THE PLAYER AT COURT.
And now a new epoch seems to have arrived, and England (for the time
being) may indeed be called "_merrie England_." The good old days of
good Queen Bess are now in full force. The nation seems like a burly
giant, who, lately weighed down by some heavy disease, and which it
required all the strength of his constitution to surmount, suddenly
finds himself again in health and strength.
"Now he breathes again, and can give audience to any tongue,
Speak il of what it may."
The enjoyment of the sometime invalid is tenfold from the sudden
rebound. Earth and sea, air and sky, look doubly beautiful, and each
hour is one of enjoyment. The whole nation revels in the excitement and
the joyous feelings consequent upon its deliverance from a fearful yoke.
The anticipation of dishonour, torture, and slavery, are no more. The
overweening Spaniard, "that Armado hight," has been smitten with deadly
vengeance, and all care is thrown to the winds. The Queen, the
courtiers, the soldiers, sailors, citizens, nay, all the realm are
dancing a galliard through the country. And of all those dancers none
danced more vigorously, or cut higher capers, than the royal Tudor
herself and her dancing chancellor, Sir Christopher Hatton.
"Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave lord-keeper led the brawls,
And seals and maces danced before him.
His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crowned hat and satin doublet,
Moved the stout heart of England's Queen,
Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it."
Leicester, Essex, Raleigh, and Hatton, the especial gallants of the
Court, "glittering in golden coats like images," are amongst those
revellers.
In London and its environs, bear-baitings, bull-baitings, masques,
morris dancers, theatrical exhibitions, and all sorts of diversions
filled up the hours.
Great crowds of noblemen and gentlemen (who had met the Queen on her
landing at Westminster after the dispersion of the Armada) attended her
to St. James's Palace, and, day after day, entertained her, "all
furnished, all in arms," with tilts and tourneys.
Fully did the English at this moment appreciate the merits of their
Queen. She was extolled, glorified, and almost deified in the exuberance
of their joy and loyalty.[23]
[Footnote 23: Stow mentions a little jobbing tailor who absolutely went
mad for love of, and died glorifying the perfections of the Queen.]
Oh that it came within the compass of our pen to describe the appearance
of the Court. To introduce our reader, but for one short hour, within
the walls of the palace; amidst that throng of princely gentlemen and
stately dames clustered around one of the most gifted and extraordinary
women that ever wielded a sceptre. Alas! the times are so changed, that
the might, the magnificence of royalty, the grandeur of the scene
within, and the halo shed around even the precincts of the palace, can
scarcely be understood. The stately forms of the bearded yeomen; the
glitter of the halbert, and the flash of weapons amidst tower and
turret; the emblazoned doublet; the measured tread of men-at-arms on
every post, and port, and passage; the lounging pages and servants, who
throng the courts and offices; the hundreds of hangers-on upon royalty
at this joyous period. The very sacred character of much that pertained
to a palace seems to have vanished. The bold grandeur of the times seem
to have departed with those cloistered and embattled buildings and the
stately beings who inhabited them.
The very precincts of the Court,--the "whereabout of royalty," seemed
invested with a sacred character during the reign of Elizabeth. The
stern grandeur which pervaded tho habitations of the terrible Harry, her
father, still surrounded the various dwellings of the no less majestic
daughter.
Our readers must now imagine the Court in all its splendour at that old
palace whose gateway and flanking towers still bear the cognizance and
initials of the burly Harry; not as now, however, where the echoes of
the drum and trumpet which rings and rattles out upon occasion of pomp
and parade, reverberated from the goodly dwellings and ample streets by
which it is neighboured.
St. James's palace, in Elizabeth's day, stood in the open country. It
had been built upon the site of the dissolved hospital of St. James, by
the bluff King, and its buttressed walls were surrounded by a sort of
chase or park, the grounds of which to the north were, for the most
part, wet and marshy. The heron flapped his wing in the pool where now
the Green Park is situated, and amidst the tall trees upon the hill, at
present called Bond Street, the deer couched in the fern. It was indeed
a picturesque and noble building, exceeding handsome, as a writer of the
sixteenth century describes it, built of brick, embattled for defence,
and surrounded at the top with crenelles, the chase always green, and in
which the Court can walk in summer. Indeed, every part around St.
James's, built upon and populated as it now is, at the period of our
story was the occasional haunt of Queen Elizabeth, where she rode,
walked, and meditated, considered her household affairs, or disported
with her ladies, her courtiers, and her lovers.
And what a picture did the scene without the palace exhibit a few weeks
after the dispersion of the Armada, and whilst many of these noblemen
and gentry, who, at the moment remained in London, were in constant
attendance upon the Queen, and endeavouring to outshine each other in
their devices and designs.
It is near the hour of noon; the sun shines upon tower and turret, and
glances bright upon the arms of the various sentinels upon rampart and
gateway. Within, the courtyard is crowded with men-at-arms and persons
of all ranks passing in and out. And amongst these are the stately forms
of many whom the page of history has had occasion to tell of. In the
park without, numerous youthful cavaliers are careering about, mounted
upon steeds splendidly caparisoned, whilst a mounted guard of honour
stands enranked about a bow-shot in front of the principal entrance.
Huntsmen and falconers too, bedight with the royal arms, their
greyhounds in couples, and other dogs of the chase, are seen amidst the
clank of arms, as the sentinels are relieved. Nay, the perfume of the
scented courtiers pervade the air as they dismount and enter the palace.
The steaming smell of hot dishes and savoury viands also salute the
nostril, as cooks, scallions, servitors, and pages, are seen in the
inner court leading from the kitchen, as the hour approaches for the
royal banquet.
Shift the scene to the interior, and a magnificent sight strikes the
eye, "the presence strew'd." The walls are hung with rich tapestry, and
on either hand are the nobles of the Court, "a glittering throng." The
Queen is about to pass through, and all are bare-headed. What a picture
do those men present! Cloaked, ruffed, and rapiered, their Very apparel
and arms studded with jewels, their bearded faces, so celebrated for
manly beauty,--for the Queen loves to look upon the handsomest men the
age can produce,--and limbs, and thews, and features, are sure to find
favour in her sight. Whilst the nobility stand thus enranked, (many of
lesser note at the bottom of the chamber,) a gentleman usher, dressed in
velvet, with a golden chain, suddenly appears, the doors are thrown
open, and the majestic Tudor is announced as at hand.
First come forth, with proud step and reared heads, some of those lately
so celebrated in the "world's debate." Bare-headed, they have had
especial and private audience in the presence. Raleigh, with hawk's eye
and aquiline features, his very spirit glancing as he looks
good-naturedly, but haughtily around. Then Essex, majestic in mien and
regal-looking in demeanour, and seeming to carry on his dress the cost
of whole manors. Then Leicester, splendid in person and dress, but with
somewhat of a restless, uneasy, and sinister expression; dark as a
gipsy, and so haughty and unbending in demeanour, that his countenance
freezes the blood in the gazer's veins, and yet withal wearing a sort of
smile, ever and anon, to shew his pearly teeth; his hand plays nervously
with the hilt of his jewelled poniard, as he bows to the several nobles
he recognises. And so they file in, and fall into line on either hand.
And now, whatever of conversation, amidst the assemblage, has been going
on, suddenly ceases; and each man standing erect, and with his
embroidered cloak advanced somewhat over the left arm, the one hand upon
the rapier's heavy hilt, the plumed hat in the other--with eyes of
expectation, await the moment of the Queen's appearance. A flourish of
twelve trumpets and two kettle-drums immediately ring and rattle out;
the battle-axes of the gentlemen-at-arms are lowered; and, lo, the
Majesty of England has passed the door.
Elizabeth at this period of her reign was fifty-six years of age. Her
face, although exceedingly majestic, shewed the deep furrows of
care--the care which is the heir-loom of the diadem; her nose was
somewhat hooked; her lips, narrow; her teeth, discoloured. In her ears
she wore two enormous pearls with rich drops; and her small crown rested
upon a mass of false red hair. Her bosom it was her pleasure to display
uncovered (the custom of all English ladies before marriage); on her
neck was a necklace of costly jewels. The dress she wore was of white
silk, embroidered with enormous pearls, larger than beans. Over this
dress she wore a costly mantle of coloured silk, shot with silver
threads; and her long train was borne by a marchioness. In addition to
all this, she wore, in place of a chain, a magnificent collar of gold
and jewels. Her aspect upon the whole was at first sight pleasing; but
on a steady view of her countenance, there was to be found the
unendurable look of a line of kings. The eye that could gaze down a
lion; the fierce glance of the royal Harry, was there; a glance which
proclaimed the excitable nature of the Tudor blood.
She remained stationary for a few brief moments as soon as she entered
the room, and seemed to comprehend the whole assemblage in one rapid
glance. She then advanced, with her bevy of attendant ladies, and, at
her pleasure, spoke first to one and then another of the nobles present.
To one or two giving her hand to kiss, as a mark of special favour, her
favourites (albeit they had already been favoured with a private
audience) being every now and then appealed to; whilst the moment her
eye detected any person of peculiar note, or not immediately belonging
to her circle, she fixed him like a basilisk.
"Ah! Master Spenser," she said, as she stopped near the author of the
"Faery Queen," "hast thou received the guerdon I promised thee for thy
song yet? We rated Burleigh soundly for disobeying our orders, and
bringing forth that jangling rhyme of thine, which touched our honour.
Let me see how went it;" and the Queen repeated, with good emphasis and
discretion, the words of the poet:
"I was promised on a time.
To have reason for my rhyme:
Since that time until this season,
I have had nor rhyme nor reason."
"The radiant Gloriana," said Spenser, "doth overmuch honour my poor
couplet by repeating it; nevertheless the rhyme still hath reason. Of
that, our shepherd of the ocean[24] can testify."
[Footnote 24: Raleigh.]
"How! Raleigh," said the Queen, "hath not thy friend received the
hundred pounds I promised him? This is overbold of Burleigh!" And the
eye of the Queen shewed the lioness' glance as she looked around for
the offender. Burleigh, however, had anticipated a storm, and sought the
lower end of the room; meanwhile Raleigh, who seldom let an opportunity
pass for pressing any suit he had to carry, replied that Spenser had as
yet received nothing of the promised coin.
"My friend is as unlucky as myself," he said; "for neither hath he
received his guerdon, any more than I myself have obtained the grant of
lands your gracious bounty half promised."
"Ah!" said the Queen, (who spite of her partiality for the wit, genius,
and valour of the adventurous and daring knight, little relished his
rapacity). "Ah!" she said, "what, that suit of the fields at Mitcham
again? And when will you cease to be a beggar, Raleigh?"
Raleigh saw he had half offended, but his impudence and readiness
brought him through. "When your Majesty ceases to be a benefactress," he
said, gracefully bowing.
The angry spot left the Queen's brow. She smiled and shook her head.
"Thou art an accomplished courtier," she said, as she passed on, "but
thou gettest not the Mitcham meadows of us yet notwithstanding."
"What mutterest thou, Tarleton?" she continued sharply, to one of the
attendant clowns or comedians, whom she frequently admitted to her
presence.
"I mutter nothing that I will not stand to, Madona," said Tarleton; "and
that which your Majesty calls muttering, was but an assurance to my
gossip, Raleigh, of all he requires, Raleigh hath but to open his mouth,
and the tid bits from your royal table are sure to be cast into it."
"So!" said the Queen, rather angrily.
"Yes," returned the bold jester, "Look but on my lord there--he of the
dark eye and olive complexion. By my fay, he hath swollen to such a huge
bulk in the sunshine of your royal eye, that anon we shall all be
overwhelmed!"
This sally of Tarleton's against the Earl of Leicester was received with
a titter of applause, and Burleigh, who had indeed tutored the poor
jester, greatly enjoyed it.
Elizabeth saw the feeling, and affecting to hear it with unconcern,
turned to another of the court fools. "Well, Pace," she said, "and now I
suppose we shall hear from you also of our faults."
"What is the use of speaking of that which all the town is talking of?"
growled Pace.
Although the Queen permitted considerable license to men of this class,
she was more deeply offended than she chose to shew, and passed on
without another word. A few moments afterwards, however, both Pace and
Tarleton were observed, at a hint from one of the gentlemen-at-arms, to
quit the presence.
"Ah, Bacon," said the Queen to her ample-browed Lord Keeper, "we are
sorry to see thee still suffering from the old enemy, the gout. Remain
not standing here, my lord; go sit thee down. We make use of your good
head, not your bad legs!"
Lord Bacon, nothing loth, bowed and hobbled off.
"My Lord Bacon's soul lodgeth well," she observed to one of her ladies,
"and truly do we honour him therefore. We are the enemy of all dwarfs
and monsters in shape, and would have all appointments, either civil or
military, bestowed on men of good appearance. What sayest thou?"
"Certies, I am woman enough to be of your Majesty's opinion," answered
the lady; "and yet your Majesty cannot always suit wit and judgment with
a splendid dwelling: witness your royal choice of Sir Robert Cecil."
"True," said the Queen, "Cecil hath both a mean look and an ugly
expression; but we cannot want the crook back."
The Queen now turned, and taking Leicester aside, held him for some time
in conversation, during which all kept aloof. She then, as it was near
the hour of dining, again passed down the line, still speaking to and
noticing all she felt any inclination to propitiate, Leicester, Raleigh,
and one or two of the more privileged courtiers following. As she passed
into the second chamber, she observed amongst the _elite_ several whose
rank had not entitled them to be in the presence-chamber; and wherever
her eye fell on a handsome face and form, she stopped and made inquiry
concerning such persons.
"I pray you, Mignonne," she said, turning to one of her ladies, "who is
yonder handsome youth--he who stands there near the door?"
"I know not his name, Madam," said the lady.
"Pshaw," said the Queen, "I have ever those about me who are ignorant.
Leicester," she continued, "what is the name of yonder youth?"
"He whom your Majesty's eye hath fascinated, even to the crimsoning of
his cheeks," said Leicester, "is Charles Blount."
"Nay," said the Queen, "I could have sworn there was good blood in his
veins. He is brother of Lord William Mountjoye, is he not so?"
"He is, Madam," said Leicester, "his younger brother, and now studying
at the inns of court. He was in Drake's ship, and did good service
against the Spaniard."
"Nay," said Elizabeth, "by my fay, an he was with Drake, he was like to
be where blows were rife. Bid him approach."
The youth accordingly came forward and knelt to the Queen, who, still
more struck by his handsome form and features, gave him her hand to
kiss.
"Come again to Court, good Master Blount," she said, "and I will bethink
me of your future fortunes."
The young man again blushed, and being extremely bashful, stammered some
incoherent reply of thanks which, still more interested the Queen, and
again she added words of encouragement.
The Earls of Essex and Leicester smiled contemptuously, and Essex, who
stood near the Queen, made some sneering remark, which was partially
overheard. Not even, however, could the favourite Essex escape censure
at such a moment.
"Ha!" she said (turning sharply upon him), "say'st thou, my Lord? Stand
back, lest we teach you manners here."
Essex bit his lip, but he was fain to obey, observing to my Lord
Southampton "that every fool he thought was coming into favour."
"Then," said Southampton, who stood near, "'tis fit we introduce
something not altogether so silly, and there is one here to-day I much
wish her Majesty to notice. Ha! and look ye, she hath already found
him."
"Of whom speak ye?" inquired Essex.
"Of one well beloved by thee," said Southampton. "See thou not the man
there standing amidst the throng, somewhat behind the beefeaters?"
"I do," said Essex. "'Tis Will Shakespeare."
Meanwhile, whilst Essex, whose proud spirit being somewhat chafed, had
thus remained behind the royal party, the Queen passed on talking right
and left as was her wont, and discussing matters of political interest
with those near her. "We will think of this matter, my Lord of
Effingham," she said, in answer to something that noble had said. "I am
ready, as thou hast seen, to arm for defence, but I make no wars."
"Nevertheless, your majesty should strike a blow at Spain ere he recover
the effects of his discomfiture. I hear again of formidable preparations
being in contemplation to avenge the destruction of his ships. Nay,
Philip hath affirmed, and that on oath, that he will be revenged even if
he is reduced to pawn the last candlestick on his altar."
"Nay, my Lord," said the Queen, "if the dollars of silver and ingots of
gold, and which the wretched Indians work for in their native mines,
could effect the conquest of this realm, he would assuredly succeed, hut
I fear him not. We have stout hearts and heavy blades here in England to
oppose to his glittering coin. Whilst you yourself, Raleigh, Frobisher,
Drake, and other daring spirits are ready for the sea, we shall hold our
own, my Lord."
"Nevertheless, your Majesty will, I trust, hear at a future opportunity
what myself and my Lord of Essex have to urge in favour of an expedition
against Spain."
"It may be we will hear both," said the Queen, "but in truth Essex is
hardly to be entrusted with command. His impetuosity requireth a bridle,
my Lord, rather than a spur. He is the soul of chivalry, but rash as he
is brave; and see you there now," she said, turning and looking after
Essex, "I reproved him but with one word, and his choler is aroused even
towards us, his benefactress."
The Queen turned now to a tall, gaunt, but exceedingly noble looking old
man, his costume partaking both of the soldier and the courtier. "Sir
Thomas Lucy," she said, "we have heard of your gallantry during the
action with the Armada. We thank, in your presence, all those gentlemen
of fair Warwickshire for their alacrity in fitting out ships, and their
bravery in fighting them. We heard of you Sir Thomas, in the hottest
part of the battle."
"And where your Highness shall ever find me when the foes of England are
to be met," said the old knight, proudly, and at the same time rearing
his head as he watched the progress of the royal Tudor, Presently,
however, the countenance of Sir Thomas underwent a slight change, he
seemed to start at some name her Majesty pronounced. His pale iron-gray
visage became flushed; nay, had Sir Thomas received an insult in the
presence, the expression of his countenance could not have more
instantly changed. Slowly and with contracted brows, his eyes rested
upon the person Her Majesty was speaking to, and that, indeed, not five
paces from where he himself stood. He was fixed--astonished. He could
scarcely believe his eyes.
"What! Master Shakespeare," said the Queen, as her eagle-eye caught
sight of the poet standing amongst a crowd of officials, "and so thou
too hast come to Court? We have not ourself yet seen thy last poem--thy
Tarquin and Lucrece, but Raleigh and Essex have repeated some passages
to us."
Shakespeare bent his knee and presented a small roll of paper to the
Queen, which she received graciously, and after glancing at it, "'tis
well," she said, "we will, good William, be present." She then gave the
poet her hand to kiss and passed through the door.
As Shakespeare rose from his knee he was immediately accosted and
congratulated by the Earls of Essex and Southampton, whilst many others
of the Court came about him.
Sir Thomas Lucy, meanwhile, continued to exhibit the utmost
astonishment. The countenance of the poet he could hardly mistake. The
name, too, he had caught the sound of, and in the person of one
apparently on the most familiar terms with the grandees of Elizabeth's
court, nay, one who was received with favour by the haughty Tudor
herself, he saw the individual who had broke his park, stolen his deer,
and decamped to avoid punishment for his offence.
Whilst, therefore, Shakespeare stood amidst the glittering throng, Sir
Thomas still continued rapt in astonishment. Proud as he himself was, he
felt (in common with all country squires), that removed from his own
little domain, and transplanted into the wondrous world of fashion of
London, he was but a "cypher in the great accompt." But a small mite
indeed, helping to swell the grandeur of the court.
"A substitute shines brightly as a king
Until a king be by, and then his state
Empties itself (as doth an inland brook,)
Into the main of waters."
"A parliament member," he muttered to himself, as the lampoon kept
recurring to his mind, and as he watched the courtiers, so interested
and so joyous, whilst in the influence of Shakespeare's wit. "It must be
him--I am sure it's him--I know it's him--A justice of peace," he
muttered: "at home a poor scarecrow. And on such terms here at court
too! In London an ass," he continued, as he approached somewhat nearer,
and took a more keen survey of the unconscious poet. "Yes, it is him
sure enough; and yet--I'll make bold to make sure," and Sir Thomas
accosted Sir Christopher Hatton, and inquired somewhat tartly, the name
of the gentleman who seemed to keep the Lords Essex, Bacon, Leicester,
and Sir Walter Raleigh, in such exceeding mirth.
"His name?" said Hatton, who was himself hastening to the feast of wit,
"Why, it's our Shakespeare, man--The gentle Will--Knowest thou not Will
Shakespeare, the very element of wit and pleasantry?"
"Shakespeare!" said Sir Thomas. "Shakespeare! Thank you. Sir
Christopher. Shakespeare! the element of wit and pleasantry! And what
may be the present calling of this element of whit?" he inquired.
"His calling; why, he's an actor, Sir Thomas--a poet, and a right good
one. A player, sir, and a writer of plays; one, too, who keeps us
amused.
"Oh!" said Sir Thomas, "'Tis so, is it? Good!--an actor--a mummer--a
morisco."
"Come, Sir Thomas," said Sir Christopher, "I'll make him known to thee;
I'll assure you he's a rare fellow, this Will Shakespeare."
"I thank you, la," said the knight truly. "I hold not acquaintance with
mummers and wild moriscos. Farewell, Sir Christopher, I am away to
Warwickshire. An ass, quotha. Well, this 'tis to have deer, and parks,
and warrens--this 'tis to be a player. The world's turned athwart.
Farewell, Sir Christopher, (he continued hurriedly to the dancing
favorite,) fail not to come to Charlecote, we'll kill the buck
there--eh?" And so Sir Thomas left the palace.