The great rude fellow brought down his bricklayer’s fist with such a resounding thud upon the table that the dishes rattled and the wine slopped over in a dozen cups. But this rough diamond, who as yet did but stand at the threshold of renown, was freely forgiven all the inconvenience he caused for the sake of that honest enthusiasm whereby he did himself honor in the eyes of all.
The motley crew who sat night after night at that table were without exception men of parts and understanding. Whether their ruffles were ink-stained, whether their hands were lily-white, whether they wore silk and fine linen or plain bombazine, whether they lived by the sword or by the pen, or whether they had no need to live by either, there was no appeal from their judgments upon poetry and the drama, and posterity has not found occasion to reverse their verdicts. It was the great age indeed. These were men of rare mental power, of large and liberal intercourse. They knew the highest when they met it and knew how to pay it homage.
For example, this rude fellow Ben Jonson, this clumsy, loud-voiced, opinionative Scotsman, a pock-marked, ugly creature who had lived rough and who had the brand of a felon on his thumb was the coming man. He would go far, said the quidnuncs. He was heavy metal of the royal currency; one who under Providence was destined to be second only to Will himself.
Thus men cast in a gentler mold made room for him. He was no favorite, to be sure. His manners were too rude, his opinions too unqualified. But the sacred fire was in his veins. And those who were wont to dispute precedence with persons of far more account in the eyes of the world were proud to sit at the feet of Ben.
The long July evening was closing in. The candles had been brought and the shutters drawn in the long upper chamber. And that which hitherto had been hardly more than a thrill of half-expectant surmise was now become a slow agony of suspense. It was incredible that news had not come from Richmond. The play must have been over by six o’clock. The verdict of Gloriana and her court must have been delivered long ago.
Was it possible that the miracle of the age had tasted his first defeat? Well, and if he had? said the graybeard at the end of the table. Gloriana and her Court were not infallible. Will should read his comedy to his peers that night, as he had done on many occasions previously. Theirs should be the verdict, for they alone, with all respect to Gloriana, were qualified to give it.
The brave words from the table-head were received with loud approval from a score of stalwarts who by now had gathered round the board. Such words were well and wisely spoken. But suddenly there fell a hush. A famous and admired figure came quietly, almost stealthily, into the room.
It was that of a bearded, brown-faced man of forty, trim and soldierly of look, secure and curiously authoritative of bearing. His dress was rich and fine; his air that of a courtier, urbane, polished, calm, quizzical. There was the coxcomb in the outward man, but not a trace of it in the far-looking, eagle-glancing eyes. This was a great figure, even in that company, which measured a man not by his outward assemblance but by his deeds.
“Ah, now we shall know,” cried the man at the table-head. “Here is Wat. Newly from Richmond, else I’ll never drink sack again out of a bombard until I attain the age of a hundred and twenty.”
“Yes, Martin, newly from Richmond, as you say,” came the courtier’s lisp. “Newly from Richmond, newly from Richmond.”