THE LAMPOON.
On the morning of the day on which Sir Thomas paid a visit to the Lucy
Arms, William Shakespeare, seated in a small parlour at the back of his
house, was employed reading from a somewhat bulky volume certain matters
which appeared deeply to interest him.
So much so, indeed, that albeit his attention was often called from the
subject of his studies by the little crowing baby he held in one arm;
still he ever returned with renewed avidity to devour a few more pages,
as often as the playful infant gave him an opportunity of doing so.
The volume Shakespeare was reading from was a thick squat folio, then
some thirty years printed, and called Hall's Chronicles. Many and
various were the histories contained in this thick volume; and the deep
interest young Shakespeare felt in their perusal, and the impression
they made upon his mind, may be imagined when we enumerate them as set
forth. First, then, there was "the unquiet time of King Henry ye
Fourth." That was indeed a stirring page in England's history, "when
trenching war channelled her fields," and intestine jars and civil
butchery "daubed her lips with her own children's blood."
Then followed the victorious acts of King Henry the Fifth--a glorious
epoch--a "record of fair act," and which, as we read of, he already saw
before him, "the warlike Hal, in the vasty fields of France,"
"Assuming the port of Mars, and at his heels
Leash'd in, like hounds, famine, fire, and sword,
Crouching for employment."
Then came the troublous season of King Henry the Sixth, when
"Cropp'd were the flower-de-luces in our arms,
And England's cost one-half was cut away."
Then followed the boisterous reign of King Edward the Fourth, the
pitiful life of King Edward the Fifth, the tragical doings of King
Richard the Third, the "politic governance" of King Henry the Seventh,
the triumphant reign of King Henry the Eighth.
How diligently young Shakespeare perused this book; and how carefully he
remembered the impression made upon his mind, his after-life has shewn
us.
At the present moment, like many a less elevated genius, his studies
were disturbed by civil discord, domestic brawls, and the matters of
every-day life around him.
Such, however, was the fine disposition of the man, that it took much to
disturb the serenity of his temper and the equanimity of his mind.
We have seen that, in the amiability of his disposition, he was
snatching an hour's leisure from the business in which he was engaged,
and helping to nurse his child whilst pursuing his studies. This
employment in itself would but have enhanced the pleasure afforded by
such study. But unluckily (albeit he gave as little attention thereto as
possible) he was at the same time subjected to the observation and sharp
rebuke of his somewhat shrewish better half.
The stolen hours spent with his associates of the Lucy Arms had caused
him a series of lectures and upbraidings, which completely ship-wrecked
his domestic peace.
All this be suffered in silence, for, as he could not compromise his
companions by disclosing their confederacy in his deer-stealing exploit,
he wisely held big tongue; not that he, however, deemed it right to keep
secret counsel from the wife of his bosom; but in this case, where
others were concerned, honour bound his tongue. In his own words he
could have told her--
"That he knew her wise, but yet no further wise
Than William Shakespeare's wife. Constant she was,
But yet a woman: and for secrecy
No lady closer, for he well believed
She would not utter what she did not know,
And so far would he trust the gentle Anne."
In the present instance the gentle Anne appeared determined to have a
serious quarrel with her husband. She flatly told him she would never
rest till she had discovered where and with whom he had passed the
night; and her upbraidings, as is frequently the case with females in
her station of life, were by no means mild.
"The venom'd clamours of a jealous woman
Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth."
And William Shakespeare found it, and accordingly at length his patience
gave way, and he arose, laid aside his book, placed his child in the
cradle, and notwithstanding his stomach warned him it was near the
dinner hour, he donned his castor, left the small apartment, and was
about to leave his house for the Lucy Arms, when, just as he reached the
door, he beheld Diccon Snare.
Dismounting from his horse, Snare entered the front-room of
Shakespeare's house; and having desired the lad to whom he gave charge
of the steed to lead it round to the shed in rear, he closed the door
behind him carefully, and then threw himself into a chair, as one who
had ridden far and fast since he had taken to the saddle.
"There is ill news abroad, Will," said he; "the Charlecote business is
blown--Sir Thomas Lucy knows all. That much concerns you, for you are
made the principal in the affair. Other matter hath also come out
regarding some transactions in which Caliver and Careless are concerned.
Caliver is in custody. Careless hath escaped, and, as I am not
altogether exempt, I am for London with all speed."
"For myself I care nothing," said Shakespeare; "but for Pierce, Caliver,
and Careless, I am grieved. But whence is all this derived?"
"I met one of Grasp's lads at Kenilworth this morning," said Snare, "who
with an officer was searching for Caliver; he gave me a hint to convey
intelligence to the lads of the Lucy Arms; and I have ridden hard to
give you the first notice."
"This doth indeed look ugly," said Shakespeare. "Sir Thomas hath ever
held me in his hate, and undeservedly so. Wherefore he hath this
dislike, I partly guess; now he has me on the hip, I doubt not he will
do his utmost against me. But I pry'thee come in, Snare, you look pale,
and lack refreshment. Our meal is about to be served."
"Nay, but," said Snare, "your wife, Will,--she likes me not; nay, she
forbade my coming hither last Martinmas."
"Heed it not," said Shakespeare, smiling; "believe me, she meant not
what she said. A friend both tired, hungry, and in need of shelter,
shall never be turned fasting from my door. Besides, hath not thy love
brought thee hither to warn me? Tush, man! Do you tell me of a woman's
tongue--
"That gives not half so great a blow to the ear,
As doth a chestnut in a farmer's fire."
And Shakespeare threw open the door, and ushered his friend Snare into
the inner-room, where they found the dinner spread, and the wife not
best pleased at having to tarry.
"Not a word of matters appertaining," he whispered to Snare, as they
entered. "Mistress Anne will not endure thee long, Diccon. After the
meal is finished, she will take herself off to the upper-room."
Snare therefore followed his friend, and looking somewhat scared, made a
leg, and paid his compliments to the hostess as he best could.
'Twas exactly as Shakespeare had surmised. The handsome Anne, whose brow
grew somewhat contracted when she saw her husband usher in Snare, left
the pair to themselves, as soon as she had finished her meal.
After her departure, Shakespeare placed liquor before his guest; and
over a social glass they debated seriously of their affairs.
The high spirit of Shakespeare, however, would not permit of his long
remaining under dominion of care or apprehension; and, under influence
of a cup or two of Canary, he began to rail upon Sir Thomas, and lash
him alternately.
"Out upon the clod-pate," he said; "his brains are as thick as
Tewkesbury mustard. He imprison me--he have me whipped! Pshaw! I laugh
at the dull ass! I will make him a jest to the whole country!"
"O' my word, Will, he will be more likely to drive thee from it," said
Snare; "for Launcelot Quill, Grasp's head clerk, vows he never saw man
more angered than the old knight is against thee."
"Tush, man!" said Shakespeare, "never tell me of his anger. Let him do
his spite. He hath already done me several ill turns, from the bare
suspicion that I have broke his park. Now, I doubt not, he will fine,
imprison, and what not, if he can but catch me! Come, another cup, and
then to inform our companions of the Lucy Arms of this matter. Best,
however, clap-to the outer door, and make all fast," he said, rising and
drawing the bolt across the fore-door, "lest this Cavaliero Justice hath
already let loose his myrmidons against me. Ha! ha!" he continued,
reseating himself, "he a Justice of the Peace!--he a Parliament Member!
Why, I will fashion a better justice after supper out of a
cheese-paring. I pr'ythee, Snare, reach me that ink-horn. I will write a
lampoon upon the peaking Cornuto, and fasten it up against his
park-gates--I will, indeed, lad!"
"Nay, but Will," urged Snare, "thou wilt scarce venture, daring dog as
thou art, further to irritate the knight? I tell thee, being married and
settled here, this business will already go far to ruin thee."
"Ruin me!" said Shakespeare, somewhat bitterly. "Ruin me, saidst thou?
Why, man, dost think me in a thriving condition here in Stratford?"
"Not entirely so," said Snare, looking around; "I would I could see thy
nest better feathered, Will, and I trust I shall yet do so."
"I think it not," said Shakespeare; "business decreases apace with me. I
am called wild, inattentive, dissolute,--nay, I have had one or two
slight misunderstandings with my family; and, as thou sayest, this last
business and the rancorous hatred of Sir Thomas, will go hard with your
poor friend. But, come, here we have a couplet or two in his condign
praise: for a taste--
"A parliament member, a justice of peace,
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse;
If lowsie is Lucy, as same volke miscalle it,
Then Lucy is lowsie whatever befall it."
"'Fore heaven, Will, stop," said Snare, laughing, "Thou hast indeed
touched up the knight; thou hast tied him to a post, and wilt lash him
into madness."
"Nay, but stay," said Shakespeare, "I will give him another stanza yet.
Hearkee to this:
"He thinks himself great.
Yet an asse in his state,
We allowe by his ears but with asses to mate;
If Lucy is lowsie as some volke miscalle it,
Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it."
"Nay," said Snare, "an thou stick that up, thou hadst better put the
seas between thyself and Britain. The Knight of Charlecote will be
driven stark staring mad."
"Well," said Shakespeare, "we shall see how matters progress. If Sir
Thomas bears me hard, as true as thy name is Diccon Snare, I will nail
this lampoon to his park-gates, and have it sung to filthy tunes through
the town."