Chapter LXVII SHAKESPEARE--"THE MERCHANT OF VENICE"

IN this chapter I am going to tell you in a few words the story

of one of Shakespeare's plays called The Merchant of Venice. It

is founded on an Italian story, one of a collection made by Ser

Giovanni Fiorentino.

The merchant of Venice was a rich young man called Antonio. When

the story opens he had ventured all his money in trading

expeditions to the East and other lands. In two months' time he

expects the return of his ships and hopes then to make a great

deal of money. But meantime he has none to spare, and when his

great friend Bassanio comes to borrow of him he cannot give him

any.

Bassanio's need is urgent, for he loves the beautiful lady Portia

and desires to marry her. This lady was so lovely and so rich

that her fame had spread over all the world till "the four winds

blow in from every coast renowned suitors." Bassanio would be

among these suitors, but alas he has no money, not even enough to

pay for the journey to Belmont where the lovely lady lived. Yet

if he wait two months until Antonio's ships return it may be too

late, and Portia may be married to another. So to supply his

friend's need Antonio decides to borrow the money, and soon a Jew

named Shylock is found who is willing to lend it. For Shylock

was a money-lender. He lent money to people who had need of it

and charged them interest. That is, besides having to pay back

the full sum they had borrowed they had also to pay some extra

money in return for the loan.

In those days Jews were ill-treated and despised, and there was

great hatred between them and Christians. And Shylock especially

hated Antonio, because not only did he rail against Jews and

insult them, but he also lent money without demanding interest,

thereby spoiling Shylock's trade. So now the Jew lays a trap for

Antonio, hoping to catch him and be revenged upon his enemy. He

will lend the money, he says, and he will charge no interest, but

if the loan be not repaid in three months Antonio must pay as

forfeit a pound of his own flesh, which Shylock may cut from any

part of his body that he chooses.

To this strange bargain Antonio consents. It is but a jest, he

thinks.

"Content in faith, I'll seal to such a bond,

And say, there is much kindness in the Jew."

But Bassanio is uneasy. "I like not fair terms," he says, "and a

villain mind. You shall not seal to such a bond for me." But

Antonio insists and the bond is sealed.

All being settled, Bassanio receives the money, and before he

sets off to woo his lady he gives a supper to all his friends, to

which he also invites Shylock. Shylock goes to this supper

although to his daughter Jessica he says,

"But wherefore should I go?

I am not bid for love; they flatter me:

But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon

The prodigal Christian."

But Jessica does not join her father in his hatred of all

Christians. She indeed has given her heart to one of the hated

race, and well knowing that her father will never allow her to

marry him, she, that night while he is at supper with Bassanio,

dresses herself in boy's clothes and steals away, taking with her

a great quantity of jewels and money.

When Shylock discovers his loss he is mad with grief and rage.

He runs about the streets crying for justice.

"Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter!

A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,

Of double ducats stol'n from me by my daughter!"

And all the wild boys in Venice follow after him mocking him and

crying, "His stones, his daughter and his ducats!"

So finding nowhere love or sympathy but everywhere only mockery

and cruel laughter, Shylock vows vengeance. The world has

treated him ill, and he will repay the world with ill, and

chiefly against Antonio does his anger grow bitter.

Then Antonio's friends shake their heads and say, "Let him beware

the hatred of the Jew." They look gravely at each other, for it

is whispered abroad that "Antonio hath a ship of rich lading

wreck'd on the narrow seas."

Then let Antonio beware.

"Thou wilt not take his flesh," says one of the young merchant's

friends to Shylock. "What's that good for?"

"To bait fish withal," snarls the Jew. "If it will feed nothing

else it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered

me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains,

scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends,

heated mine enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath

not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions,

senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with

the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the

same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a

Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle

us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? If you

wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest,

we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what

is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what

should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge.

The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard

but I will better the instruction."

Then let Antonio beware.

Meantime in Belmont many lovers come to woo fair Portia. With

high hope they come, with anger and disappointment they go away.

None can win the lady's hand. For there is a riddle here of

which none know the meaning.

When a suitor presents himself and asks for the lady's hand in

marriage, he is shown three caskets, one of gold, one of silver,

and one of lead. Upon the golden one is written the words, "Who

chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire"; upon the silver

casket are the words, "Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he

deserves"; and upon the leaden one, "Who chooseth me, must give

and hazard all he hath." And only whoso chooseth aright, each

suitor is told, can win the lady.

This trial of all suitors had been ordered by Portia's father ere

he died, so that only a worthy and true man might win his

daughter. Some suitors choose the gold, some the silver casket,

but all, princes, barons, counts, and dukes, alike choose wrong.

At length Bassanio comes. Already he loves Portia and she loves

him. There is no need of any trail of the caskets. Yet it must

be. Her father's will must be obeyed. But what if he choose

wrong. That is Portia's fear.

"I pray you, tarry; pause a day or two

Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,

I lose your company,"

she says.

But Bassanio cannot wait:--

"Let me choose;

For, as I am, I live upon the rack."

And so he stands before the caskets, longing to make a choice,

yet fearful. The gold he rejects, the silver too, and lays his

hand upon the leaden casket. He opens it. Oh, joy! within is a

portrait of his lady. He has chosen aright. yet he can scarce

believe his happiness.

"I am," he says,

"Like one of two contending in a prize,

That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes,

Hearing applause, and universal shout,

Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt

Whether those pearls of praise be his or no;

So, thrice fair lady, stand I, even so;

As doubtful whether what I see be true,

Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratifi'd by you."

And Portia, happy, triumphant, humble, no longer the great lady

with untold wealth, with lands and palaces and radiant beauty,

but merely a woman who has given her love, answers:--

"You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,

Such as I am: though, for myself alone,

I would not be ambitious in my wish,

To wish myself much better; yet, for you,

I would be trebled twenty times myself;

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times

More rich;

That only to stand high on your account,

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,

Exceed account: but the full sum of me

Is sum of something: which, to term in gross,

Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd,

Happy in this, she is not yet so old

But she may learn; happier than this,

She is not bred so dull but she can learn;

Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit

Commite itself to yours to be directed,

As from her lord, her governor, her king.

Myself, and what is mine, to you, and yours

Is now converted; but now I was the lord

Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,

Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now,

This house, these servants, and this same myself,

Are yours, my lord."

Then as a pledge of all her love Portia gives to Bassanio a ring,

and bids him never part from it so long as he shall live. And

Bassanio taking it, gladly swears to keep it forever.

"But when this ring

Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence;

O, then be bold to say, Bassanio's dead."

And then as if to make the joy complete, it is discovered that

Portia's lady in waiting, Nerissa, and Bassanio's friend,

Gratiano, also love each other, and they all agree to be married

on the same day.

In the midst of this happiness the runaway couple, Lorenzo and

Jessica, arrive from Venice with another of Antonio's friends who

brings a letter to Bassanio. As Bassanio reads the letter all

the gladness fades from his face. He grows pale and trembles.

Anxiously Portia asks what troubles him.

"I am half yourself,

And I must freely have the half of anything

That this same paper brings you."

And Bassanio answers:--

"O sweet Portia,

Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words

That ever blotted paper! Gentle lady,

When I did first impart my love to you,

I freely told you, all the wealth I had

Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman;

And then I told you true: and yet, dear lady,

Rating myself at nothing, you shall see

How much I was a braggart: when I told you

My state was nothing, I should then have told you

That I was worse than nothing."

He is worse than nothing, for he is in debt to his friend, and

that friend for him is now in danger of his life. For the three

months allowed by Shylock for the payment of the debt are over,

and as not one of Antonio's ships has returned, he cannot pay the

money. Many friends have offered to pay for him, but Shylock

will have none of their gold. He does not want it. What he

wants is revenge. He wants Antonio's life, and well he knows if

a pound of flesh be cut from this poor merchant's breast he must

die.

And all for three thousand ducats! "Oh," cries Portia when she

hears, "what a paltry sum! Pay the Jew ten times the money and

tear up the bond, rather than that Antonio shall lose a single

hair through Bassanio's fault."

"It is no use," she is told, "Shylock will have his bond, and

nothing but his bond."

If that be so, then must Bassanio hasten to his friend to comfort

him at least. So the wedding is hurried on, and immediately

after it Bassanio and Gratiano hasten away, leaving their new

wives behind them.

But Portia has no mind to sit at home and do nothing while her

husband's friend is in danger of his life. As soon as Bassanio

has gone, she gives her house into the keeping of Lorenzo and

sets out for Venice. From her cousin, the great lawyer Bellario,

she borrows lawyer's robes for herself, and those of a lawyer's

clerk for Nerissa. And thus disguised, they reach Venice safely.

This part of the story has brought us to the fourth act of the

play, and when the curtain rises on this act we see the Court of

Justice in Venice. The Duke and all his courtiers are present,

the prisoner Antonio, with Bassanio, and many others of his

friends. Shylock is called in. The Duke tries to soften the

Jew's heart and make him turn to mercy, in vain. Bassanio also

tries in vain, and still Bellario, to whom the Duke has sent for

aid, comes not.

At this moment Nerissa, dressed as a lawyer's clerk, enters,

bearing a letter. The letter is from Bellario recommending a

young lawyer named Balthazar to plead Antonio's cause. This is,

of course, none other than Portia. She is admitted, and at once

begins the case. "You stand within his danger, do you not?" she

says to Antonio.

"ANTONIO. I do.

PORTIA. Then must the Jew be merciful.

SHYLOCK. On what compulsion must I? Tell me that.

PORTIA. The quality of mercy is not strained;

It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed;

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes

The thronéd monarch better than his crown;

His scepter shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptr'd sway,

It is enthronéd in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this--

That in the course of justice, none of us

Shall see salvation: we do pray for mercy;

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much,

To mitigate the justice of thy plea;

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

SHYLOCK. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,

The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

PORTIA. Is he not able to discharge the money?

BASSANIO. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;

Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,

I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,

On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:

If this will not suffice, it must appear

That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you

Wrest once the law to your authority:

To do a great right, do a little wrong;

And curb this cruel devil of his will.

PORTIA. It must not be; there is no power in Venice

Can alter a decree established:

'Twill be recorded for a precedent;

And many an error, by the same example,

Will rush into the state; it cannot be.

SHYLOCK. A Daniel come to judgement! yea, a Daniel!

O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!

PORTIA. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.

SHYLOCK. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.

PORTIA. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee.

SHYLOCK. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:

Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?

No, not for Venice.

PORTIA. Why, this bond is forfeit:

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim

A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off

Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful;

Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

SHYLOCK. When it is paid according to the tenour.

It doth appear you are a worthy judge;

You know the law, your exposition

Hath been most sound; I charge you by the law,

Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,

Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear,

There is no power in the tongue of man

To alter me: I stay here on my bond.

ANTONIO. Most heartily I do beseech the court

To give the judgement.

PORTIA. Why then, thus it is.

You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

SHYLOCK. O noble judge! O excellent young man!

PORTIA. For the intent and purpose of the law

Hath full relation to the penalty,

Which here appeareth due upon the bond.

SHYLOCK. 'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge!

How much more elder art thou than thy looks!

PORTIA. Therefore, lay bare your bosom.

SHYLOCK. Ay, his breast:

So says the bond;--Doth it not, noble judge?

Nearest his heart, those are the very words.

PORTIA. It is so. Are there balance here, to weigh

The flesh?

SHYLOCK. I have them ready.

PORTIA. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,

To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.

SHYLOCK. Is it so nominated in the bond?

PORTIA. It is not so express'd. But what of that?

'Twere good you do so much for charity.

SHYLOCK. I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.

PORTIA. Come, merchant, have you anything to say?"

Antonio answers, "But little." He is prepared for death, and

takes leave of Bassanio. But Shylock is impatient. "We trifle

time," he cries; "I pray thee, pursue sentence."

"PORTIA. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine;

The court awards it, and the law doth give it.

SHYLOCK. Most rightful judge!

PORTIA. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast;

The law allows it; and the court awards it.

SHYLOCK. Most learned judge!--A sentence; come, prepare.

PORTIA. Tarry a little;--there is something else.

This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;

The words expressly are, a pound of flesh:

But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed

One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods

Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate

Unto the state of Venice.

GRATIANO. O upright judge!--Mark, Jew;--O learned judge!

SHYLOCK. Is that the law?

PORTIA. Thyself shall see the act;

For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd,

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.

GRATIANO. O learned judge,--Mark, Jew;--a learned judge!

SHYLOCK. I take this offer then,--pay the bond thrice,

And let the Christian go.

BASSANIO. Here is the money.

PORTIA. Soft;

The Jew shall have all justice;--soft;--no haste;--

He shall have nothing but the penalty.

GRATIANO. O Jew! An upright judge, a learned judge!

PORTIA. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh.

Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less, nor more,

But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak'st more,

Or less, than a just pound,--be it but so much

As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance,

Or the division of the twentieth part

Of one poor scruple,--nay, if the scale do turn

But in the estimation of a hair,--

Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.

GRATIANO. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!

Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.

PORTIA. Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeiture.

SHYLOCK. Give me my principal, and let me go.

BASSANIO. I have it ready for thee; here it is.

PORTIA. He hath refus'd it in the open court;

He shall have merely justice, and his bond.

GRATIANO. A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel!

I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

SHYLOCK. Shall I not have barely my principal?

PORTIA. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,

To be so taken at thy peril, Jew."

So, seeing himself beaten on all points, the Jew would leave the

court. But not yet is he allowed to go. Not until he has been

fined for attempting to take the life of a Venetian citizen, not

until he is humiliated, and so heaped with disgrace and insult

that we are sorry for him, is he allowed to creep away.

The learned lawyer is loaded with thanks, and Bassanio wishes to

pay him nobly for his pains. But he will take nothing; nothing,

that is, but the ring which glitters on Bassanio's finger. That

Bassanio cannot give--it is his wife's present and he has

promised never to part with it. At that the lawyer pretends

anger. "I see, sir," he says:--

"You are liberal in offers:

You taught me first to beg; and now, methinks,

You teach me how a beggar should be answered."

Hardly have they parted than Bassanio repents his seemingly

churlish action. Has not this young man saved his friend from

death, and himself from disgrace? Portia will surely understand

that his request could not be refused, and so he sends Gratiano

after him with the ring. Gratiano gives the ring to the lawyer,

and the seeming clerk begs Gratiano for his ring, which he,

following his friend's example, gives.

In the last act of the play all the friends are gathered again at

Belmont. After some merry teasing upon the subject of the rings

the truth is told, and Bassanio and Gratiano learn that the

skillful lawyer and his clerk were none other than their young

and clever wives.

BOOKS TO READ

Among the best books of Shakespeare's stories are: Stories from

Shakespeare, by Jeanie Lang. The Shakespeare Story-Book, by Mary

M'Leod. Tales from Shakespeare (Everyman's Library), by C. and

M. Lamb.

LIST OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS

Histories. - Henry VI (three parts); Richard III; Richard II;

King John; Henry IV (two parts); Henry V; Henry VIII (doubtful if

Shakespeare's).

Tragedies. - Titus Andronicus; Romeo and Juliet; Julius Caesar;

Hamlet; King Lear; Macbeth; Timon of Athens; Antony and

Cleopatra; Coriolanus.

Comedies. - Love's Labour's Lost; Two Gentlemen of Verona; Comedy

of Errors; Merchant of Venice; Taming of the Shrew; A Midsummer

Night's Dream; All's Well that Ends Well; Merry Wives of Windsor;

Much Ado About Nothing; As You Like It; Twelfth Night; Troilus

and Cressida; Measure for Measure; Pericles; Cymbeline; The

Tempest; A Winter's Tale.

Chapter XLVIII JONSON--"EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR"

OF all the dramatists who were Shakespeare's friends, of those

who wrote before him, with him, and just after him, we have

little room to tell. But there is one who stands almost as far

above them all as Shakespeare stands above him. This is Ben

Jonson, and of him we must speak.

Ben Jonson's life began in poverty, his father dying before he

was born, and leaving his widow poorly provided for. When Ben

was about two years old his mother married again, and this second

husband was a bricklayer. Ben, however, tells us that his own

father was a gentleman, belonging to a good old Scottish Border

family, and that he had lost all his estates in the reign of

Queen Mary. But about the truth of this we do not know, for Ben

was a bragger and a swaggerer. He may not have belonged to this

Scottish family, and he may have had no estates to lose. Ben

first went to a little school at St. Martin's-in-the-fields in

London. There, somehow, the second master of Westminster School

came to know of him, became his friend, and took him to

Westminster, where he paid for his schooling. But when Ben left

school he had to earn a living in some way, so he became a

bricklayer like his step-father, when "having a trowell in his

hand he had a book in his pocket."*

*Fuller.

He did not long remain a bricklayer, however, for he could not

endure the life, and next we find him a soldier in the

Netherlands. We know very little of what he did as a soldier,

and soon he was home again in England. Here he married. His

wife was a good woman, but with a sharp tongue, and the marriage

does not seem to have been very happy. And although they had

several children, all of them died young.

And now, like Shakespeare, Jonson became an actor. Like

Shakespeare too, he wrote plays. His first play is that by which

he is best known, called Every Man in His Humour. By a man's

humor, Jonson means his chief characteristic, one man, for

instance, showing himself jealous, another boastful, and so on.

It will be a long time before you will care to read Every Man in

His Humour, for there is a great deal in it that you would

neither understand nor like. It is a play of the manners and

customs of Elizabethan times which are so unlike ours that we

have little sympathy with them. And that is the difference

between Ben Jonson and Shakespeare. Shakespeare, although he

wrote of his own time, wrote for all time; Jonson wrote of his

own time for his own time. Yet, in Every Man in His Humour there

is at least one character worthy to live beside Shakespeare's,

and that is the blustering, boastful Captain Bobadill. He talks

very grandly, but when it comes to fighting, he thinks it best to

run away and live to fight another day. If only to know Captain

Bobadill it will repay you to read Every Man in His Humour when

you grow up.

Here is a scene in which he shows his "humor" delightfully:--

"BOBADILL. I am a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to

myself. But were I known to Her Majesty and the Lords-- observe

me--I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the

public benefit of the State, not only to spare the entire lives of

her subjects in general, but to save the one half, nay, three

parts, of her yearly charge in holding war, and against what enemy

soever. And how would I do it, think you?

EDWARD KNOWELL. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive.

BOBADILL. Why thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, to

myself, throughout the land. Gentlemen, they should be of good

spirit, strong and able constitution. I would choose them by an

instinct, a character that I have. And I would teach these

nineteen the special rules, as your punto,* your reverso, your

stoccata, your imbroccata, your passada, your montanto; till they

could all play very near, or altogether, as well as myself. This

done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong, we twenty would

come into the field the tenth of March, or thereabouts, and we

would challenge twenty of the enemy. They could not in their

honour refuse us. Well, we would kill them. Challenge twenty more,

kill them; twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill them too. And

thus would we kill every man his twenty a day. That's twenty

score. Twenty score, that's two hundred. Two hundred a day, five

days a thousand. Forty thousand; forty times five, five times

forty; two hundred days kills them all up by computation. And this

will I venture by poor gentleman-like carcase to perform, provided

there be no treason practised upon us, by fair and discreet

manhood; that is, civilly by the sword.

EDWARD KNOWELL. Why! are you so sure of your hand, Captain, at

all times?

BOBADILL. Tut! never miss thrust, upon my reputation with you.

EDWARD KNOWELL. I would not stand in Downright's state then, an

you meet him, for the wealth of any one street in London."

*This and the following are names of various passes and

thrusts used in fencing. Punto is a direct hit, reverso a

backward blow, and so on.

(Knowell says this because Bobadill and Downright have had a

quarrel, and Downright wishes to fight the Captain.)

"BOBADILL. Why, sir, you mistake me. If he were here now, by

this welkin, I would not draw my weapon on him. Let this gentleman

do his mind; but I will bastinado him, by the bright sun, wherever

I meet him.

MATTHEW. Faith, and I'll have a fling at him, at my distance.

EDWARD KNOWELL. Ods so, look where he is! yonder he goes.

[DOWNRIGHT crosses the stage.

DOWNRIGHT. What peevish luck have I, I cannot meet with these

bragging rascals?

BOBADILL. It is not he, is it?

EDWARD KNOWELL. Yes, faith, it is he.

MATTHEW. I'll be hanged then if that were he.

EDWARD KNOWELL. Sir, keep your hanging good for some greater

matter, for I assure you that was he.

STEPHEN. Upon my reputation, it was he.

BOBADILL. Had I thought it had been he, he must not have gone

so. But I can hardly be induced to believe it was he yet.

EDWARD KNOWELL. That I think, sir-- [Re-enter DOWNRIGHT.

But see, he is come again.

DOWNRIGHT. O, Pharaoh's foot, have I found you? Come, draw, to

your tools. Draw, gipsy, or I'll thrash you.

BOBADILL. Gentlemen of valour, I do believe in thee. Hear me--

DOWNRIGHT. Draw your weapon then.

BOBADILL. Tall man, I never thought on it till now-- Body of

me, I had a warrant of the peace served on me, even now as I

came along, by a water-bearer. This gentleman saw it, Master

Matthew.

DOWNRIGHT. 'Sdeath! you will not draw!

[DOWNRIGHT disarms BOBADILL and beats him.

MATTHEW runs away.

BOBADILL. Hold! hold! under thy favour forbear.

DOWNRIGHT. Prate again, as you like this, you foist* you. Your

consort is gone. Had he staid he had shared with you, sir.

[Exit DOWNRIGHT.

BOBADILL. Well, gentlemen, bear witness, I was bound to the

peace, by this good day.

EDWARD KNOWELL. No, fait, it's an ill day, Captain, never reckon

it other. But, say you were bound to the peace, the law allows you

to defend yourself. That will prove but a poor excuse.

BOBADILL. I cannot tell, sir. I desire good construction in fair

sort. I never sustained the like disgrace, by heaven! Sure I was

struck with a planet thence, for I had no power to touch my

weapon.

EDWARD KNOWELL. Ay, like enough, I have heard of many that have

been beaten under a planet. Go, get you to a surgeon! 'Slid! and

these be your tricks, your passadoes, and your montantos, I'll

none of them."

*Fraud.

When Every Man in His Humour was acted, Shakespeare took a part

in it. He and Jonson must have met each other often, must have

known each other well. At the Mermaid Tavern all the wits used

to gather. For there was a kind of club founded by Sir Walter

Raleigh, and here the clever men of the day met to smoke and

talk, and drink not a little. And among all the clever men

Jonson soon came to be acknowledged as the king and leader. We

have a pleasant picture of these friendly meetings by a man who

lived then. "Many were the wit-combats," he says, "betwixt

Shakespeare and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish

great gallion and an English Man of War: Master Jonson (like the

former) was built far higher in learning; solid, but slow in his

performances. Shakespeare, with the English Man of War, lesser

in bulk but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack

about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his

wit and invention."*

*Thomas Fuller, Worthies.

Another writer says in a letter to Ben,

"What things have we seen,

Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been

So nimble, and so full of subtile flame

As if that every one from whence they came

Had meant to pit his whole wit in a jest."*

*F. Beaumont, Letter to Ben Jonson.

And so we get a picture of Ben lording it in taverns. A great

good fellow, a stout fellow, he rolls his huge bulk about laying

down the law.

So the years went on. Big Ben wrote and fought, quarreled and

made friends, drank and talked, living always on the verge of

poverty. At length, in 1603, the great Queen Elizabeth died, and

James of Scotland came to the English throne. All the way as he

journeyed he was greeted with rejoicing. There were everywhere

plays and feasts given in his honor, and soon after he arrived in

London a Masque written by Jonson was played before him. The new

king was fond of such entertainments. He smiled upon Master Ben

Jonson, and life became for him easier and brighter.

But shortly after this, Jonson, with two others, wrote a play in

which some things were said against the Scots. With a Scottish

king surrounded by Scottish lords, that was dangerous. All three

soon found themselves in prison and came near losing their noses

and ears. This was not the first time that Ben had been in

prison, for soon after Every Man in His Humour was acted, he

quarreled for some unknown reason with another actor. In the

foolish fashion of the day they fought a duel over it, and Ben

killed the other man. For this he was seized and put in prison,

and just escaped being hanged. He was left off only with the

loss of all his goods and a brand on the left thumb.

Now once more Jonson escaped. When he was set free, his friends

gave a great feast to show their joy. But Ben had not learned

his lesson, and at least once again he found himself in prison

because of something he had written.

But in spite of these things the King continued to smile upon Ben

Jonson. He gave him a pension and made him poet laureate, and it

was now that he began to write the Masques for which he became

famous. These Masques were dainty poetic little plays written

for the court and often acted by the Queen and her ladies. There

was much singing and dancing in them, and the dresses of the

actors were gorgeous beyond description. And besides this, while

the ordinary stage was still without any scenery, Inigo Jones,

the greatest architect in the land, joined Ben Jonson in making

his plays splendid by inventing scenery for them. This scenery

was beautiful and elaborate, and was sometimes changed two or

three times during the play. One of these plays called The

Masque of Blackness was acted by the Queen and her ladies in

1605, and when we read the description of the scenery it makes us

wonder and smile too at the remembrance of Wall and the Man in

the Moon of which Shakespeare made such fun a few years earlier,

and of which you will read in A Midsummer Night's Dream.

Besides his Masques, Jonson wrote two tragedies, and a number of

comedies, as well as other poems. But for a great part of his

life, the part that must have been the easiest and brightest, he

wrote Masques for the King and court and not for the ordinary

stage. He knew his own power in this kind of writing well, and

he was not modest. "Next himself," he said, "only Fletcher and

Chapman could make a mask."* He found, too, good friends among

the nobles. With one he lived for five years, another gave him

money to buy books, and his library became his great joy and

pride.

*Conversation of Ben Jonson with Drummond of Hawthornden.

Ben Jonson traveled too. For a time he traveled in France with

Sir Walter Raleigh's son, while Sir Walter himself was shut up in

the Tower. But Jonson's most famous journey is his walk to

Scotland. He liked to believe that he belonged to a famous

Border family, and wished to visit the land of his forefathers.

So in the mid-summer of 1618 he set out. We do not know how long

he took to make his lengthy walk, but in September he was

comfortably settled in Leith, being "worthily entertained" by all

the greatest and most learned men of the day. He had money

enough for all his wants, for he was able to give a gold piece

and two and twenty shillings to another poet less well off than

himself. He was given the freedom of the city of Edinburgh and

more than 200 pounds was spent on a great feast in his honor.

About Christmas he went to pay a visit to a well-known Scottish

poet, William Drummond, who lived in a beautiful house called

Hawthornden, a few miles from Edinburgh. There he stayed two or

three weeks, during which time he and his host had many a long

talk together, discussing men and books. Drummond wrote down all

that he could remember of these talks, and it is from them that

we learn a good deal of what we know about our poet, a good deal,

perhaps, not to his credit. We learn from them that he was vain

and boastful, a loud talker and a deep drinker. Yet there is

something about this big blustering Ben that we cannot help but

like.

In January sometime, Jonson set his face homeward, and reached

London in April or May, having taken nearly a year to pay his

visit. He must have been pleased with his journey, for on his

return he wrote a poem about Scotland. Nothing of it has come

down to us, however, except one line in which he calls Edinburgh

"The heart of Scotland, Britain's other eye."

The years passed for Jonson, if not in wealth, at least in such

comfort as his way of life allowed. For we cannot ever think of

him as happy in his own home by his own fireside. He is rather a

king in Clubland spending his all freely and taking no thought

for the morrow. But in 1625 King James died, and although the

new King Charles still continued the poet's pension, his tastes

were different from those of his father, and Jonson found himself

and his Masques neglected. His health began to fail too, and his

library, which he dearly loved, was burned, together with many of

his unpublished manuscripts, and so he fell on evil days.

Forgotten at court, Jonson began once more to write for the

stage. But now that he had to write for bread, it almost seemed

as if his pen had lost its charm. The plays he wrote added

nothing to his fame. They were badly received. And so at last,

in trouble for to-morrow's bread, without wife or child to

comfort him, he died on 8th August, 1637.

He was buried in Westminster, and it was intended to raise a fine

tomb over his grave. But times were growing troublous, and the

monument was still lacking, when a lover of the poet, Sir John

Young of Great Milton, in Oxfordshire, came to do honor to his

tomb. Finding it unmarked, he paid a workman 1s. 6d. to carve

above the poet's resting-place the words, "O rare Ben Jonson."

And perhaps these simple words have done more to keep alive the

memory of the poet than any splendid monument could have done.

Chapter XLIX JONSON--"THE SAD SHEPHERD"

ALTHOUGH Ben Jonson's days ended sadly, although his later plays

showed failing powers, he left behind him unfinished a Masque

called The Sad Shepherd which is perhaps more beautiful and more

full of music than anything he ever wrote. For Ben's charm did

not lie in the music of his words but in the strength of his

drawing of character. As another poet has said of him, "Ben as a

rule--a rule which is proved by the exception--was one of the

singers who could not sing; though, like Dryden, he could intone

most admirably."*

*Swinburne.

The Sad Shepherd is a tale of Robin Hood. Here once more we find

an old story being used again, for we have already heard of Robin

Hood in the ballads. Robin Hood makes a great fest to all the

shepherds and shepherdesses round about. All are glad to come,

save one Aeglamon, the Sad Shepherd, whose love, Earine, has, he

believes, been drowned. But later in the play we learn that

Earine is not dead, but that a wicked witch, Mother Maudlin, has

enchanted her, and shut her up in a tree. She had done this in

order to force Earine to give up Aeglamon, her true lover, and

marry her own wretched son Lorel.

When the play begins, Aeglamon passes over the stage mourning for

his lost love.

"Here she was wont to go! and here! and here!

Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow,

The world may find the spring by following her,

For other print her airy steps ne'er left.

Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,

Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk!

But like the soft west wind she shot along,

And where she went the flowers took thickest root--

As she had sowed them with her odorous foot."

Robin Hood has left Maid Marian, Friar Tuck, Little John, and all

his merry men to hunt the deer and make ready the feast. And

Tuck says:

"And I, the chaplain, here am left to be

Steward to-day, and charge you all in fee,

To don your liveries, see the bower dressed,

And fit the fine devices for the feast."

So some make ready the bower, the tables and the seats, while

Maid Marian, Little John and others set out to hunt. Presently

they return successful, having killed a fine stag. Robin, too,

comes home, and after loving greetings, listens to the tale of

the hunt. Then Marian tells how, when the huntsmen cut up the

stag, they threw the bone called the raven's bone to one that sat

and croaked for it.

"Now o'er head sat a raven,

On a sere bough, a grown great bird, and hoarse!

Who, all the while the deer was breaking up

So croaked and cried for it, as all the huntsmen,

Especially old Scathlock, thought it ominous;

Swore it was Mother Maudlin, whom he met

At the day-dawn, just as he roused the deer

Out of his lair."

Mother Maudlin was a retched old witch, and Scathlock says he is

yet more sure that the raven was she, because in her own form he

has just seen her broiling the raven's bone by the fire, sitting

"In the chimley-nuik within." While the talk went on Maid Marian

had gone away. Now she returns and begins to quarrel with Robin

Hood. Venison is much too good for such folk as he and his men,

she says; "A starved mutton carcase would better fit their

palates," and she orders Scathlock to take the venison to Mother

Maudlin. Those around can scarce believe their ears, for

"Robin and his Marian are the sum and talk

Of all that breathe here in the green-wood walk."

Such is their love for each other. They are "The turtles of the

wood," "The billing pair." No one is more astonished than Robin

Hood, as he cries:

"I dare not trust the faith of mine own senses,

I fear mine eyes and ears: this is not Marian!

Nor am I Robin Hood! I pray you ask her,

Ask her, good shepherds, ask her all for me:

Or rather ask yourselves, if she be she,

Or I be I."

But Maid Marian only scolds the more, and at last goes away

leaving the others in sad bewilderment. Of course this was not

Maid Marian at all, but Mother Maudlin, the old witch, who had

taken her form in order to make mischief.

Meanwhile the real Maid Marian discovers that the venison has

been sent away to Mother Maudlin's. With tears in her eyes she

declares that she gave no such orders, and Scathlock is sent to

bring it back.

When Mother Maudlin comes to thank Maid Marian for her present,

she is told that no such present was ever intended, and so she in

anger curses the cook, casting spells upon him:

"The spit stand still, no broches turn

Before the fire, but let it burn.

Both sides and haunches, till the whole

Converted be into one coal.

The pain we call St. Anton's fire,

The gout, or what we can desire,

To cramp a cook in every limb,

Before they dine yet, seize on him."

Soon Friar Tuck comes in. "Hear you how," he says,

"Poor Tom the cook is taken! all his joints

Do crack, as if his limbs were tied with points.

His whole frame slackens; and a kind of rack,

Runs down along the spindils of his back;

A gout, or cramp, now seizeth on his head,

Then falls into his feet; his knees are lead;

And he can stir his either hand no more

Than a dead stump, to his office, as before."

He is bewitched, that is certain. And certain too it is that

Mother Maudlin has done it. So Robin and his men set out to hunt

for her, while Friar Tuck and Much the Miller's son stay to look

after the dinner in the poor cook's stead. Robin soon meets

Mother Maudlin who has again taken the form of Maid Marian. But

this time Robin suspects her. He seizes the witch by her

enchanted belt. It breaks, and she comes back to her own shape,

and Robin goes off, leaving her cursing.

Mother Maudlin then calls for Puck-hairy, her goblin. He

appears, crying:

"At your beck, madam."

"O Puck my goblin! I have lost my belt,

The strong thief, Robin Outlaw, forced it from me,"

wails Mother Maudlin. But Puck-hairy pays little attention to

her complaints.

"They are other clouds and blacker threat you, dame;

You must be wary, and pull in your sails,

And yield unto the weather of the tempest.

You think your power's infinite as your malice,

And would do all your anger prompts you to;

But you must wait occasions, and obey them:

Sail in an egg-shell, make a straw your mast,

A cobweb all your cloth, and pass unseen,

Till you have 'scaped the rocks that are about you.

MAUDLIN. What rocks about me?

PUCK. I do love, madam,

To show you all your dangers--when you're past them!

Come, follow me, I'll once more be your pilot,

And you shall thank me.

MAUDLIN. Lucky, my loved Goblin!"

And here the play breaks off suddenly, for Jonson died and left

it so. It was finished by another writer* later on, but with

none of Jonson's skill, and reading the continuation we feel that

all the interest is gone. However, you will be glad to know that

everything comes right. The good people get happily married and

all the bad people become good, even the wicked old witch, Mother

Maudlin.

*F. G. Waldron.

Chapter L RALEIGH--"THE REVENGE"

SOME of you may have seen a picture of a brown-faced sailor

sitting by the seashore, telling stories of travel and adventure

to two boy. The one boy lies upon the sand with his chin in his

hands listening but carelessly, the other with his hands clasped

about his knees listens eagerly. His face is rapt, his eyes the

eyes of a poet and a dreamer. This picture is called The Boyhood

of Raleigh, and was painted by one of our great painters, Sir

John Millais. In it he pictures a scene that we should like to

believe was common in Sir Walter Raleigh's boyhood, but we cannot

tell if it were really so or not. Beyond the fact that he was

born in a white-walled thatched-roofed farmhouse, near Budleigh

Salterton in Devonshire, about the year 1552, we know nothing of

Raleigh's childhood. But from the rising ground near Hayes

Barton, the house in which he was born, we catch sight of the

sea. It seems not too much to believe that many a time Walter

and his brother Carew, wandered through the woods and over the

common the two and a half miles to the bay. So that from his

earliest days Walter Raleigh breathed in a love and knowledge of

the sea. We like to think these things, but we can only make

believe to ourselves as Millais did when he went to Budleigh

Salterton and painted that picture.

When still quite a boy, Walter Raleigh went to Oriel College,

Oxford, but we know nothing of what he did there, and the next we

hear of him is that he is fighting for the Huguenots in France.

How long he remained in France, and what he did there beyond this

fighting, we do not know. But this we know, that when he went to

France he was a mere boy, with no knowledge of fighting, no

knowledge of the world. When he left he was a man and a tried

soldier, a captain and leader of men.

When next we hear of Raleigh he is in Ireland fighting the

rebels. There he did some brave deeds, some cruel deeds, there

he lived to the full the life of a soldier as it was in those

rough times, making all Ireland ring with his name. But although

Raleigh had won for himself a name among soldiers, he was as yet

unknown to the Queen; his fortune was still unmade.

You have all heard the story of how Raleigh first met the Queen.

The first notice we have of this story is in a book from which I

have already quoted more than once--The Worthies of England.

"This Captain Raleigh," says Fuller, "coming out of Ireland to

the English Court in good habit (his clothes being then a

considerable part of his estate), found the Queen walking, till,

meeting with a splashy place, she seemed to scruple going

thereon. Presently Raleigh cast and spread his new plush cloak

on the ground, whereon the Queen trod gently, rewarding him

afterwards with many suits for his so free and seasonable tender

of so fair a foot cloth."

Thomas Fuller, who wrote the book in which this story is found,

was only a boy of ten when Raleigh died, so he could not have

known the great man himself, but he must have heard many stories

about him from those who had, and we need not disbelieve this

one. It is one of those things which might very well have

happened even if it did not.

And whether Raleigh first came into Queen Elizabeth's notice in

this manner or not, after he did become known to her, he soon

rose in her favor. He rose so quickly that he almost feared the

giddy height to which he rose. According to another story of

Fuller's, "This made him write in a glasse window, obvious to the

Queen's eye,

'Fain would I climb, yet fear I to fall.'

"Her Majesty, either espying or being shown it, did underwrite:

'If thy heart fails thee, climb not at all.'

"However he at last climbed up by the stairs of his own desert."

Honors and favors were heaped upon Raleigh, and from being a poor

soldier and country gentleman he became rich and powerful, the

lord of lands in five counties, and Captain of the Queen's Own

Body-Guard. Haughty of manner, splendid in dress, loving jewels

more than even a woman does, Raleigh became as fine a courtier as

he was a brave soldier. But soldier though Raleigh was, courtier

though he was, loving ease and wealth and fine clothes, he was at

heart a sailor and adventurer, and the sea he had loved as a boy

called to him.

Like many another of his age Raleigh, hearing the call of the

waves ever in his ears, felt the desire to explore tug at his

heart-strings. For in those days America had been discovered,

and the quest for the famous North-West passage had begun. And

Raleigh longed to set forth with other men to conquer new worlds,

to find new paths across the waves. But above all he longed to

fight the Spaniards, who were the great sea kings of those days.

Raleigh however could not be a courtier and a sailor at one and

the same time. He was meanwhile high in the Queen's favor, and

she would not let him go from her. So all that Raleigh could do,

was to venture his money, and fit out a ship to which he gave his

own name. This he sent to sail along with others under the

command of his step-brother Sir Humphrey Gilbert, who was setting

out upon a voyage of discovery. It was on this voyage that Sir

Humphrey found and claimed Newfoundland as an English possession,

setting up there "the Arms of England ingraven in lead and

infixed upon a pillar of wood."* But the expedition was

unfortunate, most of the men and ships were lost, Sir Humphrey

himself being drowned on his way home. He was brave and fearless

to the last. "We are as near to Heaven by sea as by land," he

said, a short time before his ship went down. One vessel only

"in great torment of weather and peril of drowning"* reached home

safely, "all the men tired with the tediousness of so

unprofitable a voyage to their seeming." Yet though they knew it

not they had helped to lay the foundation of Greater Britain.

*Hakluyt's Voyages.

Nothing daunted by this loss, six months later Raleigh sent out

another expedition. This time it was to the land south of

Newfoundland that the ships took their way. There they set up

the arms of England, and named the new possession Virginia in

honor of the virgin Queen. This expedition was little more

successful than Sir Humphrey Gilbert's, but nothing seemed to

discourage Raleigh. He was bent on founding a colony, and again

and yet again he sent out ships and men, spending all the wealth

which the Queen heaped upon him in trying to extend her dominions

beyond the seas. Hope was strong within him. "I shall yet live

to see it an English nation," he said.

And while Raleigh's captains tried to found a new England in the

New World, Raleigh himself worked at home to bring order into the

vast estates the Queen had given to him in Ireland. This land

had belonged to the rebel Earl of Desmond. At one time no doubt

it had been fertile, but rebellion and war had laid it waste.

"The land was so barren both of man and beast that whosoever did

travel from one end of all Munster . . . . he should not meet

man, woman, or child, saving in cities or towns, nor yet see any

beast, save foxes, wolves, or the ravening beasts." And barren

and desolate as it was when Raleigh received it, it soon became

known as the best tilled land in all the country-side. For he

brought workers and tenants from his old Devon home to take the

place of the beggared or slain Irish. He introduced new and

better ways of tilling, and also he brought to Ireland a strange

new root. For it is interesting to remember that it was in

Raleigh's Irish estates that potatoes were first grown in our

Islands.

Raleigh took a great interest in these estates, so perhaps it was

not altogether a hardship to him, finding himself out of favor

with his Queen, to go to Ireland for a time. And although they

had known each other before, it was then that his friendship with

Spenser began. Spenser read his Faery Queen to Raleigh, and

perhaps Raleigh read to Spenser his poem Cynthia written in honor

of Queen Elizabeth. But of that poem nearly all has been lost.

Elizabeth was not as yet very angry with Raleigh, still he felt

the loss of her favor, for Spenser tells us:--

"His song was all a lamentable lay,

Of great unkindness and of usage hard,

Of Cynthia, the Lady of the Sea,

Which from her presence faultless him debarred.

And ever and anon with singults* rife,

He criéd out, to make his undersong,

'Ah! my love's Queen, and goddess of my life,

Who shall me pity when thou doest me wrong?'"**

*Sobs.

**"Colin Clout's come home again."

But Raleigh soon decided to return to court, and persuaded

Spenser

"To wend with him his Cynthia to see,

Whose grace was great and bounty most rewardful"*

*Colin Clout.

You know how Spenser was received and how he fared. But Raleigh

himself after he had introduced his friend did not stay long at

court. Quarrels with his rivals soon drove him forth again.

It was soon after this that he published the first writing which

gives him a claim to the name of author. This was an account of

the fight between a little ship called the Revenge and a Spanish

fleet.

Although with the destruction of the Invincible Armada the sea

power of Spain had been crippled, it had not been utterly broken,

and still whenever Spanish and English ships met on the seas,

there was sure to be battle. It being known that a fleet of

Spanish treasure-ships would pass the Azores, islands in the mid-

Atlantic, a fleet of English ships under Lord Thomas Howard was

sent to attack them. But the English ships had to wait so long

at the Azores for the coming of the Spanish fleet that the news

of the intended attack reached Spain, and the Spaniards sent a

strong fleet to help and protect their treasure-ships. The

English in turn hearing of this sent a swift little boat to warn

Lord Thomas. The warning arrived almost too late. Many of the

Englishmen were sick and ashore, and before all could be gathered

the fleet of fifty-three great Spanish ships was upon them.

Still Lord Thomas managed to slip away. Only the last ship, the

Revenge, commanded by the Rear-Admiral Sir Richard Grenville,

lost the wind and was caught between two great squadrons of the

Spanish. Whereupon Sir Richard "was persuaded," Sir Walter says,

"by the Master and others to cut his main-sail, and cast about,

and to trust to the sailing of the ship. . . . But Sir Richard

utterly refused to turn from the enemy, alleging that he would

rather choose to die, than to dishonour himself, his country, and

her Majesty's ship, persuading his company that he would pass

through the two squadrons, in despite of them."

For a little time it seemed as if Sir Richard's daring might

succeed. But a great ship, the San Philip, came between him and

the wind "and coming towards him, becalmed his sails in such

sort, as the ship could neither make way, nor feel the helm: so

huge and high-carged* was the Spanish ship. . . . The fight thus

beginning at three of the clock of the afternoon continued very

terrible all that evening. But the great San Philip having

received the lower tier of the Revenge, discharged with cross-bar

shot, shifted herself with all diligence from her sides, utterly

misliking her first entertainment. . . . The Spanish ships were

filled with companies of soldiers, in some two hundred, besides

the mariners; in some five, in other eight hundred. In ours

there were none at all beside the mariners, but the servants of

the commanders and some few voluntary gentlemen only." And yet

the Spaniards "were still repulsed, again and again, and at all

times beaten back into their own ships, or into the seas."

*The meaning of the word is uncertain. It may be high-charged.

In the beginning of the fight one little store ship of the

English fleet hovered near. It was small and of no use in

fighting. Now it came close to the Revenge and the Captain asked

Sir Richard what he should do, and "Sir Richard bid him save

himself, and leave him to his fortune." So the gallant Revenge

was left to fight alone. For fifteen hours the battle lasted,

Sir Richard himself was sorely wounded, and when far into the

night the fighting ceased, two of the Spanish vessels were sunk

"and in many other of the Spanish ships great slaughter was

made." "But the Spanish ships which attempted to board the

Revenge, as they were wounded and beaten off, so always others

came in their places, she having never less than two might

galleons by her sides and aboard her. So that ere the morning,

from three of the clock the day before, there had fifteen several

Armadas* assailed her. And all so ill approved their

entertainment, as they were, by the break of day, far more

willing to hearken to a composition** than hastily to make any

more assaults or entries.

*Armada here means merely a Spanish ship of war.

**An arrangement to cease fighting on both sides.

"But as the day increased so our men decreased. And as the light

grew more and more, by so much more grew our discomforts. For

none appeared in sight but enemies, saving one small ship called

the Pilgrim, commanded by Jacob Whiddon, who hovered all night to

see the success. But in the morning bearing with the Revenge,

she was hunted like a hare amongst many ravenous hounds, but

escaped.

"All the powder of the Revenge to the last barrel was now spent,

all her pikes broken, forty of her best men slain, and the most

part of the rest hurt. In the beginning of the fight she had but

one hundred free from sickness and four score and ten sick, laid

in hold upon the ballast. A small troop to man such a ship, and

a weak garrison to resist so mighty an army. By those hundred

all was sustained, the volleys, boarding and enterings of fifteen

ships of war, besides those which beat her at large.

"On the contrary, the Spanish were always supplied with soldiers

brought from every squadron; all manner of arms and power at

will. Unto ours there remained no comfort at all, no hope, no

supply either of ships, men, or weapons; the masts all beaten

overboard, all her tackle cut asunder, her upper work altogether

razed, and in effect evened she was with the water, but the very

foundation of a ship, nothing being left overhead for flight or

defence.

"Sir Richard finding himself in this distress and unable any

longer to make resistance, having endured in this fifteen hours'

fight the assault of fifteen several Armadas, all by turns aboard

him, and by estimation eight hundred shot of great artillery

besides many assaults and entries; and (seeing) that himself and

the ship must needs be possessed of the enemy who were now all

cast in a ring round about him, the Revenge not able to move one

way or another, but as she was moved by the waves and billow of

the sea, commanded the Master Gunner, whom he knew to be a most

resolute man, to split and sink the ship, that thereby nothing

might remain of glory or victory to the Spaniards: seeing in so

many hours' fight, and with so great a navy, they were not able

to take her, having had fifteen hours' time, above ten thousand

men, and fifty and three sail of men of war to perform it withal.

And (he) persuaded the company, or as many as he could induce, to

yield themselves unto God, and to the mercy of none else, but as

they had, like valiant resolute men, repulsed so many enemies,

they should not now shorten the honour of their nation, by

prolonging their own lives by a few hours, or a few days. The

Master Gunner readily condescended and divers others. But the

Captain and the Master were of another opinion, and besought Sir

Richard to have care of them, alleging that the Spaniard would be

as ready to entertain a composition as they were willing to offer

the same. And (they said) that there being divers sufficient and

valiant men yet living, and whose wounds were not mortal, they

might do their country and their Prince acceptable service

hereafter. And whereas Sir Richard alleged that the Spaniards

should never glory to have taken one ship of her Majesty, seeing

they had so long and so notably defended themselves; they

answered that the ship had six foot water in hold, three shot

under water, which were so weakly stopped as with the first

working of the sea, she must needs sink, and was besides so

crushed and bruised, as she could never be removed out of the

place.

"And as the matter was thus in dispute, and Sir Richard refusing

to hearken to any of those reasons, the Master of the Revenge

(while the Captain won unto him the greater party) was convoyed

aboard the General Don Alfonso Bacan. Who (finding none

overhasty to enter the Revenge again, doubting lest Sir Richard

would have blown them up and himself, and perceiving by the

report of the Master of the Revenge his dangerous disposition)

yielded that all their lives should be saved, the company sent

for England, and the better sort to pay such reasonable ransom as

their estate would bear, and in the mean season to be free from

galley or imprisonment. To this he so much the better

condescended as well, as I have said, for fear of further loss

and mischief to themselves, as also for the desire he had to

recover Sir Richard Grenville, whom for his notable valour he

seemed greatly to honour and admire.

"When this answer was returned, and that safety of life was

promised, the common sort being now at the end of their peril the

most drew back from Sir Richard and the Master Gunner, (it) being

no hard matter to dissuade men from death to life. The Master

Gunner finding himself and Sir Richard thus prevented and

mastered by the greater number, would have slain himself with a

sword, had he not been by force with-held and locked into his

cabin. Then the General sent many boats aboard the Revenge, and

divers of our men fearing Sir Richard's disposition, stole away

aboard the General and other ships. Sir Richard thus over-

matched was sent unto by Alfonso Bacan to remove out of the

Revenge, the ship being marvellous unsavoury, filled with blood

and bodies of dead, and wounded men, like a slaughterhouse.

"Sir Richard answered he might do with his body what he list, for

he esteemed it not. And as he was carried out of the ship he

swooned, and reviving again desired the company to pray for him.

"The General used Sir Richard with all humanity, and left nothing

unattempted that tended to his recovery, highly commending his

valour and worthiness, and greatly bewailing the danger in which

he was, being unto them a rare spectacle, and a resolution seldom

approved, to see one ship turn toward so many enemies, to endure

the charge and boarding of so many huge Armadas, and to resist

and repel the assaults and entries of so many soldiers.

"There were slain and drowned in this fight well near one

thousand of the enemies, and two special commanders. . . .

besides divers others of special account.

"Sir Richard died as it is said, the second or third day aboard

the General and was by them greatly bewailed. What became of his

body, whether it were buried in the sea or on the land, we known

not. The comfort that remaineth to his friends is, that he hath

ended his life honourably in respect of the reputation won to his

nation and country and of the same to his posterity, and that

being dead, he hath not outlived his own honour."

This gallant fight of the little Revenge against the huge navy of

Spain is one of the great things in the story of the sea; that is

why I have chosen it out of all that Sir Walter wrote to give you

as a specimen of English prose in Queen Elizabeth's time. As

long as brave deeds are remembered, it will be told how Sir

Richard Grenville "walled round with wooden castles on the wave"

bid defiance to the might and pride of Spain, "hoping the

splendour of some lucky star."* The fight was a hopeless one

from the very beginning, but it was as gallant a one as ever took

place. Even his foes were forced to admire Sir Richard's

dauntless courage, for when he was carried aboard Don Alfonso's

ship "the captain and gentlemen went to visit him, and to comfort

him in his hard fortune, wondering at his courageous stout heart

for that he showed not any sign of faintness nor changing of

colour. But feeling the hour of death to approach, he spake

these words in Spanish and said, 'Here die I, Richard Grenville,

with a joyful and quiet mind, for that I have ended my life as a

true soldier ought to do, and hath fought for his country, Queen,

religion, and honour, whereby my soul most joyfully departeth out

of this body, and shall always leave behind it an everlasting

fame of a valiant and true soldier that hath done his duty as he

was bound to do.' When he had finished these or other like words

he gave up the Ghost, with great and stout courage, and no man

could perceive any true signs of heaviness in him."**

*Gervase Markham.

**Linschoten's Large Testimony in Hakluyt's Voyages.

Poets of the time made ballads of this fight. Raleigh wrote of

it as you have just read, and in our own day the great laureate

Lord Tennyson made the story live again in his poem The Revenge.

Tennyson tells how after the fight a great storm arose:

"And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew

And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails

and their masts and their flags,

And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain.

And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags

To be lost evermore in the main."

So neither the gallant captain nor his little ship were led home

to the triumph of Spain.

It is interesting to remember that had it not been for the

caprice of the Queen, Raleigh himself would have been in Sir

Richard Grenville's place. For he had orders to go on this

voyage, but at the last moment he was recalled, and Sir Richard

was sent instead.

Chapter LI RALEIGH--"THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD"

SOON after the fight with the Revenge, the King of Spain made

ready more ships to attack England. Raleigh then persuaded Queen

Elizabeth that it would be well to be before hand with the

Spaniards and attack their ships at Panama. So to this end a

fleet was gathered together. But the Queen sent only two ships,

various gentlemen provided others, and Raleigh spent every penny

of his own that he could gather in fitting out the remainder. He

was himself chosen Admiral of the Fleet. So at length he started

on an expedition after his own heart.

But he had not gone far, when a swift messenger was sent to him

ordering him to return. Unwillingly he obeyed, and when he

reached home he was at once sent to the Tower a prisoner. This

time the Queen was really angry with him; in her eyes Raleigh's

crime was a deep one, for he had fallen in love with one of her

own maids of honor, Mistress Elizabeth Throgmorton, and the Queen

had discovered it. Elizabeth allowed none of her favorites to

love any one but herself, so she punished Raleigh by sending him

to the Tower.

Mistress Throgmorton was also made a prisoner. After a time,

however, both prisoners were set free, though they were banished

from court. They married and went to live at Sherborne where

Raleigh busied himself improving his beautiful house and laying

out the garden. For though set free Raleigh was still in

disgrace. But we may believe that he found some recompense for

his Queen's anger in his wife's love.

In his wife Raleigh found a life-long comrade. Through all good

and evil fortune she stood by him, she shared his hopes and

desires, she sold her lands to give him money for his voyages,

she shared imprisonment with him when it came again, and after

his death she never ceased to mourn his loss. How Raleigh loved

her in return we learn from the few letters written to her which

have come down to us. She is "Sweetheart" "Dearest Bess," and he

tells to her his troubles and his hopes as to a staunch and true

friend.

We cannot follow Raleigh through all his restless life, it was so

full and varied that the story of it would fill a long book. He

loved fighting and adventure, he loved books too, and soon we

find him back in London meeting Ben Jonson and Shakespeare, and

all the great writers of the age at the Mermaid Club. For

Raleigh knew all the great men of his day, among them Sir Robert

Bruce Cotton of whom you heard in connection with the adventures

of the Beowulf Manuscript.

But soon, in spite of his love for his wife, in spite of his

interest in his beautiful home, in spite of his many friends,

Raleigh's restless spirit again drove him to the sea, and he set

out on a voyage of discovery and adventure. This time he sailed

to Guiana in South America, in search of Eldorado, the fabled

city of gold. And this time he was not called back by the Queen,

but although he reached South America and sailed up the Orinoco

and the Caroni he "returned a beggar and withered"* without

having found the fabled city. Yet his belief in it was as strong

as ever. He had not found the fabled city but he believed it was

to be found, and when he came home he wrote an account of his

journey because some of his enemies said that he had never been

to Guiana at all but had been hiding in Cornwall all the time.

In this book he said that he was ready again to "lie hard, to

fare worse, to be subjected to perils, to diseases, to ill

savours, to be parched and withered"* if in the end he might

succeed.

*Raleigh's Discovery of Guiana.

Raleigh was ready to set off again at once to discover more of

Guiana. But instead he joined the Fleet and went to fight the

Spanish, who were once more threatening England, and of all

enemies Raleigh considered the Spaniards the greatest.

Once again the English won a splendid victory over Spain. Before

the town of Cadiz eight English ships captured or destroyed

thirty Spanish great and little. They took the town of Cadiz and

razed its fortifications to the ground. Raleigh bore himself

well in this fight, so well, indeed, that even his rival, Essex,

was bound to confess "that which he did in the sea-service could

not be bettered."

And now after five years' banishment from the Queen's favor,

Raleigh was once more received at court. But we cannot follow

all the ups and downs of his court life, for we are told "Sir

Walter Raleigh was in and out at court, so often that he was

commonly called the tennis ball of fortune." And so the years

went on. Raleigh became a Member of Parliament, and was made

Governor of Jersey. He fought and traveled, attended to his

estates in Ireland, to his business in Cornwall, to his

governorship in Jersey. He led a stirring, busy life, fulfilling

his many duties, fighting his enemies, until in 1603 the great

Queen, whose smile or frown had meant so much to him, died.

Then soon after the new king came to the throne, it was seen that

Raleigh's day at court was indeed at an end. For James had been

told that Sir Walter was among those who were unwilling to

receive him as king. Therefore he was little disposed to look

graciously on the handsome daring soldier-sailor.

One by one Raleigh's posts of honor were taken from him. He was

accused of treason and once more found himself a prisoner in the

Tower. He was tried, and in spite of the fact that nothing was

proved against him, he was condemned to die. The sentence was

changed, however, to imprisonment for life.

Raleigh was not left quite lonely in the Tower. His wife and

children, whom he dearly loved, were allowed to come to live

beside him. The governor was kind to him and allowed his

renowned prisoner to use his garden. And there in a little hen-

house Raleigh amused himself by making experiments in chemistry,

and discovering among other things how to distill fresh water

from salt water. He found new friends too in the Queen and in

her young son Henry, Prince of Wales. It was a strange

friendship and a warm one that grew between the gallant boy-

prince of ten and the tried man of fifty. Prince Henry loved to

visit Raleigh in the Tower and listen to the tales of his brave

doings by sea and land in the days when he was free. Raleigh

helped Prince Henry to build a model ship, and the Prince asked

Raleigh's advice and talked over with him all his troubles. His

generous young heart grieved at the though of his friend's

misfortunes. "Who but my father would keep such a bird in such a

cage," he said with boyish indignation.

And it was for this boy friend that Raleigh began the book by

which we know him best, his History of the World. Never has such

a great work been attempted by a captive. To write the history

of even one country must mean much labor, much reading, much

thought. To write a history of the world still more. And I have

told you about Raleigh because with him begins an interest in

history beyond the bounds of our own island. Before him our

historians had only written of England.

It gives us some idea of the large courage of Raleigh's mind when

we remember that he was over fifty when he began this tremendous

piece of work for the sake of a boy he loved. Raleigh labored at

this book for seven years or more. He was allowed to have his

own books in prison. Sir Robert Cotton lent him others, and

learned friends came to talk over his book with him and help him.

And so the pile of written sheets grew. But the book was never

finished, for long before the first volume was ready the brave

young prince for whom it was written died.

To Raleigh, this was the cruelest blow fate ever dealt him, for

with the death of Prince Henry died his hope of freedom. In

spite of his long imprisonment, Raleigh had never lost hope of

one day regaining his freedom. Prince Henry just before his

death had wrung an unwilling promise from the King his father

that Raleigh should be set free. But when the Prince died the

King forgot his promise.

"O eloquent, just and mighty death!" Raleigh says in the last

lines of his book, "Whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded,

what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath

flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised;

thou hast drawn together all the far stretching greatness, all

the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over

with these two narrow words Hic Jacet.

"Lastly, whereas this book by the title it hath, calls itself,

the first part of The General History of the World, implying a

second and third volume, which I also intended and have hewn out,

besides many other discouragements, persuading my silence, it

hath pleased God to take that glorious prince out of the world,

to whom they were directed; whose unspeakable and never enough

lamented loss hath taught me to say with Job, my heart is turned

to mourning and my organ into the voice of them that weep."

Raleigh begins his great book with the Creation and brings it

down to the third Macedonian war, which ended in 168 B.C. So you

see he did not get far. But although when he began he had

intended to write much more, he never meant to bring his history

down to his own time. "I know that it will be said by many," he

writes in his preface, "that I might have been more pleasing to

the reader if I had written the story of mine own times, having

been permitted to draw water as near the well-head as another.

To this I answer that whosoever in writing a modern history,

shall follow truth too near the heels, it may haply strike out

his teeth."

Raleigh feels it much safer to write "of the elder times." But

even so, he says there may be people who will think "that in

speaking of the past I point at the present," and that under the

names of those long dead he is showing the vices of people who

are alive. "But this I cannot help though innocent," he says.

Raleigh's fears were not without ground and at one time his

history was forbidden by King James "for being too saucy in

censuring princes. He took it much to heart, for he thought he

had won his spurs and pleased the King extraordinarily," He had

hoped to please the King and win freedom again, but his hopes

were shattered.

At last, however, the door of his prison was opened. It was a

golden key that opened it. For Raleigh promised, if he were set

free, to seek once more the fabled Golden City, and this time he

swore to find it and bring home treasure untold to his master the

King.

So once more the imprisoned sea-bird was free, and gathering men

and ships he set forth on his last voyage. He set forth bearing

with him all his hopes, all his fortune. For both Raleigh and

his wife almost beggared themselves to get money to fit out the

fleet, and with him as captain sailed his young son Walter.

A year later Raleigh returned. But he returned without his son,

with hopes broken, fortune lost. Many fights and storms had he

endured, many hardships suffered, but he had not found the Golden

City. His money was spent, his ships shattered, his men in

mutiny, and hardest of all to bear, his young son Walter lay dead

in far Guiana, slain in a fight with Spaniards. How Raleigh

grieved we learn from his letter to his wife, "I was loath to

write," he says, "because I knew not how to comfort you; and, God

knows, I never knew what sorrow meant till now. . . . Comfort

your heart, dearest Bess, I shall sorrow for us both, I shall

sorrow less because I have not long to sorrow, because not long

to live. . . . I have written but that letter, for my brains are

broken, and it is a torment for me to write, and especially of

misery. . . . The Lord bless and comfort you that you may bear

patiently the death of your most valiant son."

Raleigh came home a sad and ruined man, and had the pity of the

King been as easily aroused as his fear of the Spaniards he had

surely been allowed to live out the rest of his life in peaceful

quiet. But James, who shuddered at the sight of a drawn sword,

feared the Spaniards and had patched up an imaginary peace with

them. And now when the Spanish Ambassador rushed into the King's

Chamber crying "Pirates! Pirates!" Raleigh's fate was sealed.

Raleigh had broken the peace in land belonging to "our dear

brother the King of Spain" said James, therefore he must die.

Thus once again, Raleigh found himself lodged in the Tower. But

so clearly did he show that he had broken no peace where no peace

was, that it was found impossible to put him to death because of

what he had done in Guiana. He was condemned to death,

therefore, on the old charge of treason passed upon him nearly

fifteen years before. He met death bravely and smiling. Clad in

splendid clothes such as he loved, he mounted the scaffold and

made his farewell speech to those around.

"'Tis a sharp medicine, but it is a sound cure for all diseases,"

he said smiling to the Sheriff as he felt the edge of the ax.

Then he laid his head upon the block.

"Thus," says the first writer of Raleigh's life, "have we seen

how Sir Walter Raleigh who had been one of the greatest scourges

of Spain, was made a sacrifice to it."

"So may we say to the memory of this worthy knight," says Fuller,

"'Repose yourself in this our Catalogue under what topic you

please, statesman, seaman, soldier, learned writer or what not.'

His worth unlocks our cabinets and proves both room and welcome

to entertain him . . . so dexterous was he in all his

undertakings in Court, in camp, by sea, by land, with sword, with

pen."*

*Fuller's Worthies.

BOOKS TO READ

Westward Ho! by Charles Kingsley may be read in illustration of

this chapter.

Chapter LII BACON--NEW WAYS OF WISDOM

WHEN we are little, there are many things we cannot understand;

we puzzle about them a good deal perhaps, and then we ask

questions. And sometimes the grown-ups answer our question and

make the puzzling things clear to us, sometimes they answer yet

do not make the puzzling things any clearer to us, and sometimes

they tell us not to trouble, that we will understand when we grow

older. Then we wish we could grow older quick, for it seems such

a long time to wait for an answer. But worst of all, sometimes

the grown-ups tell us not to talk so much and not to ask so many

question.

The fact is, though perhaps I ought not to tell you, grown-ups

don't know everything. That is not any disgrace either, for of

course no one can know everything, not even father or mother.

And just as there are things which puzzle little folks, there are

things which puzzle big folks. And just as among little folks

there are some who ask more questions and who "want to know" more

than others, so among grown-ups there are some who more than

others seek for the answer to those puzzling question. These

people we call philosophers. The word comes from two Greek

words, philos loving, sophos wise, and means loving wisdom. In

this chapter I am going to tell you about Francis Bacon, the

great philosopher who lived in the times of Elizabeth and James.

I do not think that I can quite make you understand what

philosophy really means, or what his learned books were about,

nor do I think you will care to read them for a long time to

come. But you will find the life of Francis Bacon very

interesting. It is well, too, to know about Bacon, for with him

began a new kind of search for wisdom. The old searchers after

truth had tried to settle the questions which puzzled them by

turning to imaginary things, and by mere thinking. Bacon said

that we must answer these questions by studying not what was

imaginary, but what was real--by studying nature. So Bacon was

not only a lover of truth but was also the first of our

scientists of to-day. Scientist comes from the Latin word scio

to know, and Science means that which we know by watching things

and trying things,--by making experiments. And although Bacon

did not himself find out anything new and useful to man, he

pointed out the road upon which others were to travel.

It was upon a cold day in January in 1560 that Francis Bacon

"came crying into the world."* He was born in a fine house and

was the child of great people, his father being Sir Nicholas

Bacon, Lord Keeper of the Great Seal. But although his father

was one of the most important men in the kingdom, we know little

about Francis as a boy. We know that he met the Queen and that

he must have been a clever little boy, for she would playfully

call him her "young Lord Keeper." Once too when she asked him

how old he was, he answered, "Two years younger than your

Majesty's happy reign." So if you know when Elizabeth began to

reign you will easily remember when Bacon was born.

*James Spedding.

Francis was the youngest of a big family, and when he was little

more than twelve years old he went to Trinity College, Cambridge.

Even in those days, when people went to college early, this was

young.

For three years Bacon remained at college and then he went to

France with the English ambassador. While he was in France his

father died and Bacon returned home. At eighteen he thus found

himself a poor lad with his future to make and only his father's

great name and his own wits to help him. He made up his mind to

take Law as his profession. So he set himself quietly to study.

He worked hard, for from the very beginning he meant to get on,

he meant to be rich and powerful. So he bowed low before the

great, he wrote letters to them full of flattery, he begged and

promised.

Bacon is like a man with two faces. We look at one and we see a

kindly face full of pity and sorrow for all wrong and pain that

men must suffer, we see there a longing to help man, to be his

friend. We look at the other face and there we see the greed of

gain, the desire for power and place. Yet it may be that Bacon

only strove to be great so that he might have more power and

freedom to be pitiful. In spite of Bacon's hard work, in spite

of his flattery and begging, he did not rise fast. After five

years we find him indeed a barrister and a Member of Parliament,

but among the many great men of his age he was still of little

account. He had not made his mark, in spite of the fact that the

great Lord Burleigh was his uncle, in spite of the fact that

Elizabeth had liked him as a boy. Post after post for which he

begged was given to other men. He was, he said himself, "like a

child following a bird, which when he is nearest flieth away and

lighteth a little before, and then the child after it again, and

so in infinitum. I am weary of it."

But one friend at court he found in the Earl of Essex, the

favorite of Elizabeth, the rival of Raleigh. Essex, however, who

could win so much favor for himself, could win none for Francis

Bacon. Being able to win nothing from the Queen, on his own

account Essex gave his friend an estate worth about 1800 pounds.

But although that may have been some comfort to Bacon, it did not

win for him greatness in the eyes of the world, the only greatness

for which he longed. As to the Queen, she made use of him when

it pleased her, but she had no love for him. "Though she cheered

him much with the bounty of her countenance," says an early

writer of Bacon's life, his friend and chaplain,* "yet she never

cheered him with the bounty of her hand." It was, alas, that

bounty of the hand that Bacon begged for and stooped for all

through his life. Yet he cared nothing for money for its own

sake, for what he had, he spent carelessly. He loved to keep

high state, he loved grandeur, and was always in debt.

* William Rawley.

Essex through all his brilliant years when the Queen smiled upon

him stuck by his friend, for him he spent his "power, might,

authority and amity" in vain. When the dark hours came and Essex

fell into disgrace, it was Bacon who forgot his friendship.

You will read in history-books of how Essex, against the Queen's

orders, left Ireland, and coming to London, burst into her

presence one morning before she was dressed. You will read of

how he was disgraced and imprisoned. At first Bacon did what he

could for his friend, and it was through his help that Essex was

set free. But even then, Bacon wrote to the Earl, "I confess I

love some things much better than I love your lordship, as the

Queen's service, her quiet and contentment, her honour, her

favour, the good of my country, and the like. Yet I love few

persons better than yourself, both for gratitude's sake, and for

your own virtues."

Set free, Essex rushed into passionate, futile rebellion. Again

he was made prisoner and tried for high treason. It was then

that Bacon had to choose between friend and Queen. He chose his

Queen and appeared in court against his friend. To do anything

else, Bacon told himself, had been utterly useless. Essex was

now of no more use to him, he was too surely fallen. To cling to

him could do not good, but would only bring the Queen's anger

upon himself also. And yet he had written: "It is friendship

when a man can say to himself, I love this man without respect of

utility. . . . I make him a portion of my own wishes."

He wrote that as a young man, later he saw nothing in friendship

beyond use.

The trial of Essex must have been a brilliant scene. The Earl

himself, young, fair of face, splendidly clad, stood at the bar.

He showed no fear, his bearing was as proud and bold as ever,

"but whether his courage were borrowed and put on for the time or

natural, it were hard to judge."* The Lord Treasurer, the Lord

High Steward, too were there and twenty-five peers, nine earls,

and sixteen barons to try the case. Among the learned counsel

sat Bacon, a disappointed man of forty. There was nothing to

single him out from his fellows save that he was the Earl's

friend, and as such might be looked upon to do his best to save

him.

*John Chamberlain.

As the trial went on, however, Bacon spoke, not to save, but to

condemn. Did no memory of past kindliness cross his mind as he

likened his friend to "Cain, that first murderer," as he

complained to the court that too much favor was shown to the

prisoner, that he had never before heard "so ill a defense of

such great and notorious treasons." The Earl answered in his own

defense again and yet again. But at length he was silent. His

case was hopeless, and he was condemned to death. He was

executed on 25th February, 1601.

Perhaps Bacon could not have saved his friend from death, but had

he used his wit to try at least to save instead of helping to

condemn, he would have kept his own name from a dark blot. But a

greater betrayal of friendship was yet to follow. Though Essex

had been wild and foolish the people loved him, and now they

murmured against the Queen for causing his death. Then it was

thought well, that they should know all the blackness of his

misdeeds, and it was Bacon who was called upon to write the story

of them.

Even from this he did not shrink, for he hoped for great rewards.

But, as before, the Queen used him, and withheld "the bounty of

her hand"; from her he received no State appointment. He did

indeed receive 1200 pounds in money. It was scarcely as much as

Essex had once given him out of friendship. To Bacon it seemed

too small a reward for his betrayal of his friend, even although

it had seemed to mean loyalty to his Queen. "The Queen hath done

somewhat for me," he wrote, "though not in the proportion I

hoped." And so in debt and with a blotted name, Bacon lived on

until Queen Elizabeth died. But with the new King his fortunes

began to rise. First he was made Sir Francis Bacon, then from

one honor to another he rose until he became at last Lord High

Chancellor of England, the highest judge in the land. A few

months later, he was made a peer with the title of Baron Verulam.

A few years later at the age of sixty he went still one step

higher and became Viscount St. Albans.

Bacon chose the name of Baron Verulam from the name of the old

Roman city Verulamium which was afterwards called St. Albans. It

was near St. Albans that Bacon had built himself a splendid

house, laid out a beautiful garden, and planted fine trees, and

there he kept as great state as the King himself.

He had now reached his highest power. He had published his great

work called the Novum Organum or New Instrument in which he

taught men a new way of wisdom. He was the greatest judge in the

land and a peer of the realm. He had married too, but he never

had any children, and we know little of his home life.

It seemed as if at last he had all he could wish for, as if his

life would end in a blaze of glory. But instead of that in a few

short weeks after he became Viscount St. Albans, he was a

disgraced and fallen man.

He had always loved splendor and pomp, he had always spent more

than he could afford. Now he was accused of taking bribes, that

is, he was accused of taking money from people and, instead of

judging fairly, of judging in favor of those who had given him

most money. He was accused, in fact, of selling justice. That

he should sell justice is the blackest charge that can be brought

against a judge. At first Bacon could not believe that any one

would dare to attack him. But when he heard that it was true, he

sank beneath the disgrace, he made no resistance. His health

gave way. On his sick-bed he owned that he had taken presents,

yet to the end he protested that he had judged justly. He had

taken the bribes indeed, but they had made no difference to his

judgments. He had not sold justice.

He made his confession and stood to it. "My lords," he said, "it

is my act, my hand, my heart. I beseech your lordships be

merciful to a broken reed."

Bacon was condemned to pay a fine of 40,000 pounds, to be

imprisoned during the King's pleasure, never more to have

office of any kind, never to sit in Parliament, "nor come

within the verge of the Court."

"I was the justest judge that was in England these fifty years,"

said Bacon afterwards. "But it was the justest censure in

Parliament that was these two hundred years."

Bacon's punishment was not as heavy as at first sight it seems,

for the fine was forgiven him, and "the king's pleasure," made

his imprisonment in the Tower only a matter of a few days.

And now that his life was shipwrecked, though he never ceased to

long to return to his old greatness, he gave all his time to

writing and to science. He spent many peaceful hours in the

garden that he loved. "His lordship," we are told, "was a very

contemplative person, and was wont to contemplate in his

delicious walks." He was generally accompanied by one of the

gentlemen of his household "that attended him with ink and paper

ready to set down presently his thoughts."*

*J. Aubrey.

He was not soured or bitter. "Though his fortunes may have

changed," says one of his household,* "yet I never saw any change

in his mien, his words, or his deeds, towards any man. But he

was always the same both in sorrow and joy, as a philosopher

ought to be."

*Peter Boerner, his apothecary and secretary.

Bacon was now shut out from honorable work in the world, but he

had no desire to be idle. "I have read in books," he wrote,

"that it is accounted a great bliss to have Leisure with Honour.

That was never my fortune. For time was I had Honour without

Leisure; and now I have Leisure without Honour. But my desire is

now to have Leisure without Loitering." So now he lived as he

himself said "a long cleansing week of five years." Then the end

came.

It was Bacon's thirst for knowledge that caused his death. One

winter day when the snow lay on the ground he drove out in his

coach. Suddenly as he drove along looking at the white-covered

fields and roads around, the thought came to him that food might

be kept good by means of snow as easily as by salt. He resolved

to try, so, stopping his coach, he went into a poor woman's

cottage and bought a hen. The woman killed and made ready the

hen, but Bacon was so eager about his experiment that he stuffed

it himself with snow. In doing this he was so chilled by the

cold that he became suddenly ill, too ill to return home. He was

taken to a house near "where they put him into a good bed warmed

with a pan"* and there after a few days he died.

*J. Aubrey.

This little story of how Bacon came by his death gives a good

idea of how he tried to make use of his philosophy. He was not

content with thinking and speculating, that is, looking at ideas.

Speculate comes from the Latin speculari, to spy out. He wanted

to experiment too. And although in those days no one had thought

about it, we now know that Bacon was quite right and that meat

can be kept by freezing it. And it is pleasant to know that

before Bacon died he was able to write that the experiment had

succeeded "excellently well."

In his will Bacon left his name and memory "to men's charitable

speeches, to foreign nations and to the next ages," and he was

right to do so, for in spite of all the dark shadows that hang

about his name men still call him great. We remember him as a

great man among great men; we remember him as the fore-runner of

modern science; we remember him for the splendid English in which

he wrote.

And yet, although Bacon's English is clear, strong, and fine,

although Elizabethan English perhaps reached in him its highest

point, he himself despised English. He did not believe that it

was a language that would live. And as he wanted his books to be

read by people all over the world and in all time to come, he

wrote his greatest books in Latin. He grieved that he had wasted

time in writing English, and he had much that he wrote in English

translated into Latin during his lifetime.

It seems strange to us now that in an age when Spenser and

Shakespeare had show the world what the English tongue had power

to do that any man should have been able to disbelieve in its

greatness. But so it was, and Bacon translated his books into

Latin so that they might live when English books "were not."

I will not weary you with a list of all the books Bacon wrote.

Although it is not considered his greatest work, that by which

most people know him is his Book of Essays. By an essay, Bacon

meant a testing or proving. In the short chapters of his essays

he tries and proves many things such as Friendship, Study, Honor;

and when you come to read these essays you will be surprised to

find how many of the sentences are known to you already. They

have become "household words," and without knowing it we repeat

Bacon's wisdom. But we miss in them something of human

kindliness. Bacon's wisdom is cool, calm, and calculating, and

we long sometimes for a little warmth, a little passion, and not

so much "use."

The essays are best known, but the New Atlantis is the book that

you will best like to read, for it is something of a story, and

of it I will tell you a little in the next chapter.

Chapter LIII BACON--THE HAPPY ISLAND

ATLANTIS was a fabled island of the Greeks which lay somewhere in

the Western Sea. That island, it was pretended, sank beneath the

waves and was lost, and Bacon makes believe that he finds another

island something like it in the Pacific Ocean and calls it the

New Atlantis. Here, as in More's Utopia, the people living under

just and wise laws, are happy and good. Perhaps some day you

will be interested enough to read these two books together and

compare them. Then one great difference will strike you at once.

In the Utopia all is dull and gray, only children are pleased

with jewels, only prisoners are loaded with golden chains. In

the New Atlantis jewels and gold gleam and flash, the love of

splendor and color shows itself almost in every page.

Bacon wastes no time in explanation but launches right into the

middle of his story. "We sailed from Peru," he says, "(where we

had continued by the space of one whole year) for China and

Japan, by the South Sea, taking with us victuals for twelve

months." And through all the story we are not told who the "we"

were or what their names or business. There were, we learn,

fifty-one persons in all on board the ship. After some month's

good sailing they met with storms of wind. They were driven

about now here, now there. Their food began to fail, and finding

themselves in the midst of the greatest wilderness of waters in

the world, they gave themselves us as lost. But presently one

evening they saw upon one hand what seemed like darker clouds,

but which in the end proved to be land.

"And after an hour and a half's sailing, we entered into a good

haven, being the port of a fair city, not great indeed, but well

built, and that gave a pleasant view from the sea.

"And we, thinking every minute long till we were on land, came

close to the shore, and offered to land. But straightways we saw

divers of the people, with bastons in their hands, as it were

forbidding us to land; yet without any cries or fierceness, but

only as warning us off by signs that they made. Whereupon being

not a little discomforted, we were advising with ourselves what

we should do. During which time there made forth to us a small

boat, with about eight persons in it; whereof one of them had in

his hand a tipstaff* of a yellow cane, tipped at both ends with

blue, who came aboard our ship, without any show of distrust at

all. And when he saw one of our number present himself somewhat

before the rest, he drew forth a little scroll of parchment

(somewhat yellower than our parchment, and shining like the

leaves of writing-tables, but otherwise soft and flexible), and

delivered it to our foremost man. In which scroll were written

in ancient Hebrew, and in ancient Greek, and in good Latin of the

School, and in Spanish, these words: 'Land ye not, none of you.

And provide to be gone from this coast within sixteen days,

except ye have further time given you. Meanwhile, if ye want

fresh water, or victual, or help for your sick, or that your ship

needeth repair, write down your wants, and ye shall have that

which belongeth to mercy.'

*Staff of office.

"This scroll was signed with a stamp of Cherubim's wings, not

spread but hanging downwards, and by them a cross.

"This being delivered, the officer returned, and left only a

servant with us to receive our answer. Consulting thereupon

among ourselves, we were much perplexed. The denial of landing

and hasty warning us away troubled us much. On the other side,

to find that the people had languages and were so full of

humanity, did comfort us not a little. And above all, the sign

of the cross to that instrument was to us a great rejoicing, and

as it were a certain presage of good.

"Our answer was in the Spanish tongue: 'That for our ship, it

was well; for we had rather met with calms and contrary winds

than any tempests. For our sick, they were many, and in very ill

case, so that if they were not permitted to land, they ran danger

of their lives.'

"Our other wants we set down in particular; adding, 'that we had

some little store of merchandise, which if it pleased them to

deal for, it might supply our wants without being chargeable unto

them.'

"We offered some reward in pistolets unto the servant, and a

piece of crimson velvet to be presented to the officer. But the

servant took them not, nor would scarce look upon them; and so

left us, and went back in another little boat which was sent for

him."

About three hours after the answer had been sent, the ship was

visited by another great man from the island. "He had on him a

gown with wide sleeves, of a kind of water chamelot of an

excellent azure colour, far more glossy than ours. His under

apparel was green, and so was his hat, being in the form of a

turban, daintily made, and not so huge as the Turkish turbans.

And the locks of his hair came down below the brims of it. A

reverend man was he to behold.

"He came in a boat, gilt in some part of it, with four persons

more only in that boat, and was followed by another boat, wherein

were some twenty. When he was come within a flight shot of our

ship, signs were made to us that we should send forth some to

meet him upon the water; which we presently did in our shipboat,

sending the principal man amongst us save one, and four of our

number with him.

"When we were come within six yards of their boat they called to

us to stay, and not to approach further, which we did. And

thereupon the man whom I before described stood up, and with a

loud voice in Spanish, asked 'Are ye Christians?'

"We answered, 'We were'; fearing the less, because of the cross

we had seen in the subscription.

"At which answer the said person lifted up his right hand towards

heaven, and drew it softly to his mouth (which is the gesture

they use when they thank God) and then said: 'If ye will swear

(all of you) by the merits of the Saviour that ye are not

pirates, nor have shed blood lawfully or unlawfully within forty

days past, you may have licence to come on land.'

"We said, 'We were all ready to take that oath.'

"Whereupon one of those that were with him, being (as it seemed)

a notary, made an entry of this act. Which done, another of the

attendants of the great person, which was with him in the same

boat, after his lord had spoken a little to him, said aloud: 'My

lord would have you know, that it is not of pride or greatness

that he cometh out aboard your ship; but for that in your answer

you declare that you have many sick amongst you, he was warned by

the Conservator of Health of the city that he should keep a

distance.'

"We bowed ourselves towards him, and answered, 'We were his

humble servants; and accounted for great honour and singular

humanity towards us that which was already done; but hoped well

that the nature of the sickness of our men was not infectious.'

"So he returned; and a while after came the notary to us aboard

our ship, holding in his hand a fruit of that country, like an

orange, but of colour between orange-tawny and scarlet, which

cast a most excellent odour. He used it (as it seemeth) for a

preservative against infection.

"He gave us our oath; 'By the name of Jesus and of his merits,'

and after told us that the next day by six of the clock in the

morning we should be sent to, and brought to the Strangers' House

(so he called it), where we should be accommodated of things both

for our whole and for our sick.

"So he left us. And when we offered him some pistolets he

smiling said, 'He must not be twice paid for one labour,'

meaning, as I take it, that he had salary sufficient of the State

for his service. For (as I after leaned) they call an officer

that taketh rewards, twice paid."

So next morning the people landed from the ship, and Bacon goes

on to tell us of the wonderful things they saw and learned in the

island. The most wonderful thing was a place called Solomon's

House. In describing it Bacon was describing such a house as he

hoped one day to see in England. It was a great establishment in

which everything that might be of use to mankind was studied and

taught. And Bacon speaks of many things which were only guessed

at in his time. He speaks of high towers wherein people watched

"winds, rain, snow, hail and some of the fiery meteors also."

To-day we have observatories. He speaks of "help for the sight

far above spectacles and glasses," also "glasses and means to see

small and minute bodies perfectly and distinctly, as the shapes

and colours of small flies and worms, grains and flaws in gems,

which cannot otherwise be seen." To-day we have the microscope.

He says "we have also means to convey sounds in trunks and pipes,

in strange lines and distances," yet in those days no one had

dreamed of a telephone. "We imitate also flights of birds; we

have some degrees of flying in the air. We have ships and boats

for going under water," yet in those days stories of flying-ships

or torpedoes would have been treated as fairy tales.

Bacon did not finish The New Atlantis. "The rest was not

perfected" are the last words in the book and it was not

published until after his death. These words might almost have

been written of Bacon himself. A great writer, a great man,--but

"The rest was not perfected." He put his trust in princes and he

fell. Yet into the land of knowledge--

"Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last;

The barren wilderness he passed,

Did on the very border stand

Of the blest promised land,

And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit

Saw it himself and shew'd us it.

But life did never to one man allow

Time to discover worlds and conquer too;

Nor can so short a line sufficient be,

To fathom the vast depths of nature's sea.

The work he did we ought t'admire,

And were unjust if we should more require

From his few years, divided twixt th' excess

Of low affliction and high happiness.

For who on things remote can fix his sight

That's always in a triumph or a fight."*

*Abraham Cowley, To the Royal Society.

You will like to know, that less than forty years after Bacon's

death a society called The Royal Society was founded. This is a

Society which interests itself in scientific study and research,

and is the oldest of its kind in Great Britain. It was Bacon's

fancy of Solomon's House which led men to found this Society.

Bacon was the great man whose "true imagination"* set it on foot,

and although many years have passed since then, the Royal Society

still keeps its place in the forefront of Science.

*Thomas Sprat, History of Royal Society, 1667.

BOOKS TO READ

The New Atlantis, edited by G. D. W. Bevan, modern spelling (for

schools). The New Atlantis, edited by G. C. Moore Smith, in old

spelling (for schools).

Chapter LIV ABOUT SOME LYRIC POETS