CHAPTER L.

When the curtain rose, it discovered the representation of a private street, very rudely painted upon a sort of hanging screen at the back of the stage, with a couple of wings to match, and upon a board or placard was also written in good-sized characters an intimation for the benefit of the spectators, worded thus:—"Scene during the greater part of the play in Verona; once in ye-fifthe act, at Mantua," a flourish of trumpets meantime rung out as the stage was displayed, and one dressed in character as "Prologue," entered, and bowing low towards the royal box, delivered the well-known but now omitted argument of the piece:—

"Two households, both alike in dignity,In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life;Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrowsDo, with their death, bury their parents' strife.The fearful passage of their death mark'd love,And the continuance of their parents's rageWhich, but their children's end, nought could remove,Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage:The which if you with patient ears attend,What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend."

"Methinks, my Lord of Essex," said the Queen, who had listened with great interest to the words, "Master Prologue promiseth well. Marked you how much was contained in those few lines? And lo, here begins the piece."

As the Queen spoke, Sampson and Gregory, with their swords and bucklers, and clad pretty much after the fashion of serving men of their own day, entered, and instantly commenced their animated dialogue.

Not, however, be it understood "slubbered over" by inferior actors, as in our times, but with exceeding humour, and with force and emphasis in every word; for even these minor characters were performed by actors of great talent.

Nothing could exceed the curiosity and interest in the audience even at this, the very commencement. The lively and sharp dialogue, the action so suited to the times in which the spectators lived; the animosity of the Capulet underlings towards the servitors of the Montagu family—and which bore so hardly upon several nobles present, whose followers frequently brawled and fought in the streets—produced a great effect; till, at length, as the lie was given, and Gregory, being prompted to remember his swashingblow, drew out his weapon, and the whole four engaged, the excitement, especially in the pit, was extraordinary. A murmur of delight was heard, and whilst some clapped their hands upon their rapiers, others shouted and seemed half inclined to jump upon the stage, and "fight on part and part." The entrance of Benvolio and Tybalt, however, produced a deep and silent attention.

"What, art thou drawn amongst these heartless hinds?Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death."

There was, indeed, now amongst the audience no inclination to pursue their accustomed practical jokes—no mewling of cats, squeaking of pigs, and tickling each other's ears with the rushes. The wondrous words of the poet held them in a state of enchantment. The nobles of the Court for the moment forgot the accustomed homage of eye and ear. Their bearded faces betrayed their interest, and the templars and students, as they stood leaning upon their heavy-hilted rapiers, sent their eyes upon the stage as if they could have devoured each line.

Indeed, to have any ideas of the interest created, we most again call to the reader's remembrance how great was the contrast between that whichhad beenand that whichwas; and if the melody of the verse of Shakespeare can, in the present day, make such an impression whilst we have so many and such varied productions suited to the hour and the time, in how much more was it likely to strike the senses of all present, when it seemed to have descended at once, in all its glorious beauty, like the music of the spheres!

There is that in theatrical representation, it has been observed by one of the greatest writers of our day, which perpetually awakens whatever of romance belongs to our characters. The comic wit, the strange art that gives such meaning to the poet's lightest word, the fair exciting life that is detailed before us, crowded into some little three hours—all that our most busy ambition could desire, love, enterprize, war, glory, the exaggeration of the sentiments which belong to the stage—like our own boldest movements.

Meanwhile the interest increased momentarily. The audience, from the Queen down to the meanest person there, seemed held in a state of enchantment as the piece proceeded. How different was it already from anything they had ever conceived of theatrical representation! It was a picture of life, such as is in the order of nature; there was the buoyant spirit of youth in every line! The Knight of Charlecote even became young again; he cast his eyes for a moment around, and was edified at beholding the deep, the breathless attention of the audience. The royal Tudor, "with eye and ear attentive bent," the lovely faces of her attendant ladies, each thrust forward and eager to catch the words of the poet, and the fine features of the attendant cavaliers, lighted up and animated with an expression of deep interest; the whole assemblage seeming, he thought, to hang upon each word.

As the eye of Sir Thomas again turned from the audience and rested upon the stage, he observed that the scene had been fresh placarded, and was now "a street in fair Verona." Indeed the serving-man who had announced to Lady Capulet, in the preceding scene, that "supper was served, Juliet asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity," had before his own exit changed the placard, and the next moment, as a gay party of revellers filled up the back of the stage, Romeo, Mercutio, and Benvolio, clad in masking costume, vizors in their hands, entered.

The masquing robes of Mercutio were partially dashed aside as he spoke the few words which constitute his opening speech.

"Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance."

At the same moment, too, the vizor which had bean held before his face was lowered, and as the glance of the torch-light fell upon his rich Italian dress and elegant figure, Sir Thomas started, whilst a murmur of applause ran through the theatre, gradually breaking into load plaudits, for in Mercutio they beheld the author of the piece—Shakespeare was on the stage.

The applause, however, was hushed almost at its commencement in the interest of the scene, and then came those startling lines which have since become as household words:—

"O, then, I see Queen Mab has been with you."

They came from the tongue of him who composed them, now uttered to an audience for the first time. Who shall attempt to describe their impression upon the hearers? Who shall describe the manner—the look—the utterance of him who then gave them? Shall we go too far if we say the world had since nothing to compare with that representation? The life, the brilliancy, the style of the character was suited to the actor. He was all fire, energy and spirit,—Mercutio was Shakespeare's self,—the most mercurial and spirited of the production of his comic muse; and the impressive manner in which he gave the words of the character, and their fire and brilliancy, his exquisite intonation, nay, the very dash of his look was irresistible.

The Queen, as he finished his speech, glanced around her. "'Fore Heaven, my Lord of Essex," she said, "but is not this exquisite?"

The answer of Essex was drowned in the applause which at the moment burst from all around as the graceful actor continued his part.

To ourselves, perhaps, at this moment, it would appear extraordinary that even greater approbation and louder plaudits had not followed. Shakespeare upon the stage, and speaking his own words, would seem to call forth acclaiming shouts within the walls of that old monastic playhouse which should almost have rent its roof in twain. To ourselves it would seem that the spectators should have almost expired with their enthusiasm; that "throats of brass, inspired with iron lungs," should have greeted him. But, be it remembered, that, exquisite as the whole performance was, as yet the audience knew little of the man, that the consideration of years had to mature the judgment of the world. He was actually giving them that which was too exquisite for the rudeness of the age in which they lived.

And so the play went on, new beauties every moment coming over the ears of that courtly audience, and at the same moment filling with delight those of inferior degree.

Amongst the audience constituting the Court circle were two spectators who stood somewhat apart, and beneath the arched entrance which admitted to the rude gallery constituting the dress-circle. With folded arms they watched the performance with, if possible, greater interest than any there.

They were an old and a young man, who had been drawn to see this performance from having heard the name of the author on their arrival in London. Both were from the neighbourhood of Stratford-upon-Avon, and (albeit they could scarce believe this play was the production of one whom they had long lost sight of), still they came.

As the play proceeded they became convinced from the language that it was indeed the production of the youth they had formerly known.

"By 'ur Lady," said Walter Arderne, "this must be our sometime friend!"

"No man else could have written even what we have already heard," said Sir Hugh Clopton.

"I am amazed," said Walter; "and yet I ought not, for well do I remember what the lad was."

"Hist," said Sir Hugh, "the scene is changed. Ah! and see, too, yonder masquer just now speaking those lines of fire. Is it not he?"

"It is himself!" said Walter. "O glorious fellow!"

"Soft, good Walter," said Sir Hugh. "In God's name let us hear."

As Mercutio finished his speech, the uncle and nephew looked at each other. The tears were in the eyes of Sir Hugh. "My poor Charlotte prophesied this," he said. "Rememberest thou her words about this Shakespeare when we first became acquainted with him?"

"I do," said Walter; "and she was indeed the only one amongst us who fully appreciated his merits. Nay, from the very first, an you remember, she said he would one day surprise us."

All further attempt to describe the progress of this play, and its effect upon the minds of the spectators, we feel to be a mere impertinence. It seems indeed to ourselves, as in imagination we after eye it, a play within a play—where all is like romance. The audience, that theatre, the players, that "foremost man of all the world" speaking his own words; all is like the fabric of some vision seen before,—a shadowy recollection of some brilliant hour set apart from the dull stream of life, and that too, during a glorious epoch.

As the play proceeded, and the progress of Romeo's sudden passion developed itself, the thoughts of that stately Queen returned to her early youth, ere the sterner feeling of pride and power had obliterated all gentler sensations. She thought upon the days when she loved the handsome Sudley, with all the violence of a first passion.

And if the royal Tudor and all around her were delighted with the delicious picture presented before them, in the halls of old Capulet, and the masque held there, they were still more charmed with the garden scene. They felt enchanted whilst they listened to the images of beauty which appear to have floated in such profusion before the poet's mind.

The richness of that glorious Italian picture held them in a state of enchantment. It had the sweetness of the rose, and all its freshness in every line. All was bright as the moonlight which tipped with silver the fruit-tree tops of the orchard, and yet all was soft as a southern spring. The very air of that garden seemed to breath a transport of delight; one almost expected to hear the language of the nightingale's song. And then the refinement and delicacy of the author's conception of the female character delighted the hearers as they listened to the words of Juliet.

"Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheekFor that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.Fain would I dwell on form, fain denyWhat I have spoke—but farewell compliment;Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say, ay,And I will take thee at thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st,Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' perjuries,They say Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo,If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;Or, if thou think I am too quickly won,I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee naySo thou wilt woo: but else not for the world.In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light;But trust me gentleman, I'll prove move trueThan those who have more cunning to be strange."

"The world hath nothing like this," said Raleigh to Southampton.

"'Tis heaven on this base earth," returned Southampton. "Said I not the master-mind of this man would produce wondrous matter?"

"Nay," said Sir Courtley Flutter, who was an ancient fop of the first water, "'Fore Gad, my lords, 'tis indeed perfect paradise sent down upon us poor worldlings here. I feel inspired altogether—repaired as it were; my heart palpitates—my blood circulates! Ha! I am young again, positively in love myself. Look, how these exquisite ladies, with the Queen there, are overcome. Nay, my Lord Burleigh seems to have forgotten the cares o' the state, and Bacon his gout. An we have another such masque as that just now represented, Sir Christopher Hatton will assuredly fling out amongst the dancers, and give us a coranto."

"By 'ur Lady!" said Sir Christopher, "I would ask no more beatitude in life, during the mighty changes of the world, than what appears in this changing drama, and the stuff of which it is composed. This lower world hath no such bliss. Let me see how went it:—'A hall, a hall,—give way, and foot it, girls!' Oh, 'twas exquisite stuff!"

The limits of the chapter we have dedicated to a description of "the play" permits not of a full dilation upon all therein enacted, neither can we describe the particular excellence of each actor; for each and all performed their parts with a richness and appreciation of the author's meaning the very tradition of which seems to have worn out from the stage.

To the want of scenery during this period we are perhaps indebted for many of those glorious descriptions with which the author has favoured the world in his works.

One thing, and which with a more modern audience would have gone far to take from the delight experienced, was the circumstance of Juliet's being personated by a youth of some sixteen years of age. This, together with the shambling clowns, who, with loose gait and slippery tongue strolled about and vented their sourril jests amongst the audience,—one moment tagging idle rhymes together, and the next venting truths deep as the centre, shewing a most pitiful ambition to make themselves prominent. These circumstances, in some sort, took from the effect.

As for Mercutio, the fire and dash of his character so excited the spectators that they could hardly contain themselves within bounds. He was like some bright exhalation, lending fire to the sphere in which he moved. And when, with the foot and hand, he gave the speech ending "Ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay!" the Court gallants, the benchers of the temple, and the citizens, shouted with delight. His death took all by surprise, and his absence from the scene was felt as a shock of reality. It was an age of bright deeds and fierce doers, and accordingly there was a murmur of disapprobation and disappointment when "Tybalt, alive, in triumph," made his exit,—till, as Romeo breaks through his apathy, and, assuming some of the fire of his kinsman's spirit, fiercely encounters and kills "the envious Capulet," a shout of gratified vengeance filled the house. Queen Elizabeth had herself been delighted with Mercutio. "That was a character, my Lord of Essex," she said, "after my own heart. But he was too brilliant to last. His were the faults that travellers give the moon,—

"He shone too bright. But died, alas! too soon."

"'Fore heaven, Sir Christopher Hatton," she continued, "we will not let Mercutio altogether die. An he was so brilliant that the author was enforced to kill him thus early, we will ourself raise him up. Go round, Sir Christopher, and summon that Shakespeare to our presence, in order that we may express to him our approbation of his efforts. What think ye, ladies," she continued, turning to her female attendants, "we will have both the character and the creator of the character beside us."

Shakespeare accordingly, by royal command, entered the royal stand or box, where he knelt and kissed the Queen's hand. After which he remained beside her.

And thus he stood on the right hand of the Queen with his face turned towards the royal countenance, his side towards the stage, and as the play proceeded, he received the compliments of Elizabeth, and answered the various questions she put to him. Nay, she ordered back whoever came so close as to inconvenience the poet, and seemed altogether delighted at having him so near her.

"We will keep you beside us, Master Shakespeare," said she, "and whilst your play proceeds, you shall act as chorus, explaining what may seem wanting to our duller senses."

Shakespeare bowed his thanks. "I attend your Highness," he said, "with all true duty,"—and thus he remained immovable as a statue during the remainder of the play, the mark of more than one bright glance from the fair bevy in attendance. This was the poet's triumphant hour, and yet the mind of the man was too great to be elevated beyond bounds.

He knew "the art o' the Court," and the uncertain favour of the great; and that there was—

"Between that smile, he would aspire to,That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,More pangs and fears, than wars or women have."

Amongst the audience, there was a female bright and exquisite as one of the creations of that author's after years. She stood with an attendant, and almost concealed beneath one of the gothic arches of the building, and wore (as was indeed not uncommon at that period) a sort of masking costume. Her features, indeed, were so completely concealed by her mask that only her brilliant eyes were visible.

It was one who, even at this early period of the poet's career, fully appreciated his genius and talents, and (like Charlotte Clopton) at once saw what the world would take years to discover. And what a sight was it for that private friend to behold! She saw him, to whom she owed so much, in his hour of triumph, and marked his expressive countenance as he stood beside the Queen. She marked, too, the surprise and delight pourtrayed upon the countenance of Walter Arderne and Sir Hugh Clopton, as they looked upon the poor player thus honoured in the presence of the mighty Tudor; and then she beheld with a smile, for she knew his story, the astonishment of Sir Thomas Lucy, as the knight's eyes wandered to the stage, and again returned to the figure of the sometime deer-stealer; and whilst his ears drank in the honeyed words of that poet, Sir Thomas felt he could forgive all his juvenile delinquencies, and longed to grasp him by the hand.

"Pshaw," he said, "I have been an ass. I am an ass—ergo, we are all asses in comparison to thisoneman, this Shakespeare."

It was about an hour after the performance we have attempted to describe, that a solitary individual stood near the water-gate of the monastery of the Blackfriars. He stood, apparently lost in thought, and listening to the distant sound of music on the waters—the roll of the kettle-drum and the flourish of trumpet, as the Queen and her party returned towards St. James's.

As Shakespeare stood thus alone (after having attended the Queen to the Abbey stairs, and seen her embark), all around seemed dark and sombre. The cloisters of that abbey no longer flashed in the torch-light; the theatre was empty and deserted; all that was brilliant had departed—vanished like the pleasures of the world, and left a dreary contrast behind him.

"Oh, time," he thought to himself, "thou art the most indefatigable of things! The past is gone, the future to come, and the present becomes the past even while we attempt to define it,—like the flash of lightning, it exists and expires."

His companions of the theatre had sought the genial license of the tavern, there to revel over the success of the night, and canvass the merits and demerits of what they had enacted; and whilst he, the poet himself, the idol of the hour, and whom all wished to have with them, felt at that moment unfitted for society.

As he cast his eyes up at the "brave o'erhanging firmament, fretted with golden fire," he felt that "the wide, the universal theatre," was at that moment most congenial to his soul.

Whilst numerous boats continued to pass and repass, many of them filled with companies who had witnessed the performance, he hailed one he observed disengaged; and after rowing to his own lodging, and changing his dress, he re-embarked.

We have already stated that the mind of the man had not been elevated beyond bounds at the success he had achieved. To such a mind as Shakespeare's the prosperity of the hour was more likely to produce a degree of melancholy than any undue elevation. An incomprehensible feeling of contempt and distrust of all worldly success. Perhaps of all mortals this great man was the least given to vanity. The present hour would indeed seem to proclaim as much. He was on that night wished for, sought for, not only by many of the nobles who had witnessed his play, but his companions of the stage too sought for him to join their tavern revel after the performance, and several of the audience had even lingered about the doors, to gain a look at him as he came forth, whilst the unconscious poet, wrapped in his own thoughts, slowly floated down the river. Nay, so utterly careless was he of all he had effected, that the very play which had made so great a sensation scarcely existed but in the memories of the performers who had recited it.

It had, previous to performance, been copied into lengths, as the several parts are technically denominated, and given to the actors to study, whilst the manuscript itself was left casting about amidst the properties of the theatre, to be searched for, if required, at the next performance.

As the gentle Shakespeare, during the silent hour of night, passed slowly along the stream, his thoughts indeed were of other matters rather than his own particular affairs. The ripple of the water, the plash of the oars, the faint sound of music from afar, soothed his thoughts after the false exciting hour.

"Soft stillness and the night,Became the touches of sweet harmony."

Meantime, whilst the poet floats onwards, we must return to the city, and observe the events taking place immediately after the representation of his play.

In a goodly room of a good-sized tavern, situated in the purlieus of Old St. Paul's, were congregated, on this night, many who had been spectators of the recent performance at the Blackfriars, and several other chance customers.

Besides the more respectable merchants, who had put into the tavern after the play, there were several ruffling blades of the inns of Court, one or two bullying fellows whose moans and professions were extremely doubtful—a sort of Alsatian companions, "as ready to strike as to speak," who drank deep wherever they could obtain liquor, and diced whenever they could pick up a cully; and also several guests from the country.

The Londoners, who constituted a party by themselves, sat at a table extending about half-way along the ample room; whilst two or three smaller tables were occupied by those parties who had sought the hostel on matters of business, and who transacted their affairs or enjoyed themselves apart from the rest.

The aspect of the room shewed that it had been reduced to its present state from a more respectable occupation. The ample window which ran along one entire side, looked into a good-sized court: and on the capacious stone chimney was carved various coats-of-arms, and all sorts of herald devices and designs.

Those guests who were apart from the sort of ordinary, or common table, were at the upper end of the room, and on either side the chimney. They carried on their conversation amongst each other, and were, for the most part, strangers to the town.

At one of the smaller tables, placed quite up in the corner of the room, were seated a party of four individuals, and two of them being natives of the town of Stratford-upon-Avon, our readers are already acquainted with.

This company consisted of Lawyer Grasp; a rich client, for whom he was professionally employed; a member of the Temple, with whom he was in consultation; and Master Doubletongue.

Besides these, there were also four or five other persons seated upon the long bench beneath the window, and they also carried on their occupation apart from either the guests at the supper table, or the other parties in the room. Some two or three were deeply engaged in play, rattling the dice and staking their coin with an eagerness equal to the absorption of their comrades who watched the game.

Such being the mixed nature of the assemblage, as two fresh guests entered the room and made their way to the upper end of it, the conversation of the various parties formed a sort of confused jargon, very like the cross-reading of a modern newspaper.

Such as it was, it seemed greatly to interest the late arrivals, and, as they stood with their backs towards the fire-place, they lent an attentive ear, more especially to the conversation of Grasp and his small party, and a look of intelligence ever and anon passed between them.

The table at which Grasp sat was covered with the produce of his eternal blue bag, and, as his quick moving fingers pointed to the various documents and deeds, he held forth with his accustomed volubility whilst every now and then a roar from the table, or a dispute amongst the dicers, interrupted his dissertations.

"Here," he said to the Temple lawyer, "here we have the matter duly executed. And here," he continued, "I will prove our right."

"Stay," said the Temple lawyer, "if I remember rightly, there is no mention of this place in the Conqueror's survey."

"A fico for the Conqueror and his survey," cried Grasp; "trouble not yourself upon that subject; mark and perpend—from Geoffrey Clinton it descended to the Verduns in marriage with Leosceline, daughter of that same Geoffrey, as did also the manors of Brandon, and I take it—"

"On my word," roared a tall Alsatian-looking fellow at the long table, "I take it that this Romeus and Julietta, or whatever else 'tis called, is the most exquisite piece ever submitted to a crowned head."

"A pestilence seize Romulus and Julia," said Grasp; "how that fellow bawls. And now, sirs, that name Anselm de Clinton, of whom I was before speaking, was first enfeoffed thereof."

"Up with his heels then," cried one of the dicers, as he threw. "Play. Ha! seven by Old Paul's. More sack, drawer!"

"The fiend sack those dicers," said Grasp, "marry and amen; as I was saying, good sir, by a multitude of testimonies I can prove—"

"A lie, knave, throw again." "Ha! ha!" roared another of the gamblers.

"They are certified to hold it," continued Grasp, "of that family by the service of half a knight's fee, and they of the Earls of Warwick. Now my client here—"

"A cheater, I'll be sworn. A murrain take thee!" cried another of the gamblers.

"But how said ye," inquired the Temple lawyer, "that you became opposed to this Arderne? Methinks, when I last consulted you, you were employed and trusted by him."

"At first,onlyat first," said Grasp. "In virtue of my having informed him of his good fortune he did employ me,—entrusted me with management of his estates, and I did but eject—"

"Cheatery, villany!" cried the dicer. "I'll not restore a dernier."

"Pshaw," said Grasp, "I did but eject one or two of the poorer tenants, and put relatives of mine own into their holdings, when he ejected both them and myself. This, my good sir, I liked not, and, as upon careful examination I found one I thought more nearly related to the deceased, and the will distinctly says next of kin. I forthwith sought out my client; there now is our case."

"The case is a good case, an exceeding good case, and so I said from the first," said the Templar. "You have this Arderne fairly upon the hip, an he pay not he must to jail, unless you give him time."

"Not a day, not an hour," said Grasp; "we got a verdict in a former suit, and he shall incontinent to prison."

"Such is the law of a verity," said the Templar, emptying his glass, filling his pipe, and turning now to regard the guests at the ordinary, as they seemed getting up a dispute upon the subject of the play they had witnessed.

"I perfectly agree with you," said a person who sat opposite to the tall Alsatian, "in so far as regards the excellence of the play we have this night seen. But in respect of its newness to the world there I disagree."

"How?" cried the other fiercely, "dost mean to affirm that such exquisite portraits as that lady who loved the youth Romeo, that brilliant Mercutio, and that hot-brained Tybalt were ever drawn by mortal man before? Didst ever behold any thing so like reality as that loquacious, secret, obsequious nurse, or the little Peter who carried her fan? Didst ever—"

"Pshaw," said the other, "I quarrel not with your nurse, neither do I take exception at Peter,—what I say I will maintain with my rapier here or elsewhere. And thus it is: the subject-matter of that play is not new to the world. 'Tis manifestly constructed upon the novel of Italy, written by Luigi da Porto, a Venetian gentleman now deceased—gainsay that who will." And the student rose, drew up his tall form, twisted his mustachio, and looked fiercely around.

"We shall assuredly have a riot here," said Grasp, looking up from the copy of a will he was perusing. "I like it not."

"Nay," said Doubletongue, "'tis but a controversy upon a play. I saw the greater portion of it myself, and came away to my appointment here. 'Twas but a paltry performance methought, full of bombast and fustian."

"Was it not then liked?" inquired the Temple lawyer.

"'Fore Heaven, I cannot answer for that," said Doubletongue. "I only know it liked me not."

"Methinks," said the Templar, "you are hard to please, good Master Doubletongue. Master Shakespeare is somewhat of a favourite here."

"Who, said ye?" exclaimed Grasp, looking over his glasses, and speaking with great rapidity. "Master Shakespeare—methinks I ought to know that name. Comes he from Warwickshire? Is he to be met withal? Canst tell me aught of Master Shakespeare? 'Fore Heaven, I have matter on hand with Master Shakespeare, an' his name be William, and he cometh from Stratford-upon-Avon."

"I pr'ythee settle one thing at a time, my good Grasp," said the London lawyer. "Permit me to glance at that testament you was perusing once more."

"Here 'tis," said Grasp. "Nay, you shall find that I do hear a brain; whoso trusts to Lawyer Grasp shall be—."

"Ruined, hip and thigh," cried one of the dicers, hurling the dice-box at the head of his opponent, whilst, at the same time the disputants at the ordinary being also pretty well flushed, a general riot immediately ensued, and swords being drawn the whole room became a scene of confusion.

The two guests who had last entered took advantage of this scene to press close upon the table at which Grasp and his party had been seated. They were both clad in the costume of sea-faring men of the period, their sea-caps so completely drawn over their heads that their features were not discernible, though one appeared a slight youth, and the other a middle aged and powerful man.

As Grasp, in some alarm, seized upon his blue bag and withdrew more into the corner, the elder of the strangers, as if to keep from the fray, seated himself in the chair the lawyer had left, and whilst he puffed out huge volumes of smoke from his pipe, abstracted from amongst the papers the will the Templar had been perusing. Handing it then to his youthful companion, the latter seized a pen, and, unobserved, wrote a codicil to it. He then restored it to its place, and as the riot increased and Grasp seized upon his papers and thrust them into his bag, the pair took an opportunity of withdrawing as quietly as they had entered.

All that Shakespeare had lately seen and gone through made considerable impression upon his mind. In the short period during which the national convulsion we have described was taking place, it seemed to him that he had lived whole years.

Those events, and the great men which the stirring times had produced, seemed indeed to have passed before the poet, for the very purpose of finishing and perfecting the great mind of the man.

He sat himself down on his return to London, and, as he thought over the past experience of his life, such a chaos of bright thoughts and wondrous images presented themselves before and seemed to overflow his brain, that, at first, it seemed utterly impossible to turn them to shape.

Already had his "muse of fire" given him employment at various times, and even taken a dramatic shape; nay, the room he inhabited was filled with fragments—unfinished beginnings; and one or two of the novels of the period had been partially dramatized and then cast aside, after the inspiration which called them forth had, in other pursuits, been forgotten.

His avocations as a player had too frequently led him into scenes of revelry. His way of life was still desultory. He knew not his own value. And whilst his brilliant wit and companionable qualities had kept him too much among the society of men in his own class, he had failed to carry out any of his bright conceptions. His companions hunted him, haunted him, took him from his own thoughts, and dragged him, even when satiated with revelry, into more company; for what party was complete amongst them that had not in itthat one—that "foremost man of all the world."

His poetry was beginning to be appreciated ere the national danger had fully occupied men's minds, and so fully employed them that all else for the time being was necessarily forgotten. He had written a poem peculiarly suited to the taste of the age, and which was greatly the fashion amongst the gay cavaliers of Elizabeth's Court. This he had dedicated to Lord Southampton, a nobleman, whose acquaintance he had made on the boards of the theatre. Added to this, some sonnets, which had almost by accident found their way into circulation (for no man was more careless or thoughtless of his own works than William Shakespeare) were greatly admired. Nay, the Queen had been so much struck with one or two of them, that she had shewn favour to the poet; and spoken words of encouragement in his ear.

The starched and stately Tudor was indeed becoming extremely fond of dramatic representations, tedious and ill-contrived as they, for the most part, were; and now often frequented the theatre, in place of the bear and bull-baiting arenas. Besides his stage companions, also Shakespeare had, amongst his acquaintance, at this period of his life, some of the most brilliant of the courtiers—Sydney and Raleigh, Essex and Spenser, all were personally known to the gentle Willie. They sought his society for his wit; and they respected him for his fine feelings, his noble sentiments, and his universal knowledge. Nay, these great men felt an internal conviction, whilst in the society of Shakespeare, that great as they themselves were, this man, of almost unknown origin, was immeasurably their superior; that, had his station in life been more elevated and his opportunities greater, he might have risen to the highest eminence in the State. They saw in him—

"The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword."

The war was now for the present over, and amidst the general excitement around him, Shakespeare sat himself down to think upon all he had beheld. The quick result of such confederation our readers will as quickly imagine. The poet seized his pen,—

"Imagination bodied forth the form of things unknown."

His pen "turned them to shape, and gave to airy nothing a local habitation and a name."

Scarce had the joyous shouts for the glorious victory over the invincible Don subsided, ere the poet bad completed one of those finished productions which left all competition behind. Yet stop we here for a space in our narrative, even whilst the reader looks upon Shakespeare thus engaged.

This is indeed a period in the man's life which most of us have sought for with the mind's eye.

The living Shakespeare, still comparatively unknown, still disregarded—for, however he might have been appreciated by the very few who were acquainted with him at this time, the wide and universal theatre had yet to discover the greatness of the man. The living Shakespeare, employed in writing that language never equalled, never to be equalled, deserves somewhat of a pause to look upon. The room, the house, the chairs, the tables, each and all, require an especial description. Like his own Iachimo, we must "note the chamber. Such and such pictures. There the windows. Such the adornment of the bed. The arras and figures. Why such and such."

Stay, then, gentle reader, if only for a brief space, and look upon the man—the gentle Shakespeare, as he was denominated amongst his familiars. He sits in a room, which to all appearance has belonged to a building of some pretensions in the palmy days of such edifices. The chamber is large, low in roof, and somewhat gloomy withal. A good-sized bay window, heavy in mullion, and which looks out upon the silver Thames beneath, affording a delicious view of the Surrey hills on the opposite side, gives light to (at least) one-half of the apartment. The morning sun streams through small diamond panes of many colours, which ornament the upper part of the casement, and is reflected in fainter hues, like a fading rainbow upon the oaken floor. The ceiling is richly carved. It displays the cunning skill of the architects of old. And on the heavy oaken beam, which traverses it, is cut from end to end the coats of arms of some city functionary of Old London, for the house (albeit it is now but partially inhabited by one or two of the actors of the Blackfriars theatre, and some portion of it even suffered to run to decay) has, in the preceding reign, belonged to one of the citizen princes—the merchants of Blackfriars. "The chimney-piece, south of the chamber," is elaborately carved, with gigantic figures, "exceedingly ugly;" and tapestry, (albeit it is somewhat faded), displaying pictorial scenes from scriptural and mythological history, hangs to the wall. One side has King David dancing before the ark; the other, "Cytherea hid in sedges."

A massive oaken table stands near the fire-place; a high-backed chair on either hand, and two more in the embayment of the window; and an antique cabinet occupies a place directly opposite the chimney.

The house, we have said, is situated on the river bank, and has once been occupied by a rich merchant, but is now let out in compartments. You ascend to the chamber which Shakespeare occupies, by a broad carved, oaken staircase, and advance along a vast passage which has rooms on either side.

The autumn wind sighs, and soughs, in this old dwelling, as it rushes through the long passages from the water side. In such room our Shakespeare sits and writes. Sometime he stops and considers for a space—thinks, and thinks deeply. Then again his pen glides swiftly over the paper before him, and he writes like the wind. The table at which he is seated is but little removed from the embayment of the window, and his eye, ever and anon, glances out upon the rushing tide, and wanders over the opposite landscape, then consisting of green meadows and stunted trees.

As he thus looks out upon the river, he sees boats filled with gay parties, cloaked and ruffed, and rapiered, attended by other boats, carrying musicians, who make the air resound with their melody—a gay and gallant sight, for these are courtiers going to Greenwich, or Mortlake, or Chelsea, such excursions being common in Elizabeth's day.

As the poet writes, there seems no effort in the composition. His thoughts flow, for the most part, so easily, that it seems but the careless noting down of whatever comes uppermost. He writes as his own Falstaff speaks—as if almost without the trouble of thought. Anon, he smiles and pauses; then he rises from his high-backed chair, takes a turn through the room, and gives utterance to the conceit which has suddenly struck him. The actor predominates over the author at such a moment, and he recites aloud the recent thought, and which his "often rumination" upon, the extravagance of action, amongst his associates, has conjured up.

Whilst he gives his thoughts tongue, the door opens, and a bulky form seems to fill up the entrance—no other, indeed, than our old Stratford acquaintance John Froth.

"Ah! thou mad compound," said Froth, "and is such thy advice to the fraternity of the Blackfriars?"

"It is," returned Shakespeare.

"Then would we might see it approved in the acting," said Froth; "but 'tis thrown away upon me, as thou know'st. I am not for the personation of aught requiring such rules. If I am to turn mummer, I must enact something fit for a man of my parts to appear in."

"And therefore," said Shakespeare, "will I write a character fit only for thy huge bulk and greater follies."

"Nay, by my fay," said Froth, "I thought thou hadst already put me into shape, for so hast thou promised any time these two months past."

"'Tis better as it is," said Shakespeare, "for till I saw thy vagaries during this last affair with the Spaniard, thy arrant cowardice, thy shifts, for preferment, and then thy desire to keep out of action, I hardly could have displayed such a marvellous compound of frailty and flesh."

"Trouble me not with the remembrance thereof," said Froth; "I received my guerdon, my remuneration, and that was the aim in end."

"And which remuneration thou hast already dissipated in dice and liquor,—is't not so?" inquired Shakespeare.

"Thou hast spoken it, and not I," said Froth, "and so spoken it that I may hardly venture to gainsay it. Wilt furnish me forthwith a few crowns for present need, good William?"

"The more readily," returned Shakespeare, as he handed him the coin, "as I would fain be rid o' thee. See'st thou not, thou idle reveller, that I am busy here with deep premeditated lines—with written matters studiously devised?"

"Well, Will, I will hinder thee not. I will mar not thy labours. I will but fill me a chalice, and drink success to thy muse, and then to the tavern."

So saying, Froth helped himself from the flask upon the table, and pledged the health of his friend, smacking his lips after the draught with a sense of ineffable relish.

"Thou art a wondrous fellow, Will," he said, as he looked upon his friend; "thou wilt thrive. But, in sooth, envy already begins to dog thy heels. Green and Marlow like thee not, William; Green calls thee an upstart crow dressed with his feathers."

"Ah!" said Shakespeare, smiling, "methinks Green hath little reason to speak thus, seeing I have imp'd his wing with some of my own feathers. He will scarce say that to my face."

"Nay," said Froth, "I dare be sworn he will not, for many of them know thee too well to offer insult to thy face. Marlow too speaks of thee as that 'tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide.'"

"Well," said Shakespeare, "their sayings pass by me like the wind. I pr'ythee be nought awhile, if thou art to remain here, or else betake thyself to other haunts."

"Farewell," said Froth; "you shall find me at the old haunt in Paul's whilst this coin holds out."

Scarcely had Froth departed, ere the sound of horses was heard without, and a man of noble presence, dressed in the extreme of fashion of that age of brave attire, entered the room. Shakespeare instantly rose, and advanced to meet him.

"I am proud to welcome my Lord of Southampton to my poor lodging," said the poet.

"Nay, by my fay, not altogether so poor either," said the noble, looking around him. "I am glad to find thee removed from thy old haunt to so goodly a lodgment, good William."

"And am I not indebted to your lordship's kind favour and friendship for being thus well lodged?" said Shakespeare. "When we first met, my lord, I was somewhat lower in estate than at the present time. A poor unfriended outcast; I do, indeed, owe thee much."

"Not a whit," said the Earl; "you owe all to your own surpassing excellence. I am greatly charmed with thy Tarquin and Lucrece. Nay, Raleigh, Essex, and others do swear by it as the most exquisite thing extant. I, who know thee better, think even better of thee than shall here say."

"You do me too much honour, my Lord," said Shakespeare; "like Venus and Adonis, (and which I had the honour of dedicating to you), Tarquin and Lucrece was but a first effort, when I was green in judgment. I shall hope better to deserve with more experience."

"I pray you to inform me," said Lord Southampton, after a pause, "who and what is yonder companion of thine, and whom I met as I entered the house,—a gross, fat man?"

Shakespeare smiled at the question. "A strange fellow, my Lord," he replied, "and who was known to me in my native town, and whom I have lately fallen in with here. Like myself, he was obliged to fly from Stratford, and being in some difficulties, I procured him employment in the theatres."

"A somewhat bulky actor," said Lord Southampton, "is he not."

"Nevertheless one whom I think even of giving a part to. The man is himself a character worth the studying, and if he exhibits himself before the curtain as he does in his true character, cannot fail to keep the audience in continual laughter. His peculiar humour, tone of voice, look, and jesture, coupled to such a person, are almost indescribable. Added to this, he is so extraordinary a mimic that no one of us can move or speak before him, but he carries their voice, look, mien, and motion into another company.

"And yet upon the stage he may not be able to execute the same degree of perfection," said Southampton. "Some of your companions of the theatre, I have found prime fellows and witty knaves over their cups, and yet but heavy upon the boards."

"Truly so, my lord," said Shakespeare; "this is one of Nature's secrets, and which I have observed. Necessary qualifications which cannot be well spared in an actor, oftimes exist in men of the profession; and yet, with the assistance of all these united, we see such persons come forth upon the boards but poor and barren. In writing a character for my friend, I shall avoid making him play off his ordinary parts, except to produce himself when I think he will tell forcibly."

"I feel some curiosity to know this witty knave," said the noble "pr'ythee bring him with thee to Southampton House when next you come."

"Providing your lordship can away with his grossness, and resist the attacks he is sure to make upon your purse," said Shakespeare, "you will be amused with him. But, unluckily, 'tis a familiar creature who makes himself enemies as easily as his humour delights."

"And this new play of thine," said Southampton, "holds it still for next week?"

"It does, my lord," said Shakespeare.

"Then have I news for thee of price, good William," said Southampton. "The Queen intends to be present. She takes wondrous interest in all that thou dost, and has of late spoken most approvingly of thy efforts."

"I am much bounden to her Majesty," returned the poet; "and there again must feel grateful to your lordship for having turned her eye of favour towards my unworthy efforts."

"Thou hast sufficiently delighted us all, good William," said Lord Southampton; "and, if I am to judge by the mass of papers I behold here, you intend still further to delight us. Are these portions of manuscript pertaining to another production of the same sort?"

"In truth, my lord," said Shakespeare, "they do in some sort tend that way. But at present I am somewhat desultory in my doings. I have so many plans, on so many subjects, that what you behold are but the rough notes of such ideas as pass current. The scraps are of all sorts; perhaps fit for little else but to be cast to the waves without."

"Thou art, at least industrious," said Southampton, "and permit me to say, I believe not in the valueless quality of what I behold here. May I look upon one of these same unworthy scraps?" And Lord Southampton took up a fragment of paper containing some few lines of blank verse.

At first he seemed disposed to read it cursorily, as one slightly curious to know what had employed the pen of his friend. The very first line, however, seemed to strike him, and he read the verse attentively from beginning to end. He then recommenced it, and read it more slowly, observing the wondrous force of the lines more and more as he did so. He then stopped and looked at the pleasant smiling countenance of the writer, so unassuming, so devoid of all self-conceit, and then he read aloud—

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