one. I like not overmuch to meddle and make therein.”
Master Silas stood dissatisfied awhile, and then answered,—
“The girl’s mother, sir, was housemaid and sempstress in your own family,
time back, and you thereby have a right over her unto the third and
fourth generation.”
“I may have, Silas,” said his worship, “but it was no longer than four or
five years agone that folks were fain to speak maliciously of me for only
finding my horse in her hovel.”
Sir Silas looked red and shiny as a ripe strawberry on a Snitterfield
tile, and answered somewhat peevishly,—
“The same folks, I misgive me, may find the rogue’s there any night in
the week.”
Whereunto replied Sir Thomas, mortifiedly,
“I cannot think it, Silas! I cannot think it.”
And after some hesitation and disquiet,—
“Nay, I am resolved I will not think it; no man, friend or enemy, shall
push it into me.”
“Worshipful sir,” answered Master Silas, “I am as resolute as any one in
what I would think and what I would not think, and never was known to
fight dunghill in either cockpit.
“Were he only out of the way, she might do duty, but what doth she now?
“She points his young beard for him; persuading him it grows thicker and
thicker, blacker and blacker; she washes his ruff, stiffens it, plaits
it, tries it upon his neck, removes the hair from under it, pinches it
with thumb and fore-finger, pretending that he hath moiled it, puts her
hand all the way round it, _setting it to rights_, as she calleth it—
“Ah, Sir Thomas! a louder whistle than that will never call her back
again when she is off with him.”
Sir Thomas was angered, and cried tartly,—
“Who whistled? I would know.”
Master Silas said submissively,—
“Your honour, as wrongfully I fancied.”
“Wrongfully, indeed, and to my no small disparagement and discomfort,”
said the knight, verily believing that he had not whistled; for deep and
dubious were his cogitations.
“I protest,” went he on to say, “I protest it was the wind of the
casement; and if I live another year I will put a better in the place of
it. Whistle indeed—for what? I care no more about her than about an
unfledged cygnet,—a child, {189a} a chicken, a mere kitten, a
crab-blossom in the hedge.”
The dignity of his worship was wounded by Master Silas unaware, and his
wrath again turned suddenly upon poor William.
“Hark-ye, knave! hark-ye again, ill-looking stripling, lanky from vicious
courses! I will reclaim thee from them; I will do what thy own father
would, and cannot. Thou shalt follow his business.”
“I cannot do better, may it please your worship!” said the lad.
“It shall lead thee unto wealth and respectability,” said the knight,
somewhat appeased by his ready compliancy and low, gentle voice. “Yea,
but not here,—no witches, no wantons (this word fell gravely and at
full-length upon the ear), no spells hereabout.
“Gloucestershire is within a measured mile of thy dwelling. There is one
at Bristol, formerly a parish-boy, or little better, who now writeth
himself _gentleman_ in large, round letters, and hath been elected, I
hear, to serve as burgess in parliament for his native city; just as
though he had eaten a capon or turkey-poult in his youth, and had
actually been at grammar school and college. When he began, he had not
credit for a goat-skin; and now, behold ye! this very coat upon my back
did cost me eight shillings the dearer for him, he bought up wool so
largely.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“May it please your worship! if my father so ordereth, I go cheerfully.”
SIR THOMAS.
“Thou art grown discreet and dutiful. I am fain to command thy release,
taking thy promise on oath, and some reasonable security, that thou wilt
abstain and withhold in future from that idle and silly slut, that sly
and scoffing giggler, Hannah Hathaway, with whom, to the heartache of thy
poor, worthy father, thou wantonly keepest company.”
Then did Sir Thomas ask Master Silas Gough for the Book of Life, bidding
him deliver it into the right hand of Billy, with an eye upon him that he
touch it with both lips,—it being taught by the Jesuits, and caught too
greedily out of their society and communion, that whoso toucheth it with
one lip only, and thereafter sweareth falsely, cannot be called a
perjurer, since perjury is breaking an oath. But breaking half an oath,
as he doth who toucheth the Bible or crucifix with one lip only, is no
more perjury than breaking an eggshell is breaking an egg, the shell
being a part, and the egg being an integral.
William did take the Holy Book with all due reverence the instant it was
offered to his hand. His stature seemed to rise therefrom as from a
pulpit, and Sir Thomas was quite edified.
“Obedient and conducible youth!” said he. “See there, Master Silas! what
hast thou now to say against him? Who sees farthest?”
“The man from the gallows is the most likely, bating his nightcap and
blinker,” said Master Silas, peevishly. “He hath not outwitted me yet.”
“He seized upon the Anchor of Faith like a martyr,” said Sir Thomas, “and
even now his face burns red as elder-wine before the gossips.”
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“I await the further orders of your worship from the chair.”
SIR THOMAS.
“I return and seat myself.”
And then did Sir Thomas say with great complacency and satisfaction in
the ear of Master Silas,—
“What civility, and deference, and sedateness of mind, Silas!”
But Master Silas answered not.
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
“Must I swear, sirs?”
SIR THOMAS.
“Yea, swear; be of good courage. I protest to thee by my honour and
knighthood, no ill shall come unto thee therefrom. Thou shalt not be
circumvented in thy simpleness and inexperience.”
Willy, having taken the Book of Life, did kiss it piously, and did press
it unto his breast, saying,
“Tenderest love is the growth of my heart, as the grass is of Alvescote
mead.
“May I lose my life or my friends, or my memory, or my reason; may I be
viler in my own eyes than those men are—”
Here he was interrupted, most lovingly, by Sir Thomas, who said unto
him,—
“Nay, nay, nay! poor youth! do not tell me so! they are not such very bad
men, since thou appealest unto Cæsar,—that is, unto the judgment-seat.”
Now his worship did mean the two witnesses, Joseph and Euseby; and, sooth
to say there be many worse. But William had them not in his eye; his
thoughts were elsewhere, as will be evident, for he went on thus:—
“—if ever I forget or desert thee, or ever cease to worship {193a} and
cherish thee, my Hannah!”
SIR SILAS.
“The madman! the audacious, desperate, outrageous villain! Look-ye, sir!
where he flung the Holy Gospel! Behold it on the holly and box boughs in
the chimney-place, spreaden all abroad, like a lad about to be whipped!”
SIR THOMAS.
“Miscreant knave! I will send after him forthwith!
“Ho, there! is the caitiff at hand, or running off?”
Jonas Greenfield the butler did budge forward after a while, and say, on
being questioned,—
“Surely, that was he! Was his nag tied to the iron gate at the lodge,
Master Silas?”
SIR SILAS.
“What should I know about a thief’s nag, Jonas Greenfield?”
“And didst thou let him go, Jonas,—even thou?” said Sir Thomas. “What!
are none found faithful?”
“Lord love your worship,” said Jonas Greenfield; “a man of threescore and
two may miss catching a kite upon wing. Fleetness doth not make folks
the faithfuller, or that youth yonder beats us all in faithfulness.
“Look! he darts on like a greyhound whelp after a leveret. He, sure
enough, it was! I now remember the sorrel mare his father bought of John
Kinderley last Lammas, swift as he threaded the trees along the park. He
must have reached Wellesbourne ere now at that gallop, and pretty nigh
Walton-hill.”
SIR THOMAS.
“Merciful Christ! grant the country be rid of him for ever! What
dishonour upon his friends and native town! A reputable wool-stapler’s
son turned gipsy and poet for life.”
SIR SILAS.
“A Beelzebub; he spake as bigly and fiercely as a soaken yeoman at an
election feast,—this obedient and conducible youth!”
SIR THOMAS.
“It was so written. Hold thy peace, Silas!”
LAUS DEO.
E. B.
POST-SCRIPTUM
BY ME, EPHRAIM BARNETT.
Twelve days are over and gone since William Shakspeare did leave our
parts. And the spinster, Hannah Hathaway, is in sad doleful plight about
him; forasmuch as Master Silas Cough went yesterday unto her, in her
mother’s house at Shottery, and did desire both her and her mother to
take heed and be admonished, that if ever she, Hannah, threw away one
thought after the runagate William Shakspeare, he should swing.
The girl could do nothing but weep; while as the mother did give her
solemn promise that her daughter should never more think about him all
her natural life, reckoning from the moment of this her promise.
And the maiden, now growing more reasonable, did promise the same. But
Master Silas said,
“_I doubt you will_, _though_.”
“_No_,” said the mother, “_I answer for her she shall not think of him_,
_even if she see his ghost_.”
Hannah screamed, and swooned, the better to forget him. And Master Silas
went home easier and contenteder. For now all the worst of his hard duty
was accomplished,—he having been, on the Wednesday of last week, at the
speech of Master John Shakspeare, Will’s father, to inquire whether the
sorrel mare was his. To which question the said Master John Shakspeare
did answer, “_Yea_.”
“_Enough said_!” rejoined Master Silas.
“_Horse-stealing is capital_. _We shall bind thee over to appear against
the culprit_, _as prosecutor_, _at the next assizes_.”
May the Lord in his mercy give the lad a good deliverance, if so be it be
no sin to wish it!
_October_ 1, A.D. 1582.
LAUS DEO.
A CONFERENCE
OF
MASTER EDMUND SPENSER,
A GENTLEMAN OF NOTE,
WITH
THE EARL OF ESSEX,
TOUCHING
THE STATE OF IRELAND.
ANNO DOM. 1598.
PREFACE.
TO the same worthy man who preserved the _Examination of Shakspeare_, we
are indebted for what he entitles on the cover, _A Conference of Master
Edmund Spenser_, _etc._, _with the Earl of Essex_. It must be confessed
that this Conference throws little light upon the great rebellion of
Ireland. Nevertheless, there are some curious minds, which perhaps may
take an interest in the conversation of two illustrious men, one
distinguished by his genius, the other by the favour of his sovereign.
The Editor, it will be perceived, is but little practised in the ways of
literature; much less is he gifted with that prophetic spirit which can
anticipate the judgment of the public. It may be that he is too idle or
too apathetic to think anxiously or much about the matter; and yet he has
been amused, in his earlier days, at watching the first appearance of
such few books as he believed to be the production of some powerful
intellect. He has seen people slowly rise up to them, like carp in a
pond when food is thrown among them; some of which carp snatch suddenly
at a morsel, and swallow it; others touch it gently with their barbe,
pass deliberately by, and leave it; others wriggle and rub against it
more disdainfully; others, in sober truth, know not what to make of it,
swim round and round it, eye it on the sunny side, eye it on the shady,
approach it, question it, shoulder it, flap it with the tail, turn it
over, look askance at it, take a pea-shell or a worm instead of it, and
plunge again their contented heads into the comfortable mud; after some
seasons the same food will suit their stomachs better.
The Editor has seen all this, and been an actor in it, whether at
Chantilly or Fontainebleau is indifferent to the reader; and it has
occurred to him that Shakspeare and Spenser were thrown among such carp,
and began to be relished (the worst, of course, first) after many years.
He is certain that these two publications can interest only the antiquary
and biographer; enough if even such find their account in them.
* * * * *
IT happened by mere accident that so obscure a man as Ephraim Barnett,
with no peculiar zeal for genius, and with no other scope or intention
than a lesson for his descendants, has preserved an authentic memorial of
the principal event both in the life of Shakspeare and of Spenser; the
one event was very near the cause of terminating Shakspeare’s, the other
did terminate Spenser’s. He accounts for his knowledge of the facts
naturally enough, as those will readily admit who have the patience to
read his paper on the subject. It would be inhumane in the Editor to ask
any of it for himself, when it is about to undergo such an exertion.
ESSEX AND SPENSER.
ESSEX.
“INSTANTLY on hearing of thy arrival from Ireland I sent a message to
thee, good Edmund, that I might learn from one so judicious and
dispassionate as thou art, the real state of things in that distracted
country,—it having pleased the queen’s majesty to think of appointing me
her deputy, in order to bring the rebellious to submission.”
SPENSER.
“Wisely and well considered; but more worthily of her judgment than her
affection. May your lordship overcome, as you have ever done, the
difficulties and dangers you foresee.”
ESSEX.
“We grow weak by striking at random; and knowing that I must strike, and
strike heavily, I would fain see exactly where the stroke shall fall.
“Some attribute to the Irish all sorts of excesses; others tell us that
these are old stories; that there is not a more inoffensive race of merry
creatures under heaven, and that their crimes are all hatched for them
here in England, by the incubation of printers’ boys, and are brought to
market at times of distressing dearth in news. From all that I myself
have seen of them, I can only say that the civilized (I mean the richer
and titled) are as susceptible of heat as iron, and as impenetrable to
light as granite. The half-barbarous are probably worse; the utterly
barbarous may be somewhat better. Like game-cocks, they must spur when
they meet. One fights because he fights an Englishman; another because
the fellow he quarrels with comes from a distant county; a third because
the next parish is an eyesore to him, and his fist-mate is from it. The
only thing in which they all agree as proper law is the tooth-for-tooth
act. Luckily we have a bishop who is a native, and we called him before
the queen. He represented to her majesty that every thing in Old Ireland
tended to re-produce its kind,—crimes among others; and he declared,
frankly, that if an honest man is murdered, or what is dearer to an
honest man, if his honour is wounded in the person of his wife, it must
be expected that he will retaliate. Her Majesty delivered it as her
opinion that the latter case of vindictiveness was more likely to take
effect than the former. But the bishop replied that in his conscience he
could not answer for either if the man was up. The dean of the same
diocese gave us a more favorable report. Being a justice of the peace,
he averred most solemnly that no man ever had complained to him of
murder, excepting one who had lost so many fore-teeth by a cudgel that
his deposition could not be taken exactly,—added to which, his head was a
little clouded with drunkenness; furthermore, that extremely few women
had adduced sufficiently clear proofs of violence, excepting those who
were wilful and resisted with tooth and nail. In all which cases it was
difficult, nay impossible, to ascertain which violence began first and
lasted longest.
“There is not a nation upon earth that pretends to be so superlatively
generous and high-minded; and there is not one (I speak from experience)
so utterly base and venal. I have positive proof that the nobility, in a
mass, are agreed to sell, for a stipulated sum, all their rights and
privileges, so much per man; and the queen is inclined thereunto. But
would our parliament consent to pay money for a cargo of rotten
pilchards? And would not our captains be readier to swamp than to import
them? The noisiest rogues in that kingdom, if not quieted by a halter,
may be quieted by making them brief-collectors, and by allowing them
first to encourage the incendiary, then to denounce and hang him, and
lastly to collect all the money they can, running up and down with the
whining ferocity of half-starved hyenas, under pretence of repairing the
damages their exhausted country hath sustained. Others ask modestly a
few thousands a year, and no more, from those whom they represent to us
as naked and famished; and prove clearly to every dispassionate man who
hath a single drop of free blood in his veins that at least this pittance
is due to them for abandoning their liberal and lucrative professions,
and for endangering their valuable lives on the tempestuous seas, in
order that the voice of Truth may sound for once upon the shores of
England, and Humanity cast her shadow on the council-chamber.
“I gave a dinner to a party of these fellows a few weeks ago. I know not
how many kings and princes were amongst them, nor how many poets, and
prophets, and legislators, and sages. When they were half-drunk, they
coaxed and threatened; when they had gone somewhat deeper, they joked,
and croaked, and hiccoughed, and wept over sweet Ireland; and when they
could neither stand nor sit any longer, they fell upon their knees and
their noddles, and swore that limbs, life, liberty, Ireland, and God
himself, were all at the queen’s service. It was only their holy
religion, the religion of their forefathers— Here sobs interrupted some,
howls others, execrations more, and the liquor they had ingulfed, the
rest. I looked down on them with stupor and astonishment, seeing faces,
forms, dresses, much like ours, and recollecting their ignorance, levity,
and ferocity. My pages drew them gently by the heels down the steps; my
grooms set them upright (inasmuch as might be) on their horses; and the
people in the streets, shouting and pelting, sent forward the beasts to
their straw.
“Various plans have been laid before us for civilising or coercing them.
Among the pacific, it was proposed to make an offer to five-hundred of
the richer Jews in the Hanse-towns and in Poland, who should be raised to
the dignity of the Irish peerage, and endowed with four thousand acres of
good forfeited land, on condition of each paying two thousand pounds, and
of keeping up ten horsemen and twenty foot, Germans or Poles, in
readiness for service.
“The Catholics bear no where such ill-will toward Jews as toward
Protestants. Brooks make even worse neighbours than oceans do.
“I myself saw no objection to the measure; but our gracious queen
declared she had an insuperable one—_they stank_! We all acknowledged
the strength of the argument, and took out our handkerchiefs. Lord
Burleigh almost fainted; and Raleigh wondered how the Emperor Titus could
bring up his men against Jerusalem.
“‘Ah!’ said he, looking reverentially at her Majesty, ‘the star of
Berenice shone above him! and what evil influence could that star not
quell? what malignancy could it not annihilate?’
“Hereupon he touched the earth with his brow, until the queen said,—
“‘Sir Walter! lift me up those laurels.’
“At which manifestation of princely goodwill he was advancing to kiss her
Majesty’s hand, but she waved it, and said, sharply,—
“‘Stand there, dog!’
“Now what tale have you for us?”
SPENSER.
“Interrogate me, my lord, that I may answer each question distinctly, my
mind being in sad confusion at what I have seen and undergone.”
ESSEX.
“Give me thy account and opinion of these very affairs as thou leftest
them; for I would rather know one part well than all imperfectly; and the
violences of which I have heard within the day surpass belief.
“Why weepest thou, my gentle Spenser? Have the rebels sacked thy house?”
SPENSER.
“They have plundered and utterly destroyed it.”
ESSEX.
“I grieve for thee, and will see thee righted.”
SPENSER.
“In this they have little harmed me.”
ESSEX.
“Howl I have heard it reported that thy grounds are fertile and thy
mansion {211} large and pleasant.”
SPENSER.
“If river, and lake, and meadow-ground, and mountain, could render any
place the abode of pleasantness, pleasant was mine, indeed!
“On the lovely banks of Mulla I found deep contentment. Under the dark
alders did I muse and meditate. Innocent hopes were my gravest cares,
and my playfullest fancy was with kindly wishes. Ah! surely, of all
cruelties the worst is to extinguish our kindness. Mine is gone: I love
the people and the land no longer. My lord, ask me not about them; I may
speak injuriously.”
ESSEX.
“Think rather, then, of thy happier hours and busier occupations; these
likewise may instruct me.”
SPENSER.
“The first seeds I sowed in the garden, ere the old castle was made
habitable for my lovely bride, were acorns from Penshurst. I planted a
little oak before my mansion at the birth of each child. ‘My sons,’ I
said to myself, ‘shall often play in the shade of them when I am gone,
and every year shall they take the measure of their growth, as fondly as
I take theirs.’”
ESSEX.
“Well, well; but let not this thought make thee weep so bitterly.”
SPENSER.
“Poison may ooze from beautiful plants; deadly grief from dearest
reminiscences.
“I _must_ grieve, I _must_ weep; it seems the law of God, and the only
one that men are not disposed to contravene. In the performance of this
alone do they effectually aid one another.”
ESSEX.
“Spenser! I wish I had at hand any arguments or persuasions of force
sufficient to remove thy sorrow; but really I am not in the habit of
seeing men grieve at any thing except the loss of favour at court, or of
a hawk, or of a buck-hound. And were I to swear out my condolences to a
man of thy discernment, in the same round, roll-call phrases we employ
with one another upon these occasions, I should be guilty, not of
insincerity, but of insolence. True grief hath ever something sacred in
it, and when it visiteth a wise man and a brave one, is most holy.
“Nay, kiss not my hand; he whom God smiteth hath God with him. In his
presence what am I?”
SPENSER.
“Never so great, my lord, as at this hour, when you see aright who is
greater. May He guide your counsels, and preserve your life and glory!”
ESSEX.
“Where are thy friends? Are they with thee?”
SPENSER.
“Ah, where indeed? Generous, true-hearted Philip! where art thou? whose
presence was unto me peace and safety, whose smile was contentment, and
whose praise renown. My lord! I cannot but think of him among still
heavier losses; he was my earliest friend, and would have taught me
wisdom.”
ESSEX.
“Pastoral poetry, my dear Spenser, doth not require tears and
lamentations. Dry thine eyes; rebuild thine house. The queen and
council, I venture to promise thee, will make ample amends for every evil
thou hast sustained. What! does that enforce thee to wail yet louder?”
SPENSER.
“Pardon me, bear with me, most noble heart! I have lost what no council,
no queen, no Essex can restore.”
ESSEX.
“We will see that! There are other swords, and other arms to wield them,
besides a Leicester’s and a Raleigh’s. Others can crush their enemies
and serve their friends.”
SPENSER.
“O my sweet child! And of many so powerful, many so wise and so
beneficent, was there none to save thee? None! none!”
ESSEX.
“I now perceive that thou lamentest what almost every father is destined
to lament. Happiness must be bought, although the payment may be
delayed. Consider; the same calamity might have befallen thee here in
London. Neither the houses of ambassadors, nor the palaces of kings, nor
the altars of God himself, are asylums against death. How do I know but
under this very roof there may sleep some latent calamity, that in an
instant shall cover with gloom every inmate of the house, and every far
dependent?”
SPENSER.
“God avert it!”
ESSEX.
“Every day, every hour of the year, do hundreds mourn what thou
mournest.”
SPENSER.
“Oh, no, no, no! Calamities there are around us; calamities there are
all over the earth; calamities there are in all seasons; but none in any
season, none in any place, like mine.”
ESSEX.