Dekker rose and held his flagon aloft. And all the others at the long table followed his example.
There was a murmur of voices and a clink of cups.
These men could not bring themselves to admit that by any possibility the true prince had met defeat at last. Still, the total absence of news from Richmond was very ominous. But even if the Queen had not approved the new comedy, that was not warrant sufficient to assume, as more than one among that company made bold to maintain, that the new comedy was not worthy of her approval.
“’Tis a fine thing,” said the man at the head of the table, “and you may lay to that. His genius ripens every day. There is nothing in my opinion beyond the compass of Will’s invention.”
“He lacks but one thing,” said a large, ugly and pock-marked fellow who came slowly into the room.
“And what is that, Ben?” was the question that was promptly fired at the newcomer.
“A little learning, my friends, to temper the heat of his mind. A little of the classic severity of Athens to mellow the over-sharpness of his wit, to trim and clip the excess of his redundancy, to confine the natural incontinence of his humors.”
But the words of Ben were drowned in good-natured laughter. All knew the foibles of this heavy and slow-moving man. He was a surly dog fond of his growl. He must ever run contrary to received opinion. He had an exaggerated regard for the classic tongues. But there was no stouter fellow, no stauncher friend, and there was not a grain of smallness in his nature.
“Sit down, you dog,” said the time-worn warrior at the table-head, “and bury your mask in a flagon. Hi, drawer, a cup of Muscadel for Master Jonson. Ben, my son, with all your learning, aye, and with all your genius, too, you will never be quite man enough to don the mantle of William the Peerless.”
“Did I ever say I would?” said Ben roughly. “Is there any man alive that ever heard me speak so windily? There is no man living or dead who is the peer of our incomparable William and I care not who hears me say it.”