impediments, yet more are lying in the pathway. We have no verse for
tragedy. One in his hurry hath dropped rhyme, and walketh like unto the
man who wanteth the left-leg stocking. Others can give us rhyme indeed,
but can hold no longer after the tenth or eleventh syllable. Now Sir
Everard Starkeye, who is a pretty poet, did confess to Monsieur Dubois
the potency of the French tragic verse, which thou never canst hope to
bring over.
“‘I wonder, Monsieur Dubois!’ said Sir Everard, ‘that your countrymen
should have thought it necessary to transport their heavy artillery into
Italy. No Italian could stand a volley of your heroic verses from the
best and biggest pieces. With these brought into action, you never could
have lost the battle of Pavia.’
“Now my friend Sir Everard is not quite so good a historian as he is a
poet; and Monsieur Dubois took advantage of him.
“‘Pardon! Monsieur Sir Everard!’ said Monsieur Dubois, smiling at my
friend’s slip, ‘We did not lose the battle of Pavia. We had the
misfortune to lose our king, who delivered himself up, as our kings
always do, for the good and glory of his country.’
“‘How was this?’ said Sir Everard, in surprise.
“‘I will tell you, Monsieur Sir Everard!’ said Monsieur Dubois. ‘I had
it from my own father, who fought in the battle, and told my mother, word
for word.
“‘The king seeing his household troops, being only one thousand strong,
surrounded by twelve regiments, the best Spanish troops, amounting to
eighteen thousand four hundred and forty-two, although he doubted not of
victory, yet thought he might lose many brave men before the close of the
day, and rode up instantly to King Charles, and said,—
“‘“My brother! I am loath to lose so many of those brave men yonder.
Whistle off your Spanish pointers, and I agree to ride home with you.”
“‘And so he did. But what did King Charles? Abusing French loyalty, he
made our Francis his prisoner, would you believe it? and treated him
worse than ever badger was treated at the bottom of any paltry
stable-yard, putting upon his table beer and Rhenish wine and wild boar.’
“I have digressed with thee, young man,” continued the knight, much to
the improvement of my knowledge, I do reverentially confess, as it was of
the lad’s. “We will now,” said he, “endeavour our best to sober thee,
finding that Doctor Glaston hath omitted it.”
“Not entirely omitted it,” said William, gratefully; “he did after dinner
all that could be done at such a time toward it. The doctor could,
however, speak only of the Greeks and Romans, and certainly what he said
of them gave me but little encouragement.”
SIR THOMAS.
“What said he?”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“He said, ‘The Greeks conveyed all their wisdom into their theatre,—their
stages were churches and parliament-houses; but what was false prevailed
over what was true. They had their own wisdom, the wisdom of the
foolish. Who is Sophocles, if compared to Doctor Hammersley of Oriel? or
Euripides, if compared to Doctor Prichard of Jesus? Without the Gospel,
light is darkness; and with it, children are giants.
“‘William, I need not expatiate on Greek with thee, since thou knowest it
not, but some crumbs of Latin are picked up by the callowest beaks. The
Romans had, as thou findest, and have still, more taste for murder than
morality, and, as they could not find heroes among them, looked for
gladiators. Their only very high poet employed his elevation and
strength to dethrone and debase the Deity. They had several others, who
polished their language and pitched their instruments with admirable
skill; several who glued over their thin and flimsy gaberdines many
bright feathers from the widespread downs of Ionia, and the richly
cultivated rocks of Attica.
“‘Some of them have spoken from inspiration; for thou art not to suppose
that from the heathen were withheld all the manifestations of the Lord.
We do agree at Oxford that the Pollio of Virgil is our Saviour. True, it
is the dullest and poorest poem that a nation not very poetical hath
bequeathed unto us; and even the versification, in which this master
excelled, is wanting in fluency and sweetness. I can only account for it
from the weight of the subject. Two verses, which are fairly worth two
hundred such poems, are from another pagan; he was forced to sigh for the
church without knowing her. He saith,—
“May I gaze upon thee when my latest hour is come!
May I hold thy hand when mine faileth me!”
This, if adumbrating the church, is the most beautiful thought that ever
issued from the heart of man; but if addressed to a wanton, as some do
opine, is filth from the sink, nauseating and insufferable.
“‘William! that which moveth the heart most is the best poetry; it comes
nearest unto God, the source of all power.’”
SIR THOMAS.
“Yea; and he appeareth unto me to know more of poetry than of divinity.
Those ancients have little flesh upon the body poetical, and lack the
savour that sufficeth. The Song of Solomon drowns all their voices: they
seem but whistlers and guitar-players compared to a full-cheeked
trumpeter; they standing under the eaves in some dark lane, he upon a
well-caparisoned stallion, tossing his mane and all his ribbons to the
sun. I doubt the doctor spake too fondly of the Greeks; they were giddy
creatures. William, I am loath to be hard on them; but they please me
not. There are those now living who could make them bite their nails to
the quick, and turn green as grass with envy.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“Sir, one of those Greeks, methinks, thrown into the pickle-pot, would be
a treasure to the housewife’s young jerkins.”
SIR THOMAS.
“Simpleton! simpleton! but thou valuest them justly. Now attend. If
ever thou shouldst hear, at Oxford or London, the verses I am about to
repeat, prithee do not communicate them to that fiery spirit Mat
Atterend. It might not be the battle of two hundreds, but two counties;
a sort of York and Lancaster war, whereof I would wash my hands.
Listen!”
And now did Sir Thomas clear his voice, always high and sonorous, and did
repeat from the stores of his memory these rich and proud verses,—
“‘Chloe! mean men must ever make mean loves;
They deal in dog-roses, but I in cloves.
They are just scorch’d enough to blow their fingers;
I am a phœnix downright burnt to cinders.’”
At which noble conceits, so far above what poor Bill had ever imagined,
he lifted up his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed,—
“The world itself must be reduced to that condition before such glorious
verses die! _Chloe_ and _Clove_! Why, sir! Chloe wants but a V toward
the tail to become the very thing! Never tell me that such matters can
come about of themselves. And how truly is it said that we mean men deal
in dog-roses.
“Sir, if it were permitted me to swear on that holy Bible, I would swear
I never until this day heard that dog-roses were our provender; and yet
did I, no longer ago than last summer, write, not indeed upon a dog-rose,
but upon a sweet-briar, what would only serve to rinse the mouth withal
after the clove.”
SIR THOMAS.
“Repeat the same, youth. We may haply give thee our counsel thereupon.”
Willy took heart, and lowering his voice, which hath much natural
mellowness, repeated these from memory:—
“My briar that smelledst sweet
When gentle spring’s first heat
Ran through thy quiet veins,—
Thou that wouldst injure none,
But wouldst be left alone,—
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains.
“What! hath no poet’s lyre
O’er thee, sweet-breathing briar,
Hung fondly, ill or well?
And yet methinks with thee
A poet’s sympathy,
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might dwell.
“Hard usage both must bear,
Few hands your youth will rear,
Few bosoms cherish you;
Your tender prime must bleed
Ere you are sweet, but freed
From life, you then are prized; thus prized are poets too.”
Sir Thomas said, with kind encouragement, “He who beginneth so discreetly
with a dog-rose, may hope to encompass a damask-rose ere he die.”
Willy did now breathe freely. The commendation of a knight and
magistrate worked powerfully within him; and Sir Thomas said
furthermore,—
“These short matters do not suit me. Thou mightest have added some moral
about life and beauty,—poets never handle roses without one; but thou art
young, and mayest get into the train.”
Willy made the best excuse he could; and no bad one it was, the knight
acknowledged; namely, that the sweet-briar was not really dead, although
left for dead.
“Then,” said Sir Thomas, “as life and beauty would not serve thy turn,
thou mightest have had full enjoyment of the beggar, the wayside, the
thieves, and the good Samaritan,—enough to tapestry the bridal chamber of
an empress.”
William bowed respectfully, and sighed.
“Ha! thou hast lost them, sure enough, and it may not be quite so fair to
smile at thy quandary,” quoth Sir Thomas.
“I did my best the first time,” said Willy, “and fell short the second.”
“That, indeed, thou must have done,” said Sir Thomas. “It is a grievous
disappointment, in the midst of our lamentations for the dead, to find
ourselves balked. I am curious to see how thou couldst help thyself.
Don’t be abashed; I am ready for even worse than the last.”
Bill hesitated, but obeyed:—
“And art thou yet alive?
And shall the happy hive
Send out her youth to cull
Thy sweets of leaf and flower,
And spend the sunny hour
With thee, and thy faint heart with murmuring music lull?
“Tell me what tender care,
Tell me what pious prayer,
Bade thee arise and live.
The fondest-favoured bee
Shall whisper nought to thee
More loving than the song my grateful muse shall give.”
Sir Thomas looked somewhat less pleased at the conclusion of these verses
than at the conclusion of the former, and said, gravely,—
“Young man! methinks it is betimes that thou talkest of having a muse to
thyself; or even in common with others. It is only great poets who have
muses; I mean to say who have the right to talk in that fashion. The
French, I hear, _Phœbus_ it and _muse-me_ it right and left; and boggle
not to throw all nine, together with mother and master, into the compass
of a dozen lines or thereabout. And your Italian can hardly do without
’em in the multiplication-table. We Englishmen do let them in quietly,
shut the door, and say nothing of what passes. I have read a whole book
of comedies, and ne’er a muse to help the lamest.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“Wonderful forbearance! I marvel how the poet could get through.”
SIR THOMAS.
“By God’s help. And I think we did as well without ’em; for it must be
an unabashable man that ever shook his sides in their company. They lay
heavy restraint both upon laughing and crying. In the great master
Virgil of Rome, they tell me they come in to count the ships, and having
cast up the sum total, and proved it, make off again. Sure token of two
things,—first, that he held ’em dog-cheap; secondly, that he had made but
little progress (for a Lombard born) in book-keeping at double entry.
“He, and every other great genius, began with small subject-matters,
gnats and the like. I myself, similar unto him, wrote upon fruit. I
would give thee some copies for thy copying, if I thought thou wouldst
use them temperately, and not render them common, as hath befallen the
poetry of some among the brightest geniuses. I could shew thee how to
say new things, and how to time the same. Before my day, nearly all the
flowers and fruits had been gathered by poets, old and young, _from the
cedar of Lebanon to the hyssop on the wall_; roses went up to Solomon,
apples to Adam, and so forth.
“Willy! my brave lad! I was the first that ever handled a quince, I’ll
be sworn.
“Hearken!
“Chloe! I would not have thee wince
That I unto thee send a quince.
I would not have thee say unto ’t
_Begone_! and trample ’t underfoot,
For, trust me, ’t is no fulsome fruit.
It came not out of mine own garden,
But all the way from Henly in Arden,—
Of an uncommon fine old tree,
Belonging to John Asbury.
And if that of it thou shalt eat,
’Twill make thy breath e’en yet more sweet;
As a translation here doth shew,
_On fruit-trees_, _by Jean Mirabeau_.
The frontispiece is printed so.
But eat it with some wine and cake,
Or it may give the belly-ache. {153a}
This doth my worthy clerk indite,
I sign,
SIR THOMAS LUCY, Knight.”
“Now, Willy, there is not one poet or lover in twenty who careth for
consequences. Many hint to the lady what to do, few what not to do
although it would oftentimes, as in this case, go to one’s heart to see
the upshot.”
“Ah, sir,” said Bill, in all humility, “I would make bold to put the
parings of that quince under my pillow, for sweet dreams and insights, if
Doctor Glaston had given me encouragement to continue the pursuit of
poetry. Of a surety it would bless me with a bedful of churches and
crucifixions, duly adumbrated.”
Whereat Sir Thomas, shaking his head, did inform him,—
“It was in the golden age of the world, as pagans call it, that poets of
condition sent fruits and flowers to their beloved, with posies fairly
penned. We, in our days, have done the like. But manners of late are
much corrupted on the one side, if not on both.
“Willy! it hath been whispered that there be those who would rather have
a piece of brocade or velvet for a stomacher than the touchingest copy of
verses, with a bleeding heart at the bottom.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“Incredible!”
SIR THOMAS.
“’T is even so!”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“They must surely be rotten fragments of the world before the
flood,—saved out of it by the devil.”
SIR THOMAS.
“I am not of that mind.
“Their eyes, mayhap, fell upon some of the bravery cast ashore from the
Spanish Armada. In ancienter days, a few pages of good poetry outvalued
a whole ell of the finest Genoa.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“When will such days return?”
SIR THOMAS.
“It is only within these few years that corruption and avarice have made
such ghastly strides. They always did exist, but were gentler.
“My youth is waning, and has been nigh upon these seven years, I being
now in my forty-eighth.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“I have understood that the god of poetry is in the enjoyment of eternal
youth; I was ignorant that his sons were.”
SIR THOMAS.
“No, child! we are hale and comely, but must go the way of all flesh.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“Must it, can it, be?”
SIR THOMAS.
“Time was, my smallest gifts were acceptable, as thus recorded:—
“From my fair hand, O will ye, will ye
Deign humbly to accept a gilly-
Flower for thy bosom, sugared maid!
“Scarce had I said it ere she took it,
And in a twinkling, faith! had stuck it,
Where e’en proud knighthood might have laid.”
William was now quite unable to contain himself, and seemed utterly to
have forgotten the grievous charge against him; to such a pitch did his
joy o’erleap his jeopardy.
Master Silas in the meantime was much disquieted; and first did he strip
away all the white feather from every pen in the inkpot, and then did he
mend them, one and all, and then did he slit them with his thumb-nail,
and then did he pare and slash away at them again and then did he cut off
the tops, until at last he left upon them neither nib nor plume, nor
enough of the middle to serve as quill to a virginal. It went to my
heart to see such a power of pens so wasted; there could not be fewer
than five. Sir Thomas was less wary than usual, being overjoyed. For
great poets do mightly affect to have little poets under them; and little
poets do forget themselves in great company, as fiddlers do, who _hail
fellow well met_ even with lords.
Sir Thomas did not interrupt our Bill’s wild gladness. I never thought
so worshipful a personage could bear so much. At last he said unto the
lad,—
“I do bethink me, if thou hearest much more of my poetry, and the success
attendant thereon, good Doctor Glaston would tear thy skirt off ere he
could drag thee back from the occupation.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“I fear me, for once, all his wisdom would sluice out in vain.”
SIR THOMAS.
“It was reported to me that when our virgin queen’s highness (her Dear
Dread’s {157a} ear not being then poisoned) heard these verses, she said
before her courtiers, to the sore travail of some, and heart’s content of
others,—
“‘We need not envy our young cousin James of Scotland his ass’s bite of a
thistle, having such flowers as these gillyflowers on the chimney-stacks
of Charlecote.’
“I could have told her highness that all this poetry, from beginning to
end, was real matter of fact, well and truly spoken by mine own self. I
had only to harness the rhymes thereunto, at my leisure.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“None could ever doubt it. Greeks and Trojans may fight for the quince;
neither shall have it
While a Warwickshire lad
Is on earth to be had,
With a wand to wag
On a trusty nag,
He shall keep the lists
With cudgel or fists.
And black shall be whose eye
Looks evil on Lucy.”
SIR THOMAS.
“Nay, nay, nay! do not trespass too soon upon heroics. Thou seest thou
canst not hold thy wind beyond eight lines. What wouldst thou do under
the heavy mettle that should have wrought such wonders at Pavia, if thou
findest these petards so troublesome in discharging? Surely, the good
doctor, had he entered at large on the subject, would have been very
particular in urging this expostulation.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“Sir, to my mortification I must confess that I took to myself the
counsel he was giving to another; a young gentleman who, from his pale
face, his abstinence at table, his cough, his taciturnity, and his
gentleness, seemed already more than half poet. To him did Doctor
Glaston urge, with all his zeal and judgment, many arguments against the
vocation; telling him that, even in college, he had few applauders, being
the first, and not the second or third, who always are more fortunate;
reminding him that he must solicit and obtain much interest with men of
rank and quality, before he could expect their favour; and that without
it the vein chilled, the nerve relaxed, and the poet was left at next
door to the bellman. ‘In the coldness of the world,’ said he, ‘in the
absence of ready friends and adherents, to light thee upstairs to the
richly tapestried chamber of the muses, thy spirits will abandon thee,
thy heart will sicken and swell within thee; overladen, thou wilt make, O
Ethelbert! a slow and painful progress, and ere the door open, sink.
Praise giveth weight unto the wanting, and happiness giveth elasticity
unto the heavy. As the mightiest streams of the unexplored world,
America, run languidly in the night, {159a} and await the sun on high to
contend with him in strength and grandeur, so doth genius halt and pause
in the thraldom of outspread darkness, and move onward with all his
vigour then only when creative light and jubilant warmth surround him.’
“Ethelbert coughed faintly; a tinge of red, the size of a rose-bud,
coloured the middle of his cheek; and yet he seemed not to be pained by
the reproof. He looked fondly and affectionately at his teacher, who
thus proceeded:
“‘My dear youth, do not carry the stone of Sisyphus on thy shoulder to
pave the way to disappointment. If thou writest but indifferent poetry
none will envy thee, and some will praise thee; but nature, in her
malignity, hath denied unto thee a capacity for the enjoyment of such
praise. In this she hath been kinder to most others than to thee; we
know wherein she hath been kinder to thee than to most others. If thou
writest good poetry many will call it flat, many will call it obscure,
many will call it inharmonious; and some of these will speak as they
think; for, as in giving a feast to great numbers, it is easier to
possess the wine than to procure the cups, so happens it in poetry; thou
hast the beverage of thy own growth, but canst not find the recipients.
What is simple and elegant to thee and me, to many an honest man is flat
and sterile; what to us is an innocently sly allusion, to as worthy a one
as either of us is dull obscurity; and that moreover which swims upon our
brain, and which throbs against our temples, and which we delight in
sounding to ourselves when the voice has done with it, touches their ear,
and awakens no harmony in any cell of it. Rivals will run up to thee and
call thee a plagiary, and, rather than that proof should be wanting,
similar words to some of thine will be thrown in thy teeth out of
Leviticus and Deuteronomy.
“‘Do you desire calm studies? Do you desire high thoughts? Penetrate
into theology. What is nobler than to dissect and discern the opinions
of the gravest men upon the subtlest matters? And what glorious
victories are those over Infidelity and Scepticism! How much loftier,
how much more lasting in their effects, than such as ye are invited unto
by what this ingenious youth hath contemptuously and truly called
“The swaggering drum, and trumpet hoarse with rage.”
And what a delightful and edifying sight it is, to see hundreds of the
most able doctors, all stripped for the combat, each closing with his
antagonist, and tugging and tearing, tooth and nail, to lay down and
establish truths which have been floating in the air for ages, and which
the lower order of mortals are forbidden to see, and commanded to
embrace. And then the shouts of victory! And then the crowns of
amaranth held over their heads by the applauding angels! Besides, these
combats have other great and distinct advantages. Whereas, in the
carnal, the longer ye contend the more blows do ye receive; in these
against Satan, the more fiercely and pertinaciously ye drive at him, the
slacker do ye find him; every good hit makes him redden and rave with
anger, but diminishes its effect.
“‘My dear friends, who would not enter a service in which he may give
blows to his mortal enemy, and receive none; and in which not only the
eternal gain is incalculable, but also the temporal, at four-and-twenty,
may be far above the emolument of generals, who, before the priest was
born, had bled profusely for their country, established her security,
brightened her glory, and augmented her dominions?’”
At this pause did Sir Thomas turn unto Sir Silas, and asked,—
“What sayest thou, Silas?”
Whereupon did Sir Silas make answer,—
“I say it is so, and was so, and should be so, and shall be so. If the
queen’s brother had not sopped the priests and bishops out of the
Catholic cup, they could have held the Catholic cup in their own hands,
instead of yielding it into his. They earned their money; if they sold
their consciences for it, the business is theirs, not ours. I call this
facing the devil with a vengeance. We have their coats; no matter who
made ’em,—we have ’em, I say, and we will wear ’em; and not a button,
tag, or tassel, shall any man tear away.”
Sir Thomas then turned to Willy, and requested him to proceed with the
doctor’s discourse, who thereupon continued:—
“‘Within your own recollections, how many good, quiet, inoffensive men,
unendowed with any extraordinary abilities, have been enabled, by means
of divinity, to enjoy a long life in tranquillity and affluence?’
“Whereupon did one of the young gentlemen smile, and, on small
encouragement from Doctor Glaston to enounce the cause thereof, he
repeated these verses, which he gave afterward unto me:—
“‘In the names on our books
Was standing Tom Flooke’s,
Who took in due time his degrees;
Which when he had taken,
Like Ascham or Bacon,
By night he could snore and by day he could sneeze.
“‘Calm, pithy, pragmatical, {164a}
Tom Flooke he could at a call
Rise up like a hound from his sleep;
And if many a quarto
He gave not his heart to,
If pellucid in lore, in his cups he was deep.
“‘He never did harm,
And his heart might be warm,
For his doublet most certainly was so;
And now has Torn Flooke
A quieter nook
Than ever had Spenser or Tasso.
“‘He lives in his house,
As still as a mouse,
Until he has eaten his dinner;
But then doth his nose
Outroar all the woes
That encompass the death of a sinner.
“‘And there oft has been seen
No less than a dean
To tarry a week in the parish,
In October and March,
When deans are less starch,
And days are less gleamy and garish.
“‘That Sunday Tom’s eyes
Look’d always more wise,
He repeated more often his text;
Two leaves stuck together,
(The fault of the weather)
And . . . _the rest ye shall hear in my next_.
“‘At mess he lost quite
His small appetite,
By losing his friend the good dean;
The cook’s sight must fail her!
The eggs sure are staler!
The beef, too!—why, what can it mean?