THE TAVERN.
It was about an hour after the performance we have attempted to describe, that a solitary individual stood near the water-gate of the monastery of the Blackfriars. He stood, apparently lost in thought, and listening to the distant sound of music on the waters—the roll of the kettle-drum and the flourish of trumpet, as the Queen and her party returned towards St. James's.
As Shakespeare stood thus alone (after having attended the Queen to the Abbey stairs, and seen her embark), all around seemed dark and sombre. The cloisters of that abbey no longer flashed in the torch-light; the theatre was empty and deserted; all that was brilliant had departed—vanished like the pleasures of the world, and left a dreary contrast behind him.
"Oh, time," he thought to himself, "thou art the most indefatigable of things! The past is gone, the future to come, and the present becomes the past even while we attempt to define it,—like the flash of lightning, it exists and expires."
His companions of the theatre had sought the genial license of the tavern, there to revel over the success of the night, and canvass the merits and demerits of what they had enacted; and whilst he, the poet himself, the idol of the hour, and whom all wished to have with them, felt at that moment unfitted for society.
As he cast his eyes up at the "brave o'erhanging firmament, fretted with golden fire," he felt that "the wide, the universal theatre," was at that moment most congenial to his soul.
Whilst numerous boats continued to pass and repass, many of them filled with companies who had witnessed the performance, he hailed one he observed disengaged; and after rowing to his own lodging, and changing his dress, he re-embarked.
We have already stated that the mind of the man had not been elevated beyond bounds at the success he had achieved. To such a mind as Shakespeare's the prosperity of the hour was more likely to produce a degree of melancholy than any undue elevation. An incomprehensible feeling of contempt and distrust of all worldly success. Perhaps of all mortals this great man was the least given to vanity. The present hour would indeed seem to proclaim as much. He was on that night wished for, sought for, not only by many of the nobles who had witnessed his play, but his companions of the stage too sought for him to join their tavern revel after the performance, and several of the audience had even lingered about the doors, to gain a look at him as he came forth, whilst the unconscious poet, wrapped in his own thoughts, slowly floated down the river. Nay, so utterly careless was he of all he had effected, that the very play which had made so great a sensation scarcely existed but in the memories of the performers who had recited it.
It had, previous to performance, been copied into lengths, as the several parts are technically denominated, and given to the actors to study, whilst the manuscript itself was left casting about amidst the properties of the theatre, to be searched for, if required, at the next performance.
As the gentle Shakespeare, during the silent hour of night, passed slowly along the stream, his thoughts indeed were of other matters rather than his own particular affairs. The ripple of the water, the plash of the oars, the faint sound of music from afar, soothed his thoughts after the false exciting hour.
"Soft stillness and the night,
Became the touches of sweet harmony."
Meantime, whilst the poet floats onwards, we must return to the city, and observe the events taking place immediately after the representation of his play.
In a goodly room of a good-sized tavern, situated in the purlieus of Old St. Paul's, were congregated, on this night, many who had been spectators of the recent performance at the Blackfriars, and several other chance customers.
Besides the more respectable merchants, who had put into the tavern after the play, there were several ruffling blades of the inns of Court, one or two bullying fellows whose moans and professions were extremely doubtful—a sort of Alsatian companions, "as ready to strike as to speak," who drank deep wherever they could obtain liquor, and diced whenever they could pick up a cully; and also several guests from the country.
The Londoners, who constituted a party by themselves, sat at a table extending about half-way along the ample room; whilst two or three smaller tables were occupied by those parties who had sought the hostel on matters of business, and who transacted their affairs or enjoyed themselves apart from the rest.
The aspect of the room shewed that it had been reduced to its present state from a more respectable occupation. The ample window which ran along one entire side, looked into a good-sized court: and on the capacious stone chimney was carved various coats-of-arms, and all sorts of herald devices and designs.
Those guests who were apart from the sort of ordinary, or common table, were at the upper end of the room, and on either side the chimney. They carried on their conversation amongst each other, and were, for the most part, strangers to the town.
At one of the smaller tables, placed quite up in the corner of the room, were seated a party of four individuals, and two of them being natives of the town of Stratford-upon-Avon, our readers are already acquainted with.
This company consisted of Lawyer Grasp; a rich client, for whom he was professionally employed; a member of the Temple, with whom he was in consultation; and Master Doubletongue.
Besides these, there were also four or five other persons seated upon the long bench beneath the window, and they also carried on their occupation apart from either the guests at the supper table, or the other parties in the room. Some two or three were deeply engaged in play, rattling the dice and staking their coin with an eagerness equal to the absorption of their comrades who watched the game.
Such being the mixed nature of the assemblage, as two fresh guests entered the room and made their way to the upper end of it, the conversation of the various parties formed a sort of confused jargon, very like the cross-reading of a modern newspaper.
Such as it was, it seemed greatly to interest the late arrivals, and, as they stood with their backs towards the fire-place, they lent an attentive ear, more especially to the conversation of Grasp and his small party, and a look of intelligence ever and anon passed between them.
The table at which Grasp sat was covered with the produce of his eternal blue bag, and, as his quick moving fingers pointed to the various documents and deeds, he held forth with his accustomed volubility whilst every now and then a roar from the table, or a dispute amongst the dicers, interrupted his dissertations.
"Here," he said to the Temple lawyer, "here we have the matter duly executed. And here," he continued, "I will prove our right."
"Stay," said the Temple lawyer, "if I remember rightly, there is no mention of this place in the Conqueror's survey."
"A fico for the Conqueror and his survey," cried Grasp; "trouble not yourself upon that subject; mark and perpend—from Geoffrey Clinton it descended to the Verduns in marriage with Leosceline, daughter of that same Geoffrey, as did also the manors of Brandon, and I take it—"
"On my word," roared a tall Alsatian-looking fellow at the long table, "I take it that this Romeus and Julietta, or whatever else 'tis called, is the most exquisite piece ever submitted to a crowned head."
"A pestilence seize Romulus and Julia," said Grasp; "how that fellow bawls. And now, sirs, that name Anselm de Clinton, of whom I was before speaking, was first enfeoffed thereof."
"Up with his heels then," cried one of the dicers, as he threw. "Play. Ha! seven by Old Paul's. More sack, drawer!"
"The fiend sack those dicers," said Grasp, "marry and amen; as I was saying, good sir, by a multitude of testimonies I can prove—"
"A lie, knave, throw again." "Ha! ha!" roared another of the gamblers.
"They are certified to hold it," continued Grasp, "of that family by the service of half a knight's fee, and they of the Earls of Warwick. Now my client here—"
"A cheater, I'll be sworn. A murrain take thee!" cried another of the gamblers.
"But how said ye," inquired the Temple lawyer, "that you became opposed to this Arderne? Methinks, when I last consulted you, you were employed and trusted by him."
"At first, only at first," said Grasp. "In virtue of my having informed him of his good fortune he did employ me,—entrusted me with management of his estates, and I did but eject—"
"Cheatery, villany!" cried the dicer. "I'll not restore a dernier."
"Pshaw," said Grasp, "I did but eject one or two of the poorer tenants, and put relatives of mine own into their holdings, when he ejected both them and myself. This, my good sir, I liked not, and, as upon careful examination I found one I thought more nearly related to the deceased, and the will distinctly says next of kin. I forthwith sought out my client; there now is our case."
"The case is a good case, an exceeding good case, and so I said from the first," said the Templar. "You have this Arderne fairly upon the hip, an he pay not he must to jail, unless you give him time."
"Not a day, not an hour," said Grasp; "we got a verdict in a former suit, and he shall incontinent to prison."
"Such is the law of a verity," said the Templar, emptying his glass, filling his pipe, and turning now to regard the guests at the ordinary, as they seemed getting up a dispute upon the subject of the play they had witnessed.
"I perfectly agree with you," said a person who sat opposite to the tall Alsatian, "in so far as regards the excellence of the play we have this night seen. But in respect of its newness to the world there I disagree."
"How?" cried the other fiercely, "dost mean to affirm that such exquisite portraits as that lady who loved the youth Romeo, that brilliant Mercutio, and that hot-brained Tybalt were ever drawn by mortal man before? Didst ever behold any thing so like reality as that loquacious, secret, obsequious nurse, or the little Peter who carried her fan? Didst ever—"
"Pshaw," said the other, "I quarrel not with your nurse, neither do I take exception at Peter,—what I say I will maintain with my rapier here or elsewhere. And thus it is: the subject-matter of that play is not new to the world. 'Tis manifestly constructed upon the novel of Italy, written by Luigi da Porto, a Venetian gentleman now deceased—gainsay that who will." And the student rose, drew up his tall form, twisted his mustachio, and looked fiercely around.
"We shall assuredly have a riot here," said Grasp, looking up from the copy of a will he was perusing. "I like it not."
"Nay," said Doubletongue, "'tis but a controversy upon a play. I saw the greater portion of it myself, and came away to my appointment here. 'Twas but a paltry performance methought, full of bombast and fustian."
"Was it not then liked?" inquired the Temple lawyer.
"'Fore Heaven, I cannot answer for that," said Doubletongue. "I only know it liked me not."
"Methinks," said the Templar, "you are hard to please, good Master Doubletongue. Master Shakespeare is somewhat of a favourite here."
"Who, said ye?" exclaimed Grasp, looking over his glasses, and speaking with great rapidity. "Master Shakespeare—methinks I ought to know that name. Comes he from Warwickshire? Is he to be met withal? Canst tell me aught of Master Shakespeare? 'Fore Heaven, I have matter on hand with Master Shakespeare, an' his name be William, and he cometh from Stratford-upon-Avon."
"I pr'ythee settle one thing at a time, my good Grasp," said the London lawyer. "Permit me to glance at that testament you was perusing once more."
"Here 'tis," said Grasp. "Nay, you shall find that I do hear a brain; whoso trusts to Lawyer Grasp shall be—."
"Ruined, hip and thigh," cried one of the dicers, hurling the dice-box at the head of his opponent, whilst, at the same time the disputants at the ordinary being also pretty well flushed, a general riot immediately ensued, and swords being drawn the whole room became a scene of confusion.
The two guests who had last entered took advantage of this scene to press close upon the table at which Grasp and his party had been seated. They were both clad in the costume of sea-faring men of the period, their sea-caps so completely drawn over their heads that their features were not discernible, though one appeared a slight youth, and the other a middle aged and powerful man.
As Grasp, in some alarm, seized upon his blue bag and withdrew more into the corner, the elder of the strangers, as if to keep from the fray, seated himself in the chair the lawyer had left, and whilst he puffed out huge volumes of smoke from his pipe, abstracted from amongst the papers the will the Templar had been perusing. Handing it then to his youthful companion, the latter seized a pen, and, unobserved, wrote a codicil to it. He then restored it to its place, and as the riot increased and Grasp seized upon his papers and thrust them into his bag, the pair took an opportunity of withdrawing as quietly as they had entered.