This individual, clad in somewhat fantastic costume, fashioned by himself, be it understood, and which it was his especial pleasure to wear, (for Sir Hugh would by no means have forced any one in his establishment to wear motley,) was seated in a huge high-backed arm-chair, in a corner of the apartment, where, with his legs drawn up under him on the cushion, his hands clasped together over his breast, and his thumbs in his mouth, he kept a shrewd eye upon the other occupants; the long ears of his cap every now and then, as they shook with a sort of nervous twitch of the head, alone proclaiming that he was not some stuffed ornament, occupying the position it was his wont usually to choose in the apartment.
The story Shakespeare had related seemed to have made an impression on his own youthful mind. It professed to pourtray that baneful passion jealousy—a passion which, when once indulged, is the inevitable destroyer of conjugal happiness. It formed one of the old romances then in vogue amongst such as delighted in reading of the sort; for in those days of leisure, sobriety, and lack of excitement amongst females in the country, reading, spinning, embroidery, and other ornamental needlework, principally occupied the hours of the elder; and out-door amusements and music the younger. Those females who were given to literature, however, would, in our times, have indeed been considered learned, since many (albeit they eschewed light reading) understood both the Greek and Latin tongues to perfection, and many were no less skilful in the Spanish, Italian, and French.
In the narration of this story, and whilst (as we have said) young Shakespeare gave his own version, might have been observed gleams of that mighty genius which was, in after-times, to astonish the world.
His relation had, indeed, much of the fire and descriptive beauty which he afterwards threw into every line of his writings. He called up before his hearers the fiery openness of the injured husband; boundless in confidence, ardent in affection. He touched upon the soft and gentle simplicity of the victim; her consciousness of innocence; and her slowness to suspect she could be suspected. And, lastly, he described the clever devil, the fiend-like and malignant accuser, with matchless power.
Indeed the enormity of the crime of adultery, and upon which this story touched so forcibly, was in after days (as our readers doubtless recollect) made by the great dramatic moralist the subject of not less than four of his finished productions.
Another thing remarkable, and which struck all present, was the facility with which, by a touch as it were, he ever and anon (and as if by some incomprehensible magic of description) impressed the climate and country, the manners and customs of the actors in this romance, upon the hearers.
The relation had, indeed, seemed to the auditors like a dramatic performance. The melody of the speaker's voice, and the lines he uttered, left his audience as we sometimes feel after the scenic hour. There was a want of some soother of the excitement produced.
The old knight felt this. He took his viol-de-gamba and drew his bow lightly across the strings, producing that silver and somewhat solemn sound which those who have heard the instrument so well remember—sounds suited to the hour, age, and scene, and which give their own impressions of days long passed away.
"Come, Charlotte," said Sir Hugh, after executing one of the pieces of music then in vogue, "now a madrigal in which all can join. This youth hath put a spell upon us with his sad story. Come, a madrigal; and after that our evening meal in the garden, beneath the mulberry-tree. Do thou take the first, whilst I and Walter chime in second and third, and Martin shall e'en do his best to help us."
"Nay, uncle," said Martin, jerking out his legs straight before him, then putting them to the ground gently, and then lightly executing a sort of somersault and coming forward, "I pr'ythee hold me excused. I shall but spoil your music: my voice is rugged. I am not gifted to sing squealingly with a lady. A psalm or so at church, or a quaver after supper I can execute; but my voice is like the howl of an Irish wolf when I sing a part with the lady Charlotte: blessings on her celestial throat."