THE POET AND HIS PATRON.
Whilst he gives his thoughts tongue, the door opens, and a bulky form seems to fill up the entrance—no other, indeed, than our old Stratford acquaintance John Froth.
"Ah! thou mad compound," said Froth, "and is such thy advice to the fraternity of the Blackfriars?"
"It is," returned Shakespeare.
"Then would we might see it approved in the acting," said Froth; "but 'tis thrown away upon me, as thou know'st. I am not for the personation of aught requiring such rules. If I am to turn mummer, I must enact something fit for a man of my parts to appear in."
"And therefore," said Shakespeare, "will I write a character fit only for thy huge bulk and greater follies."
"Nay, by my fay," said Froth, "I thought thou hadst already put me into shape, for so hast thou promised any time these two months past."
"'Tis better as it is," said Shakespeare, "for till I saw thy vagaries during this last affair with the Spaniard, thy arrant cowardice, thy shifts, for preferment, and then thy desire to keep out of action, I hardly could have displayed such a marvellous compound of frailty and flesh."
"Trouble me not with the remembrance thereof," said Froth; "I received my guerdon, my remuneration, and that was the aim in end."
"And which remuneration thou hast already dissipated in dice and liquor,—is't not so?" inquired Shakespeare.
"Thou hast spoken it, and not I," said Froth, "and so spoken it that I may hardly venture to gainsay it. Wilt furnish me forthwith a few crowns for present need, good William?"
"The more readily," returned Shakespeare, as he handed him the coin, "as I would fain be rid o' thee. See'st thou not, thou idle reveller, that I am busy here with deep premeditated lines—with written matters studiously devised?"
"Well, Will, I will hinder thee not. I will mar not thy labours. I will but fill me a chalice, and drink success to thy muse, and then to the tavern."
So saying, Froth helped himself from the flask upon the table, and pledged the health of his friend, smacking his lips after the draught with a sense of ineffable relish.
"Thou art a wondrous fellow, Will," he said, as he looked upon his friend; "thou wilt thrive. But, in sooth, envy already begins to dog thy heels. Green and Marlow like thee not, William; Green calls thee an upstart crow dressed with his feathers."
"Ah!" said Shakespeare, smiling, "methinks Green hath little reason to speak thus, seeing I have imp'd his wing with some of my own feathers. He will scarce say that to my face."
"Nay," said Froth, "I dare be sworn he will not, for many of them know thee too well to offer insult to thy face. Marlow too speaks of thee as that 'tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide.'"
"Well," said Shakespeare, "their sayings pass by me like the wind. I pr'ythee be nought awhile, if thou art to remain here, or else betake thyself to other haunts."
"Farewell," said Froth; "you shall find me at the old haunt in Paul's whilst this coin holds out."
Scarcely had Froth departed, ere the sound of horses was heard without, and a man of noble presence, dressed in the extreme of fashion of that age of brave attire, entered the room. Shakespeare instantly rose, and advanced to meet him.
"I am proud to welcome my Lord of Southampton to my poor lodging," said the poet.
"Nay, by my fay, not altogether so poor either," said the noble, looking around him. "I am glad to find thee removed from thy old haunt to so goodly a lodgment, good William."
"And am I not indebted to your lordship's kind favour and friendship for being thus well lodged?" said Shakespeare. "When we first met, my lord, I was somewhat lower in estate than at the present time. A poor unfriended outcast; I do, indeed, owe thee much."
"Not a whit," said the Earl; "you owe all to your own surpassing excellence. I am greatly charmed with thy Tarquin and Lucrece. Nay, Raleigh, Essex, and others do swear by it as the most exquisite thing extant. I, who know thee better, think even better of thee than shall here say."
"You do me too much honour, my Lord," said Shakespeare; "like Venus and Adonis, (and which I had the honour of dedicating to you), Tarquin and Lucrece was but a first effort, when I was green in judgment. I shall hope better to deserve with more experience."
"I pray you to inform me," said Lord Southampton, after a pause, "who and what is yonder companion of thine, and whom I met as I entered the house,—a gross, fat man?"
Shakespeare smiled at the question. "A strange fellow, my Lord," he replied, "and who was known to me in my native town, and whom I have lately fallen in with here. Like myself, he was obliged to fly from Stratford, and being in some difficulties, I procured him employment in the theatres."
"A somewhat bulky actor," said Lord Southampton, "is he not."
"Nevertheless one whom I think even of giving a part to. The man is himself a character worth the studying, and if he exhibits himself before the curtain as he does in his true character, cannot fail to keep the audience in continual laughter. His peculiar humour, tone of voice, look, and jesture, coupled to such a person, are almost indescribable. Added to this, he is so extraordinary a mimic that no one of us can move or speak before him, but he carries their voice, look, mien, and motion into another company.
"And yet upon the stage he may not be able to execute the same degree of perfection," said Southampton. "Some of your companions of the theatre, I have found prime fellows and witty knaves over their cups, and yet but heavy upon the boards."
"Truly so, my lord," said Shakespeare; "this is one of Nature's secrets, and which I have observed. Necessary qualifications which cannot be well spared in an actor, oftimes exist in men of the profession; and yet, with the assistance of all these united, we see such persons come forth upon the boards but poor and barren. In writing a character for my friend, I shall avoid making him play off his ordinary parts, except to produce himself when I think he will tell forcibly."
"I feel some curiosity to know this witty knave," said the noble "pr'ythee bring him with thee to Southampton House when next you come."
"Providing your lordship can away with his grossness, and resist the attacks he is sure to make upon your purse," said Shakespeare, "you will be amused with him. But, unluckily, 'tis a familiar creature who makes himself enemies as easily as his humour delights."
"And this new play of thine," said Southampton, "holds it still for next week?"
"It does, my lord," said Shakespeare.
"Then have I news for thee of price, good William," said Southampton. "The Queen intends to be present. She takes wondrous interest in all that thou dost, and has of late spoken most approvingly of thy efforts."
"I am much bounden to her Majesty," returned the poet; "and there again must feel grateful to your lordship for having turned her eye of favour towards my unworthy efforts."
"Thou hast sufficiently delighted us all, good William," said Lord Southampton; "and, if I am to judge by the mass of papers I behold here, you intend still further to delight us. Are these portions of manuscript pertaining to another production of the same sort?"
"In truth, my lord," said Shakespeare, "they do in some sort tend that way. But at present I am somewhat desultory in my doings. I have so many plans, on so many subjects, that what you behold are but the rough notes of such ideas as pass current. The scraps are of all sorts; perhaps fit for little else but to be cast to the waves without."
"Thou art, at least industrious," said Southampton, "and permit me to say, I believe not in the valueless quality of what I behold here. May I look upon one of these same unworthy scraps?" And Lord Southampton took up a fragment of paper containing some few lines of blank verse.
At first he seemed disposed to read it cursorily, as one slightly curious to know what had employed the pen of his friend. The very first line, however, seemed to strike him, and he read the verse attentively from beginning to end. He then recommenced it, and read it more slowly, observing the wondrous force of the lines more and more as he did so. He then stopped and looked at the pleasant smiling countenance of the writer, so unassuming, so devoid of all self-conceit, and then he read aloud—
"Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes:
Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devour'd
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
As done: Perseverance, dear my lord,
Keeps honour bright; To have done is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail,
In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;
For honour travels in a strait so narrow,
Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path;
For emulation hath a thousand sons,
That one by one pursue. If you give way,
Or hedge aside from the direct forth right,
Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by,
And leave you hindmost;—
Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,
O'errun and trampled on. Then what do they in present,
Though less than yours in past, most o'ertop yours:
For time is like a fashionable host
That slighly shakes his parting guest by the hand;
And with his arms out-stretch'd as he would fly,
Grasps in the corner: Welcome ever smiles,
And farewell goes that sighing."
"Why," he said, "thou hast written here a whole volume in a few brief lines. Not all the learning of the ancients ever produced so much in such compass. I will learn these lines, and have them ever before me. To what pertain they, good William?"
Shakespeare smiled. "Nay, 'tis but a fragment," he said. "My often rumination supplies many such. I shall perhaps adopt them in a play I have been thinking of writing."
"Thou wilt completely alter the old style of representation," said Southampton.
"'Tis my purpose so to do," returned Shakespeare.
"From what thou hast before shewn me," said Lord Southampton, "I think thou wilt do much. But bethink ye, William Shakespeare, albeit thou hast a quick wit and rapid pen, thou must not let things come hastily from thy hands. Good works, I take it, are plants of slow produce. The city lads and the inns of court have, I find, began to regard thee since thou hast remodelled the company of the Blackfriars. And hast thou," continued the earl after a pause, "still the name purpose of becoming a part proprietor in the theatre here?"
"Such is my ambition," said Shakespeare; "but that must be at a future period, when further success shall give warranty to my hopes."
"Nay, want of means shall not baulk thee, good William," said Lord Southampton, "since I see plainly that more power will greatly facilitate the bringing forth thy inimitable works. Look," he continued, taking the pen Shakespeare had been writing with, and scrawling a few lines, "there is an order for a thousand pounds; present it to my steward when thou wilt, and 'tis thine. Nay, double the sum, if required."
Shakespeare thanked his generous patron in terms of manly gratitude; and soon afterwards the noble, after appointing his poetic friend to visit him, took his leave.
After the departure of Lord Southampton, the poet sat for some time, with his forehead leaning upon his hand, gazing upon the order his friend had given him.
Between my Lord Southampton and Shakespeare there was the most sincere friendship. The young noble appreciated the genius of the man, and felt quite a veneration for him; whilst the poet honoured one possessed of the fine feelings and generous and heroic spirit belonging to a more early and chivalrous age.
Since Shakespeare's flight from Stratford some time had now elapsed, during which he had not returned there. He had made a vow not to do so until he could re-appear under circumstances that would disarm the malevolence of his enemies; not until he had achieved a name. Oft-times had he written, and as often heard from his friends, sending them the greater portion of his earnings his efforts continually brought in. This was not the first gift of Lord Southampton; and a considerable sum he had before received had enabled him to settle his wife and children in comfortable circumstances in his native town. The money his noble friend had just now conferred upon him gave him a nearer prospect of revisiting Stratford be thought. And so the poet, with renewed energy, seized his pen, and again gave vent to his wondrous conceptions. As he writes, he remembers former days, and his thoughts revert again to his own sweet home and its neighbourhood, and again he dips his pen in his own heart. Then he revels in the recollection of those orgies amidst the choice spirits of Old London. Those tavern suppers in the quaint dark courts where the hostels of the crowded city are situated. Those secluded taverns of Old London town now, indeed, no longer to be found. The player's loved haunt, and where the rollicking 'prentice and even occasionally, the nobles of the Court congregated. Where he himself had fallen in with the Alsatian bully, the humourist, and all the varieties of the tavern haunter of the age; and from such he now draws his character, life-like and real, as if they walked and breathed and spoke before him.
And so the first part of the day passes, and still Shakespeare writes, for the fit is upon him, and like many of his class, albeit he spends in whole weeks, at times in joviality, excursionising with his comrades to Windsor and Greenwich, and "dafling the world aside" with the idlest; still there comes upon the man fits of deep thought, which are only to be relieved by the pen.
Whilst he writes, as the clanking tones of the clock of Barnard's Castle strike the sixth hour, the sound of a lute is heard in an adjoining apartment, accompanied by a voice of ravishing sweetness.