"I am amazed," said Walter; "and yet I ought not, for well do I remember what the lad was."

"Hist," said Sir Hugh, "the scene is changed. Ah! and see, too, yonder masquer just now speaking those lines of fire. Is it not he?"

"It is himself!" said Walter. "O glorious fellow!"

"Soft, good Walter," said Sir Hugh. "In G.o.d's name let us hear."

As Mercutio finished his speech, the uncle and nephew looked at each other. The tears were in the eyes of Sir Hugh. "My poor Charlotte prophesied this," he said. "Rememberest thou her words about this Shakespeare when we first became acquainted with him?"

"I do," said Walter; "and she was indeed the only one amongst us who fully appreciated his merits. Nay, from the very first, an you remember, she said he would one day surprise us."

All further attempt to describe the progress of this play, and its effect upon the minds of the spectators, we feel to be a mere impertinence. It seems indeed to ourselves, as in imagination we after eye it, a play within a play--where all is like romance. The audience, that theatre, the players, that "foremost man of all the world" speaking his own words; all is like the fabric of some vision seen before,--a shadowy recollection of some brilliant hour set apart from the dull stream of life, and that too, during a glorious epoch.

As the play proceeded, and the progress of Romeo's sudden pa.s.sion developed itself, the thoughts of that stately Queen returned to her early youth, ere the sterner feeling of pride and power had obliterated all gentler sensations. She thought upon the days when she loved the handsome Sudley, with all the violence of a first pa.s.sion.

And if the royal Tudor and all around her were delighted with the delicious picture presented before them, in the halls of old Capulet, and the masque held there, they were still more charmed with the garden scene. They felt enchanted whilst they listened to the images of beauty which appear to have floated in such profusion before the poet's mind.

The richness of that glorious Italian picture held them in a state of enchantment. It had the sweetness of the rose, and all its freshness in every line. All was bright as the moonlight which tipped with silver the fruit-tree tops of the orchard, and yet all was soft as a southern spring. The very air of that garden seemed to breath a transport of delight; one almost expected to hear the language of the nightingale's song. And then the refinement and delicacy of the author's conception of the female character delighted the hearers as they listened to the words of Juliet.

"Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.

Fain would I dwell on form, fain deny What I have spoke--but farewell compliment; Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say, ay, And I will take thee at thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st, Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' perjuries, They say Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, p.r.o.nounce it faithfully; Or, if thou think I am too quickly won, I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay So thou wilt woo: but else not for the world.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light; But trust me gentleman, I'll prove move true Than those who have more cunning to be strange."

"The world hath nothing like this," said Raleigh to Southampton.

"'Tis heaven on this base earth," returned Southampton. "Said I not the master-mind of this man would produce wondrous matter?"

"Nay," said Sir Courtley Flutter, who was an ancient fop of the first water, "'Fore Gad, my lords, 'tis indeed perfect paradise sent down upon us poor worldlings here. I feel inspired altogether--repaired as it were; my heart palpitates--my blood circulates! Ha! I am young again, positively in love myself. Look, how these exquisite ladies, with the Queen there, are overcome. Nay, my Lord Burleigh seems to have forgotten the cares o' the state, and Bacon his gout. An we have another such masque as that just now represented, Sir Christopher Hatton will a.s.suredly fling out amongst the dancers, and give us a coranto."

"By 'ur Lady!" said Sir Christopher, "I would ask no more beat.i.tude in life, during the mighty changes of the world, than what appears in this changing drama, and the stuff of which it is composed. This lower world hath no such bliss. Let me see how went it:--'A hall, a hall,--give way, and foot it, girls!' Oh, 'twas exquisite stuff!"

The limits of the chapter we have dedicated to a description of "the play" permits not of a full dilation upon all therein enacted, neither can we describe the particular excellence of each actor; for each and all performed their parts with a richness and appreciation of the author's meaning the very tradition of which seems to have worn out from the stage.

To the want of scenery during this period we are perhaps indebted for many of those glorious descriptions with which the author has favoured the world in his works.

One thing, and which with a more modern audience would have gone far to take from the delight experienced, was the circ.u.mstance of Juliet's being personated by a youth of some sixteen years of age. This, together with the shambling clowns, who, with loose gait and slippery tongue strolled about and vented their sourril jests amongst the audience,--one moment tagging idle rhymes together, and the next venting truths deep as the centre, shewing a most pitiful ambition to make themselves prominent. These circ.u.mstances, in some sort, took from the effect.

As for Mercutio, the fire and dash of his character so excited the spectators that they could hardly contain themselves within bounds. He was like some bright exhalation, lending fire to the sphere in which he moved. And when, with the foot and hand, he gave the speech ending "Ah, the immortal pa.s.sado! the punto reverso! the hay!" the Court gallants, the benchers of the temple, and the citizens, shouted with delight. His death took all by surprise, and his absence from the scene was felt as a shock of reality. It was an age of bright deeds and fierce doers, and accordingly there was a murmur of disapprobation and disappointment when "Tybalt, alive, in triumph," made his exit,--till, as Romeo breaks through his apathy, and, a.s.suming some of the fire of his kinsman's spirit, fiercely encounters and kills "the envious Capulet," a shout of gratified vengeance filled the house. Queen Elizabeth had herself been delighted with Mercutio. "That was a character, my Lord of Ess.e.x," she said, "after my own heart. But he was too brilliant to last. His were the faults that travellers give the moon,--

"He shone too bright. But died, alas! too soon."

"'Fore heaven, Sir Christopher Hatton," she continued, "we will not let Mercutio altogether die. An he was so brilliant that the author was enforced to kill him thus early, we will ourself raise him up. Go round, Sir Christopher, and summon that Shakespeare to our presence, in order that we may express to him our approbation of his efforts. What think ye, ladies," she continued, turning to her female attendants, "we will have both the character and the creator of the character beside us."

Shakespeare accordingly, by royal command, entered the royal stand or box, where he knelt and kissed the Queen's hand. After which he remained beside her.

And thus he stood on the right hand of the Queen with his face turned towards the royal countenance, his side towards the stage, and as the play proceeded, he received the compliments of Elizabeth, and answered the various questions she put to him. Nay, she ordered back whoever came so close as to inconvenience the poet, and seemed altogether delighted at having him so near her.

"We will keep you beside us, Master Shakespeare," said she, "and whilst your play proceeds, you shall act as chorus, explaining what may seem wanting to our duller senses."

Shakespeare bowed his thanks. "I attend your Highness," he said, "with all true duty,"--and thus he remained immovable as a statue during the remainder of the play, the mark of more than one bright glance from the fair bevy in attendance. This was the poet's triumphant hour, and yet the mind of the man was too great to be elevated beyond bounds.

He knew "the art o' the Court," and the uncertain favour of the great; and that there was--

"Between that smile, he would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears, than wars or women have."

Amongst the audience, there was a female bright and exquisite as one of the creations of that author's after years. She stood with an attendant, and almost concealed beneath one of the gothic arches of the building, and wore (as was indeed not uncommon at that period) a sort of masking costume. Her features, indeed, were so completely concealed by her mask that only her brilliant eyes were visible.

It was one who, even at this early period of the poet's career, fully appreciated his genius and talents, and (like Charlotte Clopton) at once saw what the world would take years to discover. And what a sight was it for that private friend to behold! She saw him, to whom she owed so much, in his hour of triumph, and marked his expressive countenance as he stood beside the Queen. She marked, too, the surprise and delight pourtrayed upon the countenance of Walter Arderne and Sir Hugh Clopton, as they looked upon the poor player thus honoured in the presence of the mighty Tudor; and then she beheld with a smile, for she knew his story, the astonishment of Sir Thomas Lucy, as the knight's eyes wandered to the stage, and again returned to the figure of the sometime deer-stealer; and whilst his ears drank in the honeyed words of that poet, Sir Thomas felt he could forgive all his juvenile delinquencies, and longed to grasp him by the hand.

"Pshaw," he said, "I have been an a.s.s. I am an a.s.s--_ergo_, we are all a.s.ses in comparison to this _one_ man, this Shakespeare."

CHAPTER LI.

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 canva.s.s 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 pa.s.s and repa.s.s, 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 n.o.bles 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 ma.n.u.script 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, pa.s.sed 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 const.i.tuted 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.