SIR THOMAS LUCY IN LONDON.
The more Sir Thomas Lucy heard, during his sojourn in London on the subject that had so startled him at Court, the more he wondered.
It was but a few days after he had caught a glimpse of the Warwickshire lad, whom he had hunted from his native town, that he found the name of William Shakespeare in the mouths of almost all he met. That his name should be at all subject of conversation at this precise moment, was indeed astonishing, considering the habits and pursuits of the generality of the Londoners. The warm citizens of London were for the most part a staid and grave set. The more juvenile were rude and rough; fond of athletic sports and out-door pastimes. They loved to see the bear tug and hug the hound; to witness the cruel conflict 'twixt mastiff and monkey; to see the bull driven to madness; or to shout over the bout at quarter-staff. Added to these pastimes it must be owned, however, that the patience with which they could sit at a (so-called) theatrical exhibition, and listen to the long-winded orations, speeches, and mysteries then in fashion, and which had been handed from their more ignorant ancestors, was a perfect marvel; for except that the fool or clown uttered here and there a conceit, a theatrical exhibition was a weary business. Shakespeare, who had now spent some time, in a sort of apprenticeship, amongst the players, had already altered this style; and just before the invasion of the Spaniards, he had perfectly astonished the town by producing a piece of his own writing—a play, which, albeit in our own time it is in comparison but slightly regarded, possessed in Elizabeth's day peculiar attractions. This play, which was called Pericles, had greatly delighted the Court and the city. It in some sort partook of the style of production most suited to the taste of the time, and prepared the way for more perfect productions.
It is not therefore matter of so much surprise, that just at this precise moment, when the fierce revelry consequent upon the dispersion of the Armada was beginning to pall upon the "monster with uncounted heads," the circumstance of William Shakespeare being about to produce another play, should make some stir.
As Sir Thomas passed through the Golden Chepe, he found, by the conversation of many whom he met, that the Queen intended to be at the Blackfriars Theatre that afternoon.
Now Sir Thomas had never in his life been inside a theatre in London. He had seen mysteries, mummeries, morris-dances, and Christmas revels in his own hall at Charlecote. But other sort of dramatic representation, in common with others of his class, he had no conception of or care for.
"Diccon," he said to one of the attendants who walked behind him (for Sir Thomas always promenaded the town with half-a-dozen serving men at his back,) "What is this play we heard my Lord Keeper speaking of?"
"Marry, Sir Thomas, it is a play written, I be informed, by one Sampson Beakspere of this town."
"Ah," said Sir Thomas, "Beakspere, said ye? Art sure that is the name?"
"One cannot be sure of anything, an it so please ye, in this sink of iniquity," said Diccon, "where lying, thieving, and every sort of villany existeth in open daylight. Nay, one cannot be sure of finding one's throat hale and sound in the morning when one lays down at night. By the same token, at the hostel where I lay, they cut off the badge containing the three silver pike-fish from all our sleeves."
"Beakspeare," said Sir Thomas, merely glancing at the denuded coat sleeve of his head serving-man. "Art sure it is not Shakespeare, Diccon?"
"I cannot tell your honour. Beakspere was the name I understood, but it may probably be Shakespeare. Nay, I should not be surprised even if it was the very fellow who stole your honour's deer and stuck up bills against our park-gates. Nothing is too bad for this town and the people in it. I would we were fairly back in Warwickshire."
Sir Thomas looked hard at his serving-man, so unusually talkative in his presence. "Amongst other things they do in this town, Diccon," he said sharply, "it seems they have taught you to drink more strong beer before breakfast than your brains can bear. Go to, sirrah; less circumstance when you answer." And the stately knight held his way along Chepe.
On this morning he was intending to pay a visit to an old friend residing at Dowe-gate, and afterwards to take boat, at Styll-yard, and cross over to Bank-side, there to see the bear-bayting, and accordingly his serving-men turned down Bucklersbury, traversed Canwick Street, and completely bewildered themselves in East Chepe.
These thoroughfares were somewhat strait and exceedingly intricate in Elizabeth's day, whilst the encroaching stories of the houses grazed the plumes on the tall knight's castor, as he walked, so much so that he was fain to hold down his head. By which proceeding he, ever and anon, run full butt against some tall fellow or other, receiving such abuse as rather kept his philosophy from rusting.
"How now, thou mandrake, thou thin-faced gull!" said a tall man, dressed with great bravery, and who, accompanied by several others, was advancing from the water side; "how mean ye by that? Thou hast run thy hatchet visage full in my breast, and murdered my ruff, thou ass!"
"I cry ye mercy, fair sir," said Sir Thomas, who was always the gentleman. "I am as ready to make amends, as I have unconsciously offended."
"Offended, quotha," said the gallant, as he stood pluming himself, like a bird, and pinching out his crushed ruff, which starched with yellow starch stood out a foot at least from his neck. "Thou hast murdered my ruff, I tell thee, and shalt duly answer it."
"Of a verity," said Sir Thomas, "an I have endamaged thy ruff I will pay thy laundress coin wherewith to re-stiffen it. An I have ruffled thine honour I will give the reparation with my rapier, always presuming thou art a gentleman of coat armour, and fit opponent for my poor person, for thy language, to say sooth, is foul, and thy manner coarse even for this foul town."
"How speakest thou,—a gentleman and fit opponent for thee? Betake thee straight to thy weapon. Know I am a gentleman to the Earl of Leicester."
"Diccon," said Sir Thomas, sheathing his half-drawn rapier and stepping aside, "this is thy business. Tell this caitiff, that the language and behaviour of a menial should be at least civilized when he encounters a gentleman."
"Wilt not fight with me?" said the bully, who, together with his fellow, now rudely pressed upon the knight's party.
"Not willingly will I fight with a scavenger," said Sir Thomas, "the quarrel shall be a good quarrel, for I will fasten it upon the Earl thy master. I stand aside here—smite him, Diccon—well, Diccon—lay on my men all, and clear a passage. I would pass on."
Upon this the followers of Sir Thomas threw the round targets they carried on their left arms, before their breasts, and, spreading out over the whole width of the thoroughfare, drew their blades, and advancing upon the rude followers of the Earl of Leycester bore them back, so that Sir Thomas passed on his way to the bear-bayting.