THE POET AND HIS FRIENDS.
The success of Shakespeare's play of Romeo and Juliet had placed him in
a somewhat different situation amongst his companions of the theatre. By
the majority he was immediately looked up to as a rising star, and
whilst others again viewed him with increasing envy, there were one or
two who were so much struck with the extraordinary merit of the
composition that they already pronounced him the wonder of the age.
Such, however, was the agitated state of the kingdom at the moment, and
fears, factions, and jealousies, so absorbed the minds of men of all
ranks, that except beyond the circle of his own professional brethren,
and amongst his own immediate friends of the Court, my Lord of Essex,
Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Southampton, &c., the effect produced was,
after all, but evanescent.
The English nation at this time was yet struggling to emerge from
barbarity. The philology of Italy had been transplanted hither in the
reign of Henry the Eighth, and the learned languages cultivated by
Lilly, Linacre, More, and others. Greek was now taught in some of the
principal schools, and many of the learned read the Italian and Spanish
poets. But still literature was even yet confined in a great measure to
professed scholars, or persons of high rank. The body public was but
gross and dark; and to read and write, an accomplishment valued
according to its rarity.
Thus, then, the people who witnessed the great curiosity of
Shakespeare's new play hardly knew how to judge. It was welcome even to
the most rude and vulgar; they looked at it with a sort of childish
wonder. It was a delicious and startling change from the giants,
dragons, and enchantments they had been used to. Nay, it even bid fair
to supersede the interesting exhibition of the bear hugging the dog to
death, or the bull driven into madness by agony. The show and bustle of
the new play even charmed the rudesby's, who could scarce even
comprehend the beauty and elegance of the poetry.
It was on the morning of the same day on which Grasp had witnessed the
execution in Smithfield, that Shakespeare made his unsuccessful
application to the Earl of Leicester in behalf of his friend Arderne.
After his interview with the fallen favourite, the poet returned, sad
and somewhat out of sorts, to his new lodgings in Blackfriars. As was
his wont on all occasions wherein his capacious mind had received an
impression, he contemplated the object that had furnished it. Indeed,
his interview with that ambitious courtier, whose whole life had been a
mistake, had been to him a whole volume. "How wretched," he thought, "is
that poor man that hangs on prince's favours!" and then he seized his
pen and wrote,--
"Fling away ambition,
By that sin fell the angels, how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to rise by it."
Whilst the poet wrote, as was not uncommonly the case, a whole levee of
visitors continually interrupted his labours. This, however, was a
circumstance that seemed rather to aid than disturb the current of his
thoughts. He laid down his pen to laugh with the light-hearted, and he
thrust aside his manuscript to listen to the more serious. He was all
things with all men. The courtier, the soldier, the scholar, all and
each found in him something to wonder at and admire. On this day, which
was the sixth for the representation of his play, his visitors were
numerous. In addition to many of his brother authors, several of the
actors and other persons connected with the theatre, the Earl of Essex,
Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Southampton, and the poet Spenser, sought him
in his lodging. Master Doubletongue too, who on this day had been
seeking an opportunity of introducing himself into the house, as he met
with some actor or other visitor coming out, hesitated as to the safety
of such espial. Nay, he felt considerably astonished at the number and
quality of the persons who seemed, as the day advanced, to come
thronging about the locality.
Whilst he continued watching for some person he appeared to expect, he
beheld the open space in front of the house filled with the attendants
of several nobles of the Court; their magnificent steeds, gaily
caparisoned, being led up and down, or held by servitors with the
emblazoned badges of the favourites of the Queen.
It is indeed curious to consider the poet himself during the visit of
these magnificoes, and who, in the enjoyment of his society, sought a
new pleasure; visitors who, like himself, were elevated above "the
common cry of curs," and, leaving their high rank out of the question,
worthy of the friendship of Shakespeare. The poet himself, too, was
perfectly at his ease in the company of these haughty nobles. He sat and
conversed with them in all the freedom of unchecked enjoyment.
To attempt any description of the conversation carried on amongst these
choice and master spirits of the age would be vain and ridiculous, since
it exceeds the power of our pen to describe it. Nay, were it possible so
to do, we must of necessity furnish forth to the world a dialogue such
as is only to be found in the page of him who acted as the host to the
assemblage.
Let us look at the picture, for it is one worthy of regard. Shakespeare
sits beneath the ample chimney, his table is before him, strewed with
papers. He leans back in his chair; a divine expression, a sweet smile
is on his bearded face. Opposite to him is his patron, Lord Southampton,
his chin resting upon the hilt of his sheathed rapier, his eyes and ears
intent upon the subject Shakespeare is speaking of. Beside Shakespeare,
leaning his cheek upon his hand, his elbow upon the table, sits the
magnificent Essex; he also is intently regarding the poet, admiration in
his gaze. Standing somewhat behind Lord Southampton, his back against
the carved chimney, is the poet Spenser. Raleigh sits within the
embayment of the window; his plumed hat is carelessly thrown down beside
him, and his quick, restless glance is ever and anon turned from the
poet towards the different craft which pass and repass upon the Thames
below. Beside these, _elite_ of the company, there is Tarleton, the
comedian and Court fool, who, under cover of his folly, shoots his bolts
upon all the party. One more addition, and the party is completed; and
it is made up by the dissolute friend of the poet, the fat and jovial
Froth.
Whilst they are engaged in conversation, the drawer from an adjoining
tavern enters with wine and other refreshments. From long-necked and
quaint-looking bottles is poured the wines of Gascony and Spain. The
means, too, and appliances for indulgence in Sir Walter's favourite weed
is then handed round, and (as was the custom of the period) each guest
takes a whiff; the thin blue smoke mounts into the air, and eddies about
the carved ceiling; and, as the mirth and joviality of the party grows
faster, time flies unheeded by, the shadows descend upon the Thames,
again and again the bottles are renewed, and another day dawns upon the
party, ere they recollect how the hours have fled.
Can our readers wonder at this, when they remember of what that party
consisted, and their entertainer? Those magnificoes had come to pay the
poet a morning visit, and they had stayed half a day and one entire
night. Shakespeare was their entertainer!
As the first faint streaks of dawn began to "lace the severing clouds,"
the poet stood alone in his apartment. His guests had left him, and his
room shewed tokens of the revel they had been engaged in.
The revellers had drank deep, for they were such as would be most likely
to give themselves up to the peculiar enjoyment of the hour. Shakespeare
had cheered the cup for them.
As the glorious poet glanced upon the heap of empty flaskets, broken
bottles, remnants of long-necked glasses, and capacious bowled pipes,
together with all the _debris_ of a long-continued orgie, he smiled, and
stepping to the lattice-window, threw it open, and stood to enjoy the
refreshing breeze from the river.
Whilst he stood and gazed upon the Thames, the boats containing his
recent guests glided past, on their way to Greenwich; for Essex and
Southampton, when they found themselves regularly set in for an orgie,
had some time before sent away their steeds.
They waved their hands an they passed, on observing the poet, and he
remained listening to the music from the boat which followed the barge
of Essex, as it grew fainter and fainter in the distance.
As Shakespeare turned from the window, the arras near the fire-place was
lifted, and two persons noiselessly entered. He started as he beheld
them, for by the faint morning light he distinguished in one of them the
beautiful female we have before remarked, dwelling beneath his roof; the
other was our old friend Martin. Something more than ordinary he well
knew must have caused her to enter the wing of the building he
inhabited; in addition to which, he saw she was equipped in her
masculine costume, and, together with her companion, prepared for a
journey.
"We have come to bid you farewell," she said, as the poet stepped up to
her, and took her hand.
"This is somewhat sudden," he returned. "I hoped to have been of your
party into Warwickshire."
"Certain spies, good Master Shakespeare," said Martin, "have it seems
noted this lady's residence beneath your roof, and she has fallen under
suspicion of treasonable matter."
"Yes," said the lady, "my faithful friend and adviser here has
discovered so much. My presence here might even compromise you, my kind
friend and preserver. We have therefore resolved, at once, to set off on
our journey."
"And how then have you learnt this?" inquired Shakespeare.
"Nay, heed not my means of intelligence," said Martin. "Thou know'st I
possess the secret of divination, or I could never have at last escaped
the Spanish Inquisition, and discovered the residence of this lady in
London. Suffice it we know our danger, and must fly."
"And do you then still purpose seeking Kenilworth?" inquired Shakespeare
of his beautiful friend.
"I do," she replied. "Lady Leicester is my friend. She will, I trust,
be able to do service to him we wish well to. My best hope is from that
quarter."
"I have already seen the Earl," said Shakespeare, "and my own
expectations, in that quarter, touch ground."
"From the Earl himself I never entertained a particle of hope," said the
lady, "his Countess may, however, serve us, for she is my friend."
"All good angels, then, speed you on your journey!" said Shakespeare. "I
have myself other chances here. The Earl of Essex hath promised to speak
with the Queen, ere another day passes, added to which, Lord Southampton
and Sir Walter Raleigh have sworn to back his suit."
"Have you, then, seen the Earl of Essex on this matter?" inquired
Martin, in some surprise.
"He and Lord Southampton were here but now," said Shakespeare, smiling,
and pointing to the confused state of the apartment. "Behold the witness
of their revel. Some ten minutes back they left me to take boat for
Greenwich, where the Queen at present stays."
"Farewell, then," said the lady sorrowing, "we dare no longer stay, may
we soon meet again!"
"Heaven grant it, fair excellence," said Shakespeare, "until I again
revisit my home in Warwickshire, I shall have but small contentment. But
until I see my friend out of jeopardy, and clear of imprisonment, I have
neither home nor friends there."
"'Tis like yourself," said the lady. "Farewell! We shall soon then meet,
I trust. Walter Arderne once relieved from durance, and my task is
effected."