! All, at last, a-running to my rescue.
“Owlet, indeed! Your worship may have remembered in an ancient book—indeed, what book is so ancient that your worship doth not remember it?—a book printed by Doctor Faustus—”
Sir Thomas.
“Before he dealt with the devil?”
William Shakspeare.
“Not long before, it being the very book that made the devil think it worth his while to deal with him.”
Sir Thomas.
“What chapter thereof wouldst thou recall unto my recollection?”
William Shakspeare.
“That concerning owls, with the grim print afore it.
“Doctor Faustus, the wise doctor, who knew other than owls and owlets, knew the tempter in that form. Faustus was not your man for fancies and figments; and he tells us that, to his certain knowledge, it was verily an owl’s face that whispered so much mischief in the ear of our first parent.
“One plainly sees it, quoth Doctor Faustus, under that gravity which in human life we call dignity, but of which we read nothing in the Gospel. We despise the hangman, we detest the hanged; and yet, saith Duns Scotus, could we turn aside the heavy curtain, or stand high enough a-tiptoe to peep through its chinks and crevices, we should perhaps find these two characters to stand justly among the most innocent in the drama. He who blinketh the eyes of the poor wretch about to die doeth it out of mercy; those who preceded him, bidding him in the garb of justice to shed the blood of his fellow-man, had less or none. So they hedge well their own grounds, what care they? For this do they catch at stakes and thorns, at quick and rotten—”
Here Master Silas interrupted the discourse of the devil’s own doctor, delivered and printed by him before he was the devil’s, to which his worship had listened very attentively and delightedly. But Master Silas could keep his temper no longer, and cried, fiercely, “Seditious sermonizer! hold thy peace, or thou shalt answer for ’t before convocation.”
Sir Thomas.
“Silas! thou dost not approve, then, the doctrine of this Doctor Duns?”
Sir Silas.
“Heretical Rabbi!”
William Shakspeare.
“If two of a trade can never agree, yet surely two of a name may.”
Sir Silas.
“Who dares call me heretical? who dares call me rabbi? who dares call me Scotus? Spider! spider! yea, thou hast one corner left; I espy thee, and my broom shall reach thee yet.”
William Shakspeare.
“I perceive that Master Silas doth verily believe I have been guilty of suborning the witnesses, at least the last, the best man (if any difference) of the two. No, sir, no. If my family and friends have united their wits and money for this purpose, be the crime of perverted justice on their heads! They injure whom they intended to serve. Improvident men!—if the young may speak thus of the elderly; could they imagine to themselves that your worship was to be hoodwinked and led astray?”
Sir Thomas.
“No man shall ever dare to hoodwink me, to lead me astray,—no, nor lead me anywise. Powerful defence! Heyday! Sit quiet, Master Treen!—Euseby Treen! dost hear me? Clench thy fist again, sirrah! and I clap thee in the stocks.
“Joseph Carnaby! do not scratch thy breast nor thy pate before me.”
Now Joseph had not only done that in his wrath, but had unbuckled his leathern garter, fit instrument for strife and blood, and peradventure would have smitten, had not the knight, with magisterial authority, interposed.
His worship said unto him, gravely,—
“Joseph Carnaby! Joseph Carnaby! hast thou never read the words ‘Put up thy sword’?”
“Subornation! your worship!” cried Master Joe. “The fellow hath ne’er a shilling in leather or till, and many must go to suborn one like me.”
“I do believe it of thee,” said Sir Thomas; “but patience, man! patience! he rather tended toward exculpating thee. Ye have far to walk for dinner; ye may depart.”
They went accordingly.
Then did Sir Thomas say, “These are hot men, Silas!”
And Master Silas did reply unto him,—
“There are brands that would set fire to the bulrushes in the mill-pool. I know these twain for quiet folks, having coursed with them over Wincott.”
Sir Thomas then said unto William, “It behooveth thee to stand clear of yon Joseph, unless when thou mayest call to thy aid the Matthew Atterend thou speakest of. He did then fight valiantly, eh?”
William Shakspeare.
“His cause fought valiantly; his fist but seconded it. He won,—proving the golden words to be no property of our lady’s, although her Highness hath never disclaimed them.”
Sir Thomas.
“What art thou saying?”
William Shakspeare.
“So I heard from a preacher at Oxford, who had preached at Easter in the chapel-royal of Westminster.”
Sir Thomas.
“Thou! why, how could that happen? Oxford! chapel-royal!”
William Shakspeare.
“And to whom I said (your worship will forgive my forwardness), ‘I have the honour,sir,to live within two measured miles of the very Sir Thomas Lucy who spake that.’ And I vow I said it without any hope or belief that he would invite me, as he did, to dine with him thereupon.”
Sir Thomas.
“There be nigh upon three miles betwixt this house and Stratford bridge-end.”
William Shakspeare.
“I dropt a mile in my pride and exultation, God forgive me! I would not conceal my fault.”
Sir Thomas.
“Wonderful! that a preacher so learned as to preach before majesty in the chapel-royal should not have caught thee tripping over a whole lawful mile,—a good third of the distance between my house and the cross-roads. This is incomprehensible in a scholar.”
William Shakspeare.
“God willed that he should become my teacher, and in the bowels of his mercy hid my shame.”
Sir Thomas.
“How camest thou into the converse of such eminent and ghostly men?”
William Shakspeare.
“How, indeed?—everything against me!”
He sighed, and entered into a long discourse, which Master Silas would at sundry times have interrupted, but that Sir Thomas more than once frowned upon him, even as he had frowned heretofore on young Will, who thus began and continued his narration:—
“Hearing the preacher preach at Saint Mary’s (for being about my father’s business on Saturday, and not choosing to be a-horseback on Sundays, albeit time-pressed, I footed it to Oxford for my edification on the Lord’s day, leaving the sorrel with Master Hal Webster of theTankard and Unicorn)—hearing him preach, as I was saying, before the University in St. Mary’s Church, and hearing him use moreover the very words that Matthew fought about, I was impatient (God forgive me!) for the end and consummation, and I thought I never should hear those precious words that ease every man’s heart, ‘Now to conclude.’ However, come they did. I hurried out among the foremost, and thought the congratulations of the other doctors and dons would last for ever. He walked sharply off, and few cared to keep his pace,—for they are lusty men mostly; and spiteful bad women had breathed[89a]in the faces of some among them, or the gowns had got between their legs. For my part, I was not to be balked; so, tripping on aside him, I looked in his face askance. Whether he misgave or how, he turned his eyes downward. No matter—have him I would. I licked my lips and smacked them loud and smart, and scarcely venturing to nod, I gave my head such a sort of motion as dace and roach give an angler’s quill when they begin to bite. And this fairly hooked him.”
“‘Young gentleman!’ said he, ‘where is your gown?’
“‘Reverend sir!’ said I, ‘I am unworthy to wear one.’
“‘A proper youth, nevertheless, and mightily well-spoken!’ he was pleased to say.
“‘Your reverence hath given me heart, which failed me,’ was my reply. ‘Ah! your reverence! those words about the devil were spicy words; but, under favour, I do know the brook-side they sprang and flowered by. ’T is just where it runs into Avon; ’t is called Hogbrook.’
“‘Right!’ quoth he, putting his hand gently on my shoulder; ‘but if I had thought it needful to say so in my sermon, I should have affronted the seniors of the University, since many claim them, and some peradventure would fain transpose them into higher places, and giving up all right and title to them, would accept in lieu thereof the poor recompense of a mitre.’
“I wished (unworthy wish for a Sunday!) I had Matthew Atterend in the midst of them. He would have given them skulls mitre-fashioned, if mitres are cloven now as we see them on ancient monuments. Matt is your milliner for gentles, who think no more harm of purloining rich saws in a mitre than lane-born boys do of embezzling hazel-nuts in a woollen cap. I did not venture to expound or suggest my thoughts, but feeling my choler rise higher and higher, I craved permission to make my obeisance and depart.
“‘Where dost thou lodge, young man?’ said the preacher.
“‘At the public,’ said I, ‘where my father customarily lodgeth. There, too, is a mitre of the old fashion, swinging on the sign-post in the middle of the street.’
“‘Respectable tavern enough!’ quoth the reverend doctor; ‘and worthy men do turn in there, even quality,—Master Davenant, Master Powel, Master Whorwood, aged and grave men. But taverns are Satan’s chapels, and are always well attended on the Lord’s day, to twit him. Hast thou no friend in such a city as Oxford?’
“‘Only the landlady of the Mitre,’ said I.
“‘A comely woman,’ quoth he, ‘but too young for business by half.
“‘Stay thou with me to-day, and fare frugally, but safely.
“‘What may thy name be, and where is thy abode?’
“‘William Shakspeare, of Stratford-upon-Avon, at your service, sir.’
“‘And welcome,’ said he; ‘thy father ere now hath bought our college wool. A truly good man we ever found him; and I doubt not he hath educated his son to follow him in his paths. There is in the blood of man, as in the blood of animals, that which giveth the temper and disposition. These require nurture and culture. But what nurture will turn flint-stones into garden mould? or what culture rear cabbages in the quarries of Hedington Hill? To be well born is the greatest of all God’s primary blessings, young man, and there are many well born among the poor and needy. Thou art not of the indigent and destitute, who have great temptations; thou art not of the wealthy and affluent, who have greater still. God hath placed thee, William Shakspeare, in that pleasant island, on one side whereof are the sirens, on the other the harpies, but inhabiting the coasts on the wider continent, and unable to make their talons felt, or their voices heard by thee. Unite with me in prayer and thanksgiving for the blessings thus vouchsafed. We must not close the heart when the finger of God would touch it. Enough, if thou sayest only,My soul,praise thou the Lord!’”
Sir Thomas said, “Amen!” Master Silas was mute for the moment, but then quoth he, “I can say amen too in the proper place.”
The knight of Charlecote, who appeared to have been much taken with this conversation, then interrogated Willy:—
“What farther might have been thy discourse with the doctor? or did he discourse at all at trencher-time? Thou must have been very much abashed to sit down at table with one who weareth a pure lambskin across his shoulder, and moreover a pink hood.”
William Shakspeare.
“Faith! was I, your honour! and could neither utter nor gulp.”
Sir Thomas.
“These are good signs. Thou hast not lost all grace.”
William Shakspeare.
“With the encouragement of Dr. Glaston—”
Sir Thomas.
“And was it Dr. Glaston?”
William Shakspeare.
“Said I not so?”
Sir Thomas.
“The learnedst clerk in Christendom! a very Friar Bacon! The Pope offered a hundred marks in Latin to who should eviscerate or evirate him,—poisons very potent, whereat the Italians are handy,—so apostolic and desperate a doctor is Doctor Glaston! so acute in his quiddities, and so resolute in his bearing! He knows the dark arts, but stands aloof from them. Prithee, what were his words unto thee?”
William Shakspeare.
“Manna, sir, manna! pure from the desert!”
Sir Thomas.
“Ay, but what spake he? for most sermons are that, and likewise many conversations after dinner.”
William Shakspeare.
“He spake of the various races and qualities of men, as before stated; but chiefly on the elect and reprobate, and how to distinguish and know them.”
Sir Thomas.
“Did he go so far?”
William Shakspeare.
“He told me that by such discussion he should say enough to keep me constantly out of evil company.”
Sir Thomas.
“See there! see there! and yet thou art come before me!—Can nothing warn thee?”
William Shakspeare.
“I dare not dissemble, nor feign, nor hold aught back, although it be to my confusion. As well may I speak at once the whole truth for your worship could find it out if I abstained.”
Sir Thomas.
“Ay, that I should indeed, and shortly. But, come now, I am sated of thy follies and roguish tricks, and yearn after the sound doctrine of that pious man. What expounded the grave Glaston upon signs and tokens whereby ye shall be known?”
William Shakspeare.
“Wonderful things! things beyond belief! ‘There be certain men,’ quoth he—”
Sir Thomas.
“He began well. This promises. But why canst not thou go on?”
William Shakspeare.
“‘There be certain men, who, rubbing one corner of the eye, do see a peacock’s feather at the other, and even fire. We know, William, what that fire is, and whence it cometh. Those wicked men, William, all have their marks upon them, be it only a corn, or a wart, or a mole, or a hairy ear, or a toe-nail turned inward. Sufficient, and more than sufficient! He knoweth his own by less tokens. There is not one of them that doth not sweat at some secret sin committed, or some inclination toward it unsnaffled.
“‘Certain men are there, likewise, who venerate so little the glorious works of the Creator that I myself have known them to sneeze at the sun! Sometimes it was against their will, and they would gladly have checked it had they been able; but they were forced to shew what they are. In our carnal state we say,What is one against numbers? In another we shall truly say,What are numbers against one?’”
Sir Thomas did ejaculate, “Amen!Amen!” And then his lips moved silently, piously, and quickly; and then said he, audibly and loudly,—
“And make us at last true Israelites!”
After which he turned to young Willy, and said, anxiously,—
“Hast thou more, lad? give us it while the Lord strengtheneth.”
“Sir,” answered Willy, “although I thought it no trouble, on my return to theMitre, to write down every word I could remember, and although few did then escape me, yet at this present I can bring to mind but scanty sentences, and those so stray and out of order that they would only prove my incapacity for sterling wisdom, and my incontinence of spiritual treasure.”
Sir Thomas.
“Even that sentence hath a twang of the doctor in it. Nothing is so sweet as humility. The mountains may descend, but the valleys cannot rise. Every man should know himself. Come, repeat what thou canst. I would fain have three or four more heads.”
William Shakspeare.
“I know not whether I can give your worship more than one other. Let me try. It was when Doctor Glaston was discoursing on the protection the wise and powerful should afford to the ignorant and weak:—
“‘In the earlier ages of mankind, your Greek and Latin authors inform you, there went forth sundry worthies, men of might, to deliver, not wandering damsels, albeit for those likewise they had stowage, but low-conditioned men, who fell under the displeasure of the higher, and groaned in thraldom and captivity. And these mighty ones were believed to have done such services to poor humanity that their memory grew greater than they, as shadows do than substances at day-fall. And the sons and grandsons of the delivered did laud and magnify those glorious names; and some in gratitude, and some in tribulation, did ascend the hills, which appeared unto them as altars bestrown with flowers and herbage for heaven’s acceptance. And many did go far into the quiet groves, under lofty trees, looking for whatever was mightiest and most protecting. And in such places did they cry aloud unto the mighty who had left them, “Return!return!help us!help us!be blessed!for ever blessed!”
“‘Vain men! but had they stayed there, not evil. Out of gratitude, purest gratitude, rose idolatry. For the devil sees the fairest, and soils it.
“‘In these our days, methinks, whatever other sins we may fall into, such idolatry is the least dangerous. For neither on the one side is there much disposition for gratitude, nor on the other much zeal to deliver the innocent and oppressed. Even this deliverance, although a merit, and a high one, is not the highest. Forgiveness is beyond it. Forgive, or ye shall not be forgiven. This ye may do every day; for if ye find not offences, ye feign them; and surely ye may remove your own work, if ye may re-remove another’s. To rescue requires more thought and wariness; learn, then, the easier lesson first. Afterward, when ye rescue any from another’s violence, or from his own (which oftentimes is more dangerous, as the enemies are within not only the penetrals of his house but of his heart), bind up his wounds before ye send him on his way. Should ye at any time overtake the erring, and resolve to deliver him up, I will tell you whither to conduct him. Conduct him to his Lord and Master, whose household he hath left. It is better to consign him to Christ his Saviour than to man his murderer; it is better to bid him live than to bid him die. The one word our Teacher and Preserver said, the other our enemy and destroyer. Bring him back again, the stray, the lost one bring him back, not with clubs and cudgels, not with halberts and halters, but generously and gently, and with the linking of the arm. In this posture shall God above smile upon ye; in this posture of yours he shall recognize again his beloved Son upon earth. Do ye likewise, and depart in peace.’”
William had ended, and there was silence in the hall for some time after, when Sir Thomas said,—
“He spake unto somewhat mean persons, who may do it without disparagement. I look for authority, I look for doctrine, and find none yet. If he could not have drawn us out a thread or two from the coat of an apostle, he might have given us a smack of Augustin, or a sprig of Basil. Our older sermons are headier than these, Master Silas! our new beer is the sweeter and clammier, and wants more spice. The doctor hath seasoned his with pretty wit enough, to do him justice, which in a sermon is never out of place; for if there be the bane, there likewise is the antidote.
“What dost thou think about it, Master Silas?”
Sir Silas.
“I would not give ten farthings for ten folios of such sermons.”
William Shakspeare.
“These words, Master Silas, will oftener be quoted than any others of thine; but rarely (do I suspect) as applicable to Doctor Glaston. I must stick unto his gown. I must declare that, to my poor knowledge, many have been raised to the bench of bishops for less wisdom and worse than is contained in the few sentences I have been commanded by authority to recite. No disparagement to any body I know, Master Silas, and multitudes bear witness, that thou above most art a dead hand at a sermon.”
Sir Silas.
“Touch my sermons, wilt dare?”
William Shakspeare.
“Nay, Master Silas, be not angered; it is courage enough to hear them.”
Sir Thomas.
“Now, Silas, hold thy peace and rest contented. He hath excused himself unto thee, throwing in a compliment far above his station, and not unworthy of Rome or Florence. I did not think him so ready. Our Warwickshire lads are fitter for football than courtesies; and, sooth to say, not only the inferior.”
His worship turned from Master Silas toward William, and said, “Brave Willy, thou hast given us our bitters; we are ready now for any thing solid. What hast left?”
William Shakspeare.