"Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes:Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devour'dAs fast as they are made, forgot as soonAs done: Perseverance, dear my lord,Keeps honour bright; To have done is to hangQuite out of fashion, like a rusty mail,In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;For honour travels in a strait so narrow,Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path;For emulation hath a thousand sons,That one by one pursue. If you give way,Or hedge aside from the direct forth right,Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by,And leave you hindmost;—Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,O'errun and trampled on. Then what do they in present,Though less than yours in past, most o'ertop yours:For time is like a fashionable hostThat slighly shakes his parting guest by the hand;And with his arms out-stretch'd as he would fly,Grasps in the corner: Welcome ever smiles,And farewell goes that sighing."
"Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes:Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devour'dAs fast as they are made, forgot as soonAs done: Perseverance, dear my lord,Keeps honour bright; To have done is to hangQuite out of fashion, like a rusty mail,In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;For honour travels in a strait so narrow,Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path;For emulation hath a thousand sons,That one by one pursue. If you give way,Or hedge aside from the direct forth right,Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by,And leave you hindmost;—Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,O'errun and trampled on. Then what do they in present,Though less than yours in past, most o'ertop yours:For time is like a fashionable hostThat slighly shakes his parting guest by the hand;And with his arms out-stretch'd as he would fly,Grasps in the corner: Welcome ever smiles,And farewell goes that sighing."
"Why," he said, "thou hast written here a whole volume in a few brief lines. Not all the learning of the ancients ever produced so much in such compass. I will learn these lines, and have them ever before me. To what pertain they, good William?"
Shakespeare smiled. "Nay, 'tis but a fragment," he said. "My often rumination supplies many such. I shall perhaps adopt them in a play I have been thinking of writing."
"Thou wilt completely alter the old style of representation," said Southampton.
"'Tis my purpose so to do," returned Shakespeare.
"From what thou hast before shewn me," said Lord Southampton, "I think thou wilt do much. But bethink ye, William Shakespeare, albeit thou hast a quick wit and rapid pen, thou must not let things come hastily from thy hands. Good works, I take it, are plants of slow produce. The city lads and the inns of court have, I find, began to regard thee since thou hast remodelled the company of the Blackfriars. And hast thou," continued the earl after a pause, "still the name purpose of becoming a part proprietor in the theatre here?"
"Such is my ambition," said Shakespeare; "but that must be at a future period, when further success shall give warranty to my hopes."
"Nay, want of means shall not baulk thee, good William," said Lord Southampton, "since I see plainly that more power will greatly facilitate the bringing forth thy inimitable works. Look," he continued, taking the pen Shakespeare had been writing with, and scrawling a few lines, "there is an order for a thousand pounds; present it to my steward when thou wilt, and 'tis thine. Nay, double the sum, if required."
Shakespeare thanked his generous patron in terms of manly gratitude; and soon afterwards the noble, after appointing his poetic friend to visit him, took his leave.
After the departure of Lord Southampton, the poet sat for some time, with his forehead leaning upon his hand, gazing upon the order his friend had given him.
Between my Lord Southampton and Shakespeare there was the most sincere friendship. The young noble appreciated the genius of the man, and felt quite a veneration for him; whilst the poet honoured one possessed of the fine feelings and generous and heroic spirit belonging to a more early and chivalrous age.
Since Shakespeare's flight from Stratford some time had now elapsed, during which he had not returned there. He had made a vow not to do so until he could re-appear under circumstances that would disarm the malevolence of his enemies; not until he had achieved a name. Oft-times had he written, and as often heard from his friends, sending them the greater portion of his earnings his efforts continually brought in. This was not the first gift of Lord Southampton; and a considerable sum he had before received had enabled him to settle his wife and children in comfortable circumstances in his native town. The money his noble friend had just now conferred upon him gave him a nearer prospect of revisiting Stratford be thought. And so the poet, with renewed energy, seized his pen, and again gave vent to his wondrous conceptions. As he writes, he remembers former days, and his thoughts revert again to his own sweet home and its neighbourhood, and again he dips his pen in his own heart. Then he revels in the recollection of those orgies amidst the choice spirits of Old London. Those tavern suppers in the quaint dark courts where the hostels of the crowded city are situated. Those secluded taverns of Old London town now, indeed, no longer to be found. The player's loved haunt, and where the rollicking 'prentice and even occasionally, the nobles of the Court congregated. Where he himself had fallen in with the Alsatian bully, the humourist, and all the varieties of the tavern haunter of the age; and from such he now draws his character, life-like and real, as if they walked and breathed and spoke before him.
And so the first part of the day passes, and still Shakespeare writes, for the fit is upon him, and like many of his class, albeit he spends in whole weeks, at times in joviality, excursionising with his comrades to Windsor and Greenwich, and "dafling the world aside" with the idlest; still there comes upon the man fits of deep thought, which are only to be relieved by the pen.
Whilst he writes, as the clanking tones of the clock of Barnard's Castle strike the sixth hour, the sound of a lute is heard in an adjoining apartment, accompanied by a voice of ravishing sweetness.
As those dulcet sounds reached the ears of the poet, he laid down his pen and listened attentively. That voice, no rich in tone, so sweetly modulated, seemed deeply to affect him; and, as the song ceased, he rose and paced the apartment.
Again, he bears a short prelude upon the instrument, and pushing aside the arras from the wall, he opened a sliding panel, leading into a narrow passage; one of those passages so peculiar to old buildings, and which communicate from chamber to chamber, oft-times along, one entire wing of such edifice.
As he did so, the voice of the singer is again and again more plainly heard. How sweetly it sounds in that house, and at that hour, for the shadows are beginning to descend upon Old London.
The poet stands transfixed. His glorious countenance so softened by the sorrowful notes of the musician, proclaim how powerfully the strains affect him—"He is never merry when he hears sweet music."
Again the strains cease and all is silent, save the moaning of the wind without, and which hums through the casement like an Æolian harp. After a pause, the poet again withdrew the tapestry which hung before the doorway, and, traversing the passage, knocks gently against a small door which stood partially open at its extremity.
A sweet voice bids him enter, and the next moment he is in the presence of a young and beautiful female. Traces of recent illness are to be observed upon her cheek, as she sits, half inclined, upon a sort of couch placed near the window of the apartment;—a small lamp, placed upon a table near, giving better light for an attendant female, who is occupied in knitting.
The lady half rises, as the poet enters and as she does so, he sinks upon one knee, and respectfully kisses the hand she extends to him.
Nothing, indeed, can exceed the respectful attention with which the poet stands in the presence of that female. He does not even take the chair, placed near the couch on which she is seated, till she requires him to do so. And well indeed might Shakespeare gaze with interest, and no less admiration, upon that lady, as she again reclined upon the couch from which she had half risen at his entrance.
The perfect proportions of her form and features, softened as they both were in the subdued light of that antique apartment, rendered her in the eyes of the poet even more beautiful. Her dark hair fell in wavy ringlets upon her shoulders, and her large eyes beamed with an expression of sweetness and regard upon him, which made them full of peril to one so impassioned.
Frankly and gracefully she again stretched forth her hand. "My kind preserver," she said, "my generous and noble friend; but that weakness keeps me a prisoner to my couch, 'tis I who ought to kneel to thee."
"I heard the sweet tones, lady," said the poet, "which gave notice that I might approach."
"Alas!" she replied, "how can I ever requite thy generosity? Had it been my fortune to fall into other hands, I might, indeed, have been unhappy; but thou, oh! thou art different from other mortals."
"Beauty, lady," said Shakespeare, "provoketh thieves even sooner than gold. Nay, it is that beauty which has made fearful of trusting you in this evil town, save whilst I can myself guard over you. The wild and reckless spirits who dwell around us here, the desperate characters of many who, in their outward seeming, are of the virtuous, render a sojourn in this city unsafe, and therefore have I brought thee hither; and therefore have I constituted myself thy sole guardian till recovered strength shall enable you to take the journey you contemplate."
"You will forgive me, then," said the lady, "that although I have related to you some portion of my story, I yet conceal my own, and the name of those connected with the tale".
"I am in all thy friend and servant," said Shakespeare.
"And now that I have somewhat recovered," she continued, "recall to me in how much I am indebted to you during my illness. The attendant you have furnished me with hath partially informed me of your goodness, but I would fain hear the recital from your own lips."
"Your disguise," said Shakespeare, "whilst we journeyed hitherward, beguiled me, or I had never so far taxed your strength."
"Ah! but that journey," said the lady, "so travelled, can one mile of it, think you, be forgotten?"
"Nay," said the poet, smiting, "still can I not forgive myself. Those moonlight walks during our route have, I fear, wearied you."
"Could it be possible," said the lady, "for mortal to feel fatigue amidst those scenes, I might have wearied."
Shakespeare again smiled. He felt gratified at the compliment paid him. He was no perfect mortal, and to say that he could look coldly upon the glorious creature before him, would be to belie his nature. He could no more do so than he could have "held a fire in his hand by thinking of the frosty Caucasus." His finer feelings, however, rendered that unprotected female as safe whilst beneath his roof, as if she had been guarded by a host. He seated himself again beside her, and an he calmly and kindly regarded her exquisite form, whilst he again spoke, a bright and pure beam of divine expression was on his bearded face, an expression, which diffused a calm feeling of happiness and contentment over the soul of her who beheld it.
The long crushed spirit of the lady felt the influence of his presence.
"That I had in my ignorance of your sex somewhat overtaxed your strength during our journey," he said, "the result has shewn, since on our reaching London, you was seized with an illness which nearly cost your life."
"I remember nothing," said the lady, "after our arrival at the hotel of the Globe."
"Unluckily," said the poet, "it happened that some seamen who disembarked but a few days before had brought the plague into that neighbourhood. That disease in London is usually so dire in its effect, that, for mere suspicion, the inhabitants act as if for surety. Your ship-boy's semblance, and your illness, gave the host of the tavern a suspicion that you was infected, and he expelled us from his door. Nay, such was the rapidity with which the alarm travelled, that I found it impossible to procure a shelter for you in that neighbourhood; and it was whilst conveying you, still insensible, to the water-side, that I became suspicious of your sex. This discovery increased the difficulty of our situation, till I recollected an asylum in which I could safely carry you, and e'en procure the assistance of medicine. I remembered an old poor man, one so needy, starved, and miserable, that I had oft-times sought, and alleviated his condition. Nay, gratitude had prompted me so to do, since, in my own need, and when, alone and friendless, I first sought this town, he himself befriended me. To the habitation of this man, who indeed, possesses considerable skill in leechcraft, I conveyed you, and to his care, attention, and skill, for night and day did he watch over you, are you indebted for your life."
"And whilst yourself also cared for me," said the lady, "still fearless of the tyrant fever with which I was burnt up; nay, you have since removed me hither, and so continued to guard over me. And all this in favour of one alike hopeless and friendless."
"Such circumstances, lady," said the poet, "should in themselves alone suffice to enlist me in your service. But come," he continued, "we will no more of this. A letter I have just received from my sometime home, in Warwickshire, gives much of news. I have unfolded to you so much of my history, that I may now further inform you there is hope of once more revisiting the friends I left whilst in trouble and disgrace."
"This is, indeed, pleasing intelligence," said his companion. "My own destination is in that neighbourhood."
"To guard over you till I can safely convey you amongst those friends you have hinted at," said Shakespeare, "is my wish; nay, our exertions, and the generosity of a nobleman, my friend, has enabled me to complete a purchase I had in contemplation—a share in the neighbouring theatre here. I have also another play toward, and should it succeed in the represental, I will then attend on you with all true duty."
"But your letter?" said the lady; "pardon my seeming curiosity. In happier days I have owned friends in the neighbourhood of your home. Speaks it of any resident around Stratford-upon-Avon?"
"It does," said Shakespeare. "It is from my father, and gives much gossip of the locality. Amongst other matter it informs me of some difficulties a gentleman, my friend, has fallen into."
"And his name," said the lady, "is Walter Arderne?"
"The same," returned Shakespeare.
The lady's face immediately became crimson, and then deadly pale. "And how then hath Walter Arderne fallen into difficulties?" she inquired. "Methought I heard from you, during our journey, that he had succeeded to great wealth."
"It was even so," said Shakespeare, "but I fear I am again taxing your strength. You look somewhat pale."
"'Tis nothing," said his fair companion. "Proceed, I beseech you, I am most anxious to know of the welfare of this Arderne."
"The young man, then," continued Shakespeare, "it appears by the story, after coming into possession of this fortune, and many parks, and walks, and manors, in England, hath busied himself in various acts of goodness. Amongst other things he hath built alms-houses, hospitals, for the use of the afflicted."
"To such a one," said the lady, "fortune should ever belong; but to your story. What more of this Arderne? Methinks I am overfond to hear of so much generosity."
"There is little more to tell," said Shakespeare. "The sums he hath bestowed and the various charities he hath endowed, have involved him in difficulties. His virtues have served him but as enemies. Nay, he seems, I am grieved to say, on the brink of ruin; for, in addition to all I have enumerated, it appears he hath expended large sums during the invasion of the Spaniard, both in fitting out numerous ships, and enrolling and embodying men, all which vessels, through his desperate valour in leading them into the hot encounter, have been either destroyed or returned to port rent and beggared."
"Nay, but," said the lady, "I am still in ignorance how this could possibly involve Walter Ardene in ruin. The fortune he inherited would have borne all this, methinks, and much more, without endamagement."
"Truly so, lady," said Shakespeare; "but it hath suddenly transpired that Walter Arderne is not the lawful heir. A caitiff wretch, named Grasp, and whose ferrit eyes and evil spirit are always seeking mischief, hath, by dint of searching over worm-eaten deeds and musty parchments, hunting out tombstones, and manufacturing pedigrees, somehow found a nearer relation; and all the sums Master Arderne hath expended since the hour he came into possession, the law will enforce him to refund. This, together with the suits he is involved in, will go nigh to ruin both himself and his good uncle, Sir Hugh Clopton."
"And this nearer kinsman!" said the lady. "Does your information extend so far as to name the person of such claimant?"
"'Tis one who is the friend of a powerful noble," said Shakespeare, "of one whom it is dangerous to speak of in other terms but those of respect."
"Methinks I can name him," said the lady. "It is one whose unbounded stomach and high ambition long soared towards a crown by marriage; one whose evil disposition would halt not to obtain power or riches, magnificent as his fortune already is. The Earl with the dark countenance and gloomy soul—he whom Sussex calls the Gipsey; the dangerous Leicester."
"The same," said Shakespeare.
"Nay, then, an Walter Arderne hath that noble for an enemy, let him beware the cup, as well as the law, for Leicester is sure to succeed by fair means or foul. He is the most successful dealer in poison in the kingdom."
"Would to Heaven," said Shakespeare, "some help might be found; for the strait this generous man is like to be driven to sorely oppresses him!"
"Let it no longer do so," said the lady. "Continue to inform me of the progress of events; I will be warranty for his safe extrication from all his difficulties."
Shakespeare looked surprised; but he forbode remark; and soon after this conversation retired to his own lodging.
After the interview, the poet reflected deeply upon the conversation which had taken place, and as he did so, many things which had not previously struck him forced themselves upon his mind regarding his mysterious friend, and which now enabled him in some sort to pluck out the heart of her mystery.
During the time he had watched over her during her illness, and the delirium consequent upon it, she had uttered names which recalled former passages of his life. She had called upon Charlotte Clopton, and bade her leave the horrid charnel-house in which she had been entombed alive, and even named localities familiar to him in his native county.
These things, whilst they contributed to elucidate her story, more deeply interested him. He saw she could appreciate a true heart and bold spirit in man, and could love with all the truth and innocence of a Juliet. There was in her no false pride or prudery, but unconscious of her own excellence, she was indeed one of those bright creatures so often bestowed where they are unvalued. Had such a one fallen to his own share, he thought, how would he have worshipped! But such was not to be. He who was the gentlest, the noblest of mankind, was not to be so companioned. His course was steered, at this period, alone. For him, high birth and bright excellence should have been reserved, because he so well could have appreciated them.
There was, however, to be observed in this singular female a sort of character which even more interested him than her radiant beauty. With all her amiability, she possessed a determination of purpose, which made it impossible to control her designs. From what he could fathom of her intentions and her story, she seemed only anxious to confer or secure some important benefit to the individual she loved, and then to retire from the world, to enter some convent abroad, "and be for aye in shady cloister mew'd." And so, as the poet sat and thought over these matters, he again seized his pen, and wrote.
The machinations of Pouncet Grasp had not been without their due effect. His evil disposition was as great as his industry, and his very face and form, twisted and contorted as both were, proclaimed the mind of the man as plainly as if he had carried a window in his breast.
Few specimens of the human countenance presented indeed less of the divine about it than did that of the Stratford lawyer. The termugly as sinmight, in verity, have been applied to him, for, when he was hatching any particular piece of rascality, the working of his features gave him a diabolical look.
Not only had he succeeded in his design of weaving a web about Walter Arderne, and getting incarcerated within the walls of a prison for debt, but he even managed, by some strange underhand practice, to bring him under the suspicion of the Queen's council for treasonable matter. And yet, with all this malignancy of disposition, Grasp carried about him such an air ofbonhommiethat, until he was found out, he was seldom distrusted. After he had, by the most careful approaches, (like a spider securing a victim in his web, who is too powerful to be openly attacked), fairly enmeshed Walter Arderne, he turned his thoughts upon his old Stratford enemy, William Shakespeare, and, whose whereabout he now had little difficulty in discovering, since after the successful performance of Romeo and Juliet, the author's name was in the mouths of many.
Sir Thomas Lucy had departed only few days before for Stratford, or Grasp would immediately have sought him out, and, as he himself was also on the eve of returning to Warwickshire, together with his new client, in order to take immediate possession of the inheritance succeeded to, he resolved to delay till his arrival the discovery he had made.
Meanwhile, the situation of Arderne was sufficiently disagreeable. He was arrested for an enormous sum, and-when Sir Hugh Clopton sought to clear him of the difficulty, by making some great sacrifices, that good old man found, to his further dismay, that some secret foe had denounced his nephew as a conspirator against the life of the Queen.
In Elizabeth's reign, those persons of condition who came under suspicion and were confined within the walls of a prison found it no easy matter to clear themselves, and some, even in the higher ranks of the nobility, without any sustained charge but "for mere suspicion, were treated as if for surety," finding their graves in the dismal chambers of the Tower.
The news of the imprisonment of his early friend greatly troubled Shakespeare. He was just at this time contemplating a return to his native town, for now that he had so far achieved success, and felt within himself the power of future fame, the longing for home, added to the desire of once more embracing all he had dear there, he felt to be irresistible.
To leave London, however, without an effort to serve his early friend was impossible. He visited Arderne in his prison, and afterwards sought Lord Leicester in order to interest that noble in his favour.
The time was, however, somewhat out of joint for making a successful suit to Leicester at this moment. He was in one of those periodical fits of ill-temper which usually attacked him when his "high-reaching" schemes failed. He was out of favour with the Queen too, somewhat on the sudden, and so wide was the breach that, albeit he was seeking by some underhand contrivances to regain a place in her good graces, all his attempts were futile.
To explain this to our readers, we must remind them that after the services of Leicester at Tilbury, Elizabeth had created for the favourite the office of Lord Lieutenant of England and Ireland; an office which would have invested him with greater power than any sovereign of this country had ever ventured to bestow on a subject. The patent for this unprecedented dignity was actually made out, and only awaited the royal signature, when Burleigh and Hatton, by their earnest remonstrances, deterred Her Majesty from investing him with such power.
It was during the fit of rage consequent upon disappointment, that Leicester had behaved with a degree of intemperance so distasteful to Her Majesty, that she dismissed him in anger, and refused to be reconciled.
The despondence which followed the violence of his rage on this occasion brought on an illness, from which he, in truth, never recovered.
At the moment Shakespeare obtained an interview, he accordingly found the earl in so ill a frame of mind, that he refused to interest himself in favour of Walter Arderne.
He was about, he said to quit London for his castle of Kenilworth, and was so utterly disgusted with Courts and all pertaining, that he vowed to Heaven he would no more return.
As the poet looked in the face of this ambitious and still powerful noble, he thought it not unlikely his words would prove true; for the inroads of his peculiar disease were so apparent in his countenance, that the grisly tyrant seemed to have put his mark upon him.
Leicester, at this period of his life, had grown bulky, and lost much of that striking beauty of face and form for which he had been so celebrated. His countenance shewed traces of his ungovernable temper and evil disposition; his hair, lately coal-black, had become a "sable silvered;" his frown had contracted into an habitual scowl; his dark complexion, and from which he had obtained thesobriquetof "The Gipsey," had changed to a sickly yellow; his fine features had become bloated; and every part about him seemed blasted with premature age.
As he rose from his seat during the interview, the poet observed that he looked the personification of an evil-disposed but powerful man. One who was torn by the fiend of avarice, the lust of power, and the chagrin of blasted ambition. The Court smile was gone for ever from that once pliant brow, and the scowl of hate seated in its stead.
To the surprise of the poet, whilst he flatly refused interference on the subject of Arderne's imprisonment, he even seemed to experience satisfaction at that youth's danger. The poisonous mind of the most successful poisoner of the age was now recklessly displayed. He seemed to rejoice in the misfortunes of his fellow-men, whilst he felt that his own further success in life was ended. He was indeed at that moment sinking into the grave a hopeless unbeliever, "a bold bad man."
"Sir Thomas Lucy," he said, rudely and abruptly, "hath sought me on the subject of this Arderne, praying of me to intercede with the Queen. But I meddle not again with matters of state or the business of others. My health requires change from the pestilential vapour of this city. I have done with Courts and seek my castle at Kenilworth."
Shakespeare bowed, and was about to withdraw, when Leicester turned and again spoke.
"I advise you yourself, Master Shakespeare," he said, "to keep free of such matters. Peril not your present favour by mixing in treasonable affairs, and so farewell."
"Nay, my Lord," said Shakespeare, "this gentleman, my friend, hath been most unjustly accused. He is one to whom I owe much love. I may not cease from making what interest I can in his favour."
"And I tell thee then," said Leicester, imperiously, "that in me you will find an opponent in his cause; my interest lieth in the very opposite direction, since I am informed by a law-man of your native town that, in right of my wife, I can claim some of those estates in Warwickshire so lately in possession of this Arderne."
Shakespeare felt surprised at this intimation, and immediately the interview terminated.
There was evidently a secret enemy at work, he thought, as he left the house; and, as he passed through the gateway, he ran against a man who was entering.
The poet was so wrapped in his own thoughts that he observed not the features of this person; but Grasp (for it was no less a person who was entering the courtyard) started at the well-known form of his sometime clerk, and, hesitating for the moment, seemed divided as to whether he should not defer his present business and follow the poet.
Whilst he stood undecided, Shakespeare took boat, and so Grasp turned towards the building.
"I shall find the pestilent fellow," he said, "and I shall also penetrate into the mystery of that fair Lindabrides who dwells beneath his roof, and masquerades about the city at nights. My certie, but I'll spoil his actings, his writings, his inditings, his poetizing, and rhapsodizing. I can myself indite, aye, and play a part, too, as well as he; and so, Master William Shakespeare, look to thyself, for thou art in jeopardy;" and so Grasp turned and proceeded, across the court of Leicester House rejoicing.
So great were the talents possessed by Grasp for smelling out a plot, whether it existed or not, that he seemed peculiarly fitted for the period in which he lived, and in which conspiracies, either real or pretended, were so frequently agitating the kingdom.
Plot and pestilence, indeed, during Elizabeth's reign seemed the bug-bears of the time. At one moment the Court was driven from its locality, by some of the attendants being seized at the very palace gates with some infectious disorder, and the next, some dark, evil-minded fanatic was apprehended, dagger in hand, almost in the very presence-chamber.
Since the execution of the Queen of Scots those conspirators had been more hopeless of success; yet still, ever and anon, a new and dangerous attempt against the life of the Queen was brought to light.
Just at the present period of our story, such a design was pounced on by Grasp; but, like all over-zealous persons, he was liable, in his eagerness, to run upon a wrong scent, and lose sight of the game he had started.
It happened, during his visit to London at this time, and in an interval spared from his numerous avocations, (for Grasp was now a man in full business), that he, one night, amused himself by witnessing an execution in company with his friend Doubletongue.
This execution was one possessing considerable interest, inasmuch as several criminals were to suffer for conscience-sake, and that was always a popular exhibition during Elizabeth's reign. Six were Catholic priests, who were hung, drawn, and quartered, for conspiring against the Queen's life. Two more were laymen, who, having embraced protestantism and returned to the old belief, were to be burned alive in company with a wretched atheist named Francis Wright, alias Kit Wyndham. Besides these there was one other named Word, who was to be executed for concealment of Catholics under suspicion of treason.
The execution took place in Smithfield, and, like those of more modern times, when the cut-purse is seen to exercise his vocation beneath the gallows on which a fellow thief was struggling, so was treason watching within the scorching influence of the fire which burned these traitors.
One Reginald Deville, an usurer and an informer, who also bore the appropriate cognomen of Reynard Devil, had tracked a suspicious character into Smithfield on this very night; a fanatic being, whose husband had been in the service of the Queen of Scots, and who, in the disguise of a man, was known to be in concealment in London for the purpose of assassinating Elizabeth.
In the crowd, and during the excitement of the execution, Deville had lost sight of this person, almost at the moment he was about to gain assistance and pounce upon her; and, as he was prying about, he stumbled upon Grasp, whom he had formerly known.
Now Grasp himself, besides his other business, occasionally did a little in the informing way. Such pursuit formed a sort of afterhour recreation with him. He and Doubletongue, at such times, hunted in couples, and as evil speaking, lying, and slander, were the peculiar talents of his friend, so the more covert villany was his own peculiar forte.
The moment Reginald Deville stumbled upon Grasp and his friend, in his eagerness he half divulged the secret intelligence with which he was furnished.
"Ah," he said, "my good friend Grasp, I am glad to meet. Hast seen a slight rakish figure pass this minute, wearing a cloak of scarlet serge, a red feather in his hat, a brace of petronels in his girdle, and drab trunks with hose to match?"
Grasp was never at fault. "I have," he said hastily.
"Which way went he, in God's name," said Deville. "Quick, or I lose a chance—he's worth the having, I can assure you."
"I will put you upon his trail," said Grasp, "perhaps inform you where he haunts, an you promise half profits and tell me what's his crime."
"Treason is his crime," said Deville, "'Tis a female in man's apparel, one Margaret Lambrun. Her husband died of grief after Queen Mary was executed. The woman was in the service of Mary, and hath resolved on the death of the Queen. I had secret intelligence from a cousin of my own in Scotland, and have been in pursuit for some days."
"Well, then," said Grasp, "I can only tell you in return for your secret that your man, or woman rather, was here beside me in company with four others. Catholics, I dare be sworn, for they looked upon the burning of yonder priests with a devilish expression of horror, in place of viewing it as you and I. They marked me as I watched them, and they are off; but I heard one of them name some place in Blackfriars as where he resided."
"How said ye," exclaimed Doubletongue, "in Blackfriars? then, by my fay, I think I can give ye a clue to this same female."
"As how?" inquired Grasp, eagerly.
"As thus," said Doubletongue. "Dost remember the night on which we consulted with Lawyer Quillet at the Blue Boar Inn?"
"Truly so," said Grasp, "and what o' that?"
"On that night I marked, although you did not, a couple of persons who kept themselves altogether apart from the other guests—a young and a middle-aged person. Nay, I especially marked the younger of the twain, and as I looked upon the tiny foot, the sparkling eyes, and the slender form, methinks I penetrated through the disguise worn, and beheld a female."
"Ah! caitiff," said Grasp, "thou were't ever a devil to spy out a farthingale. And so—"
"And so, I said to myself, where disguise is there mischief is meant, and I resolved to know more. Acting upon this resolve, albeit I lost sight of them during the riot which ensued in the tavern, I followed them out into the street, dodged them to their lair—"
"And that is—?" inquired Deville impatiently.
"In the Blackfriars, at a house down by the water-side, and which I can point out."
"But thou may'st have been mistaken," said Grasp, "appearances may have deceived thee."
"Not a whit," said Doubletongue. "I took some pains to make assurance; for, sooth to say, I was taken with this mysterious female. I watched about the house till I again saw her. I even ventured within, concealed myself during the absence of herself and him who seemed her protector, and I found in the room which she inhabited—"
"What?" said Grasp, who expected a written list of the conspirators. "In God's name what did you find?"
"Her doublet and hose," said Doubletongue. "The very pair of nether garments in which I had seen her masquerading at the Blue Boar the first night I beheld her."
"Oh, monstrous!" said Grasp. "Tis, undoubtedly the person of whom you are in quest. See, the execution is over and the criminals burnt. Wherefore not at once, proceed to Blackfriars and identify the house? To-morrow we will procure assistance and pounce upon her;" and the two immediately pushed their way through the crowd and left Smithfield.
The success of Shakespeare's play of Romeo and Juliet had placed him in a somewhat different situation amongst his companions of the theatre. By the majority he was immediately looked up to as a rising star, and whilst others again viewed him with increasing envy, there were one or two who were so much struck with the extraordinary merit of the composition that they already pronounced him the wonder of the age.
Such, however, was the agitated state of the kingdom at the moment, and fears, factions, and jealousies, so absorbed the minds of men of all ranks, that except beyond the circle of his own professional brethren, and amongst his own immediate friends of the Court, my Lord of Essex, Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Southampton, &c., the effect produced was, after all, but evanescent.
The English nation at this time was yet struggling to emerge from barbarity. The philology of Italy had been transplanted hither in the reign of Henry the Eighth, and the learned languages cultivated by Lilly, Linacre, More, and others. Greek was now taught in some of the principal schools, and many of the learned read the Italian and Spanish poets. But still literature was even yet confined in a great measure to professed scholars, or persons of high rank. The body public was but gross and dark; and to read and write, an accomplishment valued according to its rarity.
Thus, then, the people who witnessed the great curiosity of Shakespeare's new play hardly knew how to judge. It was welcome even to the most rude and vulgar; they looked at it with a sort of childish wonder. It was a delicious and startling change from the giants, dragons, and enchantments they had been used to. Nay, it even bid fair to supersede the interesting exhibition of the bear hugging the dog to death, or the bull driven into madness by agony. The show and bustle of the new play even charmed the rudesby's, who could scarce even comprehend the beauty and elegance of the poetry.
It was on the morning of the same day on which Grasp had witnessed the execution in Smithfield, that Shakespeare made his unsuccessful application to the Earl of Leicester in behalf of his friend Arderne. After his interview with the fallen favourite, the poet returned, sad and somewhat out of sorts, to his new lodgings in Blackfriars. As was his wont on all occasions wherein his capacious mind had received an impression, he contemplated the object that had furnished it. Indeed, his interview with that ambitious courtier, whose whole life had been a mistake, had been to him a whole volume. "How wretched," he thought, "is that poor man that hangs on prince's favours!" and then he seized his pen and wrote,—
"Fling away ambition,By that sin fell the angels, how can man, then,The image of his Maker, hope to rise by it."
"Fling away ambition,By that sin fell the angels, how can man, then,The image of his Maker, hope to rise by it."
Whilst the poet wrote, as was not uncommonly the case, a whole levée of visitors continually interrupted his labours. This, however, was a circumstance that seemed rather to aid than disturb the current of his thoughts. He laid down his pen to laugh with the light-hearted, and he thrust aside his manuscript to listen to the more serious. He was all things with all men. The courtier, the soldier, the scholar, all and each found in him something to wonder at and admire. On this day, which was the sixth for the representation of his play, his visitors were numerous. In addition to many of his brother authors, several of the actors and other persons connected with the theatre, the Earl of Essex, Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Southampton, and the poet Spenser, sought him in his lodging. Master Doubletongue too, who on this day had been seeking an opportunity of introducing himself into the house, as he met with some actor or other visitor coming out, hesitated as to the safety of such espial. Nay, he felt considerably astonished at the number and quality of the persons who seemed, as the day advanced, to come thronging about the locality.
Whilst he continued watching for some person he appeared to expect, he beheld the open space in front of the house filled with the attendants of several nobles of the Court; their magnificent steeds, gaily caparisoned, being led up and down, or held by servitors with the emblazoned badges of the favourites of the Queen.
It is indeed curious to consider the poet himself during the visit of these magnificoes, and who, in the enjoyment of his society, sought a new pleasure; visitors who, like himself, were elevated above "the common cry of curs," and, leaving their high rank out of the question, worthy of the friendship of Shakespeare. The poet himself, too, was perfectly at his ease in the company of these haughty nobles. He sat and conversed with them in all the freedom of unchecked enjoyment.
To attempt any description of the conversation carried on amongst these choice and master spirits of the age would be vain and ridiculous, since it exceeds the power of our pen to describe it. Nay, were it possible so to do, we must of necessity furnish forth to the world a dialogue such as is only to be found in the page of him who acted as the host to the assemblage.
Let us look at the picture, for it is one worthy of regard. Shakespeare sits beneath the ample chimney, his table is before him, strewed with papers. He leans back in his chair; a divine expression, a sweet smile is on his bearded face. Opposite to him is his patron, Lord Southampton, his chin resting upon the hilt of his sheathed rapier, his eyes and ears intent upon the subject Shakespeare is speaking of. Beside Shakespeare, leaning his cheek upon his hand, his elbow upon the table, sits the magnificent Essex; he also is intently regarding the poet, admiration in his gaze. Standing somewhat behind Lord Southampton, his back against the carved chimney, is the poet Spenser. Raleigh sits within the embayment of the window; his plumed hat is carelessly thrown down beside him, and his quick, restless glance is ever and anon turned from the poet towards the different craft which pass and repass upon the Thames below. Beside these,éliteof the company, there is Tarleton, the comedian and Court fool, who, under cover of his folly, shoots his bolts upon all the party. One more addition, and the party is completed; and it is made up by the dissolute friend of the poet, the fat and jovial Froth.
Whilst they are engaged in conversation, the drawer from an adjoining tavern enters with wine and other refreshments. From long-necked and quaint-looking bottles is poured the wines of Gascony and Spain. The means, too, and appliances for indulgence in Sir Walter's favourite weed is then handed round, and (as was the custom of the period) each guest takes a whiff; the thin blue smoke mounts into the air, and eddies about the carved ceiling; and, as the mirth and joviality of the party grows faster, time flies unheeded by, the shadows descend upon the Thames, again and again the bottles are renewed, and another day dawns upon the party, ere they recollect how the hours have fled.
Can our readers wonder at this, when they remember of what that party consisted, and their entertainer? Those magnificoes had come to pay the poet a morning visit, and they had stayed half a day and one entire night. Shakespeare was their entertainer!
As the first faint streaks of dawn began to "lace the severing clouds," the poet stood alone in his apartment. His guests had left him, and his room shewed tokens of the revel they had been engaged in.
The revellers had drank deep, for they were such as would be most likely to give themselves up to the peculiar enjoyment of the hour. Shakespeare had cheered the cup for them.
As the glorious poet glanced upon the heap of empty flaskets, broken bottles, remnants of long-necked glasses, and capacious bowled pipes, together with all thedébrisof a long-continued orgie, he smiled, and stepping to the lattice-window, threw it open, and stood to enjoy the refreshing breeze from the river.
Whilst he stood and gazed upon the Thames, the boats containing his recent guests glided past, on their way to Greenwich; for Essex and Southampton, when they found themselves regularly set in for an orgie, had some time before sent away their steeds.
They waved their hands an they passed, on observing the poet, and he remained listening to the music from the boat which followed the barge of Essex, as it grew fainter and fainter in the distance.
As Shakespeare turned from the window, the arras near the fire-place was lifted, and two persons noiselessly entered. He started as he beheld them, for by the faint morning light he distinguished in one of them the beautiful female we have before remarked, dwelling beneath his roof; the other was our old friend Martin. Something more than ordinary he well knew must have caused her to enter the wing of the building he inhabited; in addition to which, he saw she was equipped in her masculine costume, and, together with her companion, prepared for a journey.
"We have come to bid you farewell," she said, as the poet stepped up to her, and took her hand.
"This is somewhat sudden," he returned. "I hoped to have been of your party into Warwickshire."
"Certain spies, good Master Shakespeare," said Martin, "have it seems noted this lady's residence beneath your roof, and she has fallen under suspicion of treasonable matter."
"Yes," said the lady, "my faithful friend and adviser here has discovered so much. My presence here might even compromise you, my kind friend and preserver. We have therefore resolved, at once, to set off on our journey."
"And how then have you learnt this?" inquired Shakespeare.
"Nay, heed not my means of intelligence," said Martin. "Thou know'st I possess the secret of divination, or I could never have at last escaped the Spanish Inquisition, and discovered the residence of this lady in London. Suffice it we know our danger, and must fly."
"And do you then still purpose seeking Kenilworth?" inquired Shakespeare of his beautiful friend.
"I do," she replied. "Lady Leicester is my friend. She will, I trust, be able to do service to him we wish well to. My best hope is from that quarter."
"I have already seen the Earl," said Shakespeare, "and my own expectations, in that quarter, touch ground."
"From the Earl himself I never entertained a particle of hope," said the lady, "his Countess may, however, serve us, for she is my friend."
"All good angels, then, speed you on your journey!" said Shakespeare. "I have myself other chances here. The Earl of Essex hath promised to speak with the Queen, ere another day passes, added to which, Lord Southampton and Sir Walter Raleigh have sworn to back his suit."
"Have you, then, seen the Earl of Essex on this matter?" inquired Martin, in some surprise.
"He and Lord Southampton were here but now," said Shakespeare, smiling, and pointing to the confused state of the apartment. "Behold the witness of their revel. Some ten minutes back they left me to take boat for Greenwich, where the Queen at present stays."
"Farewell, then," said the lady sorrowing, "we dare no longer stay, may we soon meet again!"
"Heaven grant it, fair excellence," said Shakespeare, "until I again revisit my home in Warwickshire, I shall have but small contentment. But until I see my friend out of jeopardy, and clear of imprisonment, I have neither home nor friends there."
"'Tis like yourself," said the lady. "Farewell! We shall soon then meet, I trust. Walter Arderne once relieved from durance, and my task is effected."
After absence from a well-known locality how fresh and verdant seems every spot there. The mind which has dwelt, again and again, upon every nook and corner, unmarked perhaps and unappreciated whilst in the neighbourhood, becomes enamoured absolutely of trivialities and trifles. How well doth the exile, eating the bitter bread of banishment, perhaps breathing the hot air of the tropics, many, many thousand leagues from the quiet village in which he first drew breath—how well doth he recollect, and dwell with fondness upon each street or lane of the village suburb, the school-boy spot, the home the wanderer longs for with an undying desire!
And if such be the case, how anxiously, and even sadly, do we think upon those relatives and friends domesticated in the far-away home, and see them in their old-accustomed places. Relations so dear and friends so esteemed, yet, perhaps, never again to be met with in life, and therefore more cherished in our thoughts.
And Shakespeare had oft-times felt this anxiety during the time his self-exile lasted. In his own mind he had resolved that, until he had "name and fame," he had "nothing at Stratford." Those dearly loved friends should not again look upon the unthrift younker; and unless the man redeemed the courses wild of the youth, he would no more return.
How far he had already succeeded our readers have seen; and even the little world of Stratford began to feel pride in him they had before so lightly regarded.
Master William Shakespeare, it was affirmed amongst the wise-acres of the Falcon Inn, had indited two several poems, some said three, of such exceeding merit, that they had afforded exceeding delight to the grandees and gallants of Elizabeth's court. Sonnets, too, innumerable, had fallen amongst the fair dames of the palace, like the perfumed flowers blown by the sweet south.
Nay, William Shakespeare was said to be a favourite with the Queen herself. Two plays he had also produced—plays of most exquisite fancy. The Adonis of the Court,—the "wealthy-curled darling of the land," the favourite Essex, was his personal friend. My Lord Southampton his patron. And more than this, than these, than all, William Shakespeare had made money, thriven, purchased property, become a proprietor of one of the theatres in London.
"'Fore Heaven, I wonder what made him ever go away from us?' said Master Mumble, the head-bailiff.
"I always said there was something in him," said Master Lamb.
"He was ever a clever dog though a mischievous one," said Cramboy.
"Dost think he will come back amongst us?" inquired Teazle. "Methinks I long to look upon one who hath written three poems, a whole litany of sonnets, and two masques or mysteries."
"An he do come amongst us again," said the head-bailiff, "I, for one, vote we make him master of the free school."
"Nay," said Cramboy, "I know not how far to agree with you there, before we go to such lengths, let us peruse his works; there is some difference, my masters all, between teaching one's boys theirquis, theirquæs, and theirquods, and writing jingling rhymes for the amusement of the Londoners and the Court."
"Well," said the mayor, "we might make him parish-clerk. Something we ought to offer him, methinks, an he comes back amongst us. Body o' me, hath he not written two poems and a play? There be those amongst us who cannot even write their own names, much more a poem such as 'tis said this William Shakespeare hath produced."
"Hath any one seen these poems you speak of?" inquired Master Scourge.
"Truly, I believe mine host hath a copy of one brought from London by a gentleman of the Court, and left behind him. I saw it myself not a week ago and looked at the title-page, 'tis called Tartquin and Lucrece, a very clever book, if I may judge from the look of the binding."
"We will see that poem," said the bailiff; and the host, being accordingly summoned, produced a small volume, which the head-bailiff with infinite gravity, after laying aside his pipe and adjusting his spectacles, proceeded to read. Scarcely, however, had he got through one verse ere he paused and looked over his glasses at the grave auditors who sat in judgment upon the production, whilst they themselves puffed out such clouds of smoke, that it appeared they were resolved the bailiff should scarce observe the impression produced.
"You do not speak, my masters," said the head-bailiff, "have you heard?"
"Perfectly," returned Master Cramboy.
"And do you approve?" inquired the head-bailiff.
"Ahem," said the mercer, "'Speak that I may know thee,' saith the proverb; proceed;" and the bailiff read another verse.
"Fie! fie!" said Master Teazle, "what stuff is here? My service to you, my masters all, and a merry Christmas. How say you now to making Master William Shakespeare master of the free school,—eh?"
"Shall I proceed any further?" inquired the head-bailiff.
"Not a line," said Cramboy. "I feel quite scandalized. What a depraved taste the Court must have! Allow me, however to look at the binding of this volume," and Cramboy quietly noted down where the book was to be bought in order that he might procure and read it as soon as he could, the rest of the company quietly following his example.
"Well," said John Peto, the tanner, "after all what is fame? Here hath our fellow-townsman gained much celebrity by such matter as we have heard. Trash, my masters; lies, conjured up by the fumes of sack and Canary. Marry, the lad hath a quick wit, I dare be sworn, but how he hath gotten himself into the good graces of the powerful by such matter I marvel."
"I remember me," said Master Richard Coomb, (who was known amongst his co-mates by the sobriquet of Thin Beard, from the circumstance of his wearing a starved cane-coloured beard), "I remember me that our townsman, John Shakespeare, father of this William, had from his youth upwards, a quick and shrewd wit. Nay, by 'ur Lady, he must be about my own age; by the same token I played oft-times with him when he was a boy and living with his father at Snitterfield."
"Aye," said Mumble, "he came to Stratford from Snitterfield. He held lands there when he was better off. Did'st know Richard Shakespeare, grandfather to this William? He was well to do, and had lands and beeves at Snitterfield."
"I did know him," returned Coomb; "that is, I do remember me of him. By 'ur Lady, a proper man of his hands as ever you would wish to look on,—aye, and a pleasant man to speak with too."
"Did not your brother, John Coomb, accommodate Master John Shakespeare, at his need, with moneys, not long back?" inquired Cramboy.
"In sooth did he," returned Thin Beard, "more than once, I can tell thee."
"And did I not hear that John Coomb pressed him hard for repayment, and would have clapped him up in jail but for the debt being defrayed by this poet of our's,—this William his son,—so soon as he became aware of it?"
"Nay, 'tis true enough," said Thin Beard; "I may not deny that my brother doth press hard for moneys due."
"Go to," said Mumble; "we all know John Coomb and his usances well enough without your confession. 'Tis creditable to Master hath been given to courses wild. I like him better for his befriending his father than for his poetry."
"Come," said the head bailiff, laying down his pipe, and rising from his chair, "Let us drink the health of our good townsman, since he hath so far done honour to the place of his birth. Who knows, he may do even better yet! We have not altogether approved of the production here before us, peradventure his songs and sonnets are in better taste than his lampoons. Fill, my masters, to the brim. Since the Queen delights to honour Master Shakespeare, here's his health, and may he soon return amongst us!"
And if such was the feeling entertained towards the poet by the more mechanical portion of the community of Stratford, those of higher degree felt a proportionable share of respect, since they could better appreciate his merits.
And now, having once more returned to the spot from whence we started, we must again revisit some of the localities in and around that sweet neighbourhood. Sir Hugh Clopton having also returned from London on business of import, is once more to be seen in his old dwelling.
Since we last beheld him located there, many stirring events have transpired. His life, on the whole, has passed, since the action with the Armada, in ease and quietude. At the present moment, however, he is in some trouble, consequent upon the untoward events connected with his nephew. Nay, he has returned to London for the purpose of parting with all he possesses, so that he may but pay off the huge debts Walter Arderne has become liable for, and save him from the other difficulties he is surrounded by.
It is now far advanced in the month of September. The season is wet and dreary,—one of those unhealthy seasons which produce much sickness throughout the land. The continued rain had flooded the country around. The roads, never at this period good, are now almost impassable. The woods are wrapped in mist, and the marsh lands a perfect sea.