The starched and stately Tudor was indeed becoming extremely fond of dramatic representations, tedious and ill-contrived as they, for the most part, were; and now often frequented the theatre, in place of the bear and bull-baiting arenas. Besides his stage companions, also Shakespeare had, amongst his acquaintance, at this period of his life, some of the most brilliant of the courtiers--Sydney and Raleigh, Ess.e.x and Spenser, all were personally known to the gentle Willie. They sought his society for his wit; and they respected him for his fine feelings, his n.o.ble sentiments, and his universal knowledge. Nay, these great men felt an internal conviction, whilst in the society of Shakespeare, that great as they themselves were, this man, of almost unknown origin, was immeasurably their superior; that, had his station in life been more elevated and his opportunities greater, he might have risen to the highest eminence in the State. They saw in him--

"The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword."

The war was now for the present over, and amidst the general excitement around him, Shakespeare sat himself down to think upon all he had beheld. The quick result of such confederation our readers will as quickly imagine. The poet seized his pen,--

"Imagination bodied forth the form of things unknown."

His pen "turned them to shape, and gave to airy nothing a local habitation and a name."

Scarce had the joyous shouts for the glorious victory over the invincible Don subsided, ere the poet bad completed one of those finished productions which left all compet.i.tion behind. Yet stop we here for a s.p.a.ce in our narrative, even whilst the reader looks upon Shakespeare thus engaged.

This is indeed a period in the man's life which most of us have sought for with the mind's eye.

The living Shakespeare, still comparatively unknown, still disregarded--for, however he might have been appreciated by the very few who were acquainted with him at this time, the wide and universal theatre had yet to discover the greatness of the man. The living Shakespeare, employed in writing that language never equalled, never to be equalled, deserves somewhat of a pause to look upon. The room, the house, the chairs, the tables, each and all, require an especial description. Like his own Iachimo, we must "note the chamber. Such and such pictures. There the windows. Such the adornment of the bed. The arras and figures. Why such and such."

Stay, then, gentle reader, if only for a brief s.p.a.ce, and look upon the man--the gentle Shakespeare, as he was denominated amongst his familiars. He sits in a room, which to all appearance has belonged to a building of some pretensions in the palmy days of such edifices. The chamber is large, low in roof, and somewhat gloomy withal. A good-sized bay window, heavy in mullion, and which looks out upon the silver Thames beneath, affording a delicious view of the Surrey hills on the opposite side, gives light to (at least) one-half of the apartment. The morning sun streams through small diamond panes of many colours, which ornament the upper part of the cas.e.m.e.nt, and is reflected in fainter hues, like a fading rainbow upon the oaken floor. The ceiling is richly carved. It displays the cunning skill of the architects of old. And on the heavy oaken beam, which traverses it, is cut from end to end the coats of arms of some city functionary of Old London, for the house (albeit it is now but partially inhabited by one or two of the actors of the Blackfriars theatre, and some portion of it even suffered to run to decay) has, in the preceding reign, belonged to one of the citizen princes--the merchants of Blackfriars. "The chimney-piece, south of the chamber," is elaborately carved, with gigantic figures, "exceedingly ugly;" and tapestry, (albeit it is somewhat faded), displaying pictorial scenes from scriptural and mythological history, hangs to the wall. One side has King David dancing before the ark; the other, "Cytherea hid in sedges."

A ma.s.sive oaken table stands near the fire-place; a high-backed chair on either hand, and two more in the embayment of the window; and an antique cabinet occupies a place directly opposite the chimney.

The house, we have said, is situated on the river bank, and has once been occupied by a rich merchant, but is now let out in compartments.

You ascend to the chamber which Shakespeare occupies, by a broad carved, oaken staircase, and advance along a vast pa.s.sage which has rooms on either side.

The autumn wind sighs, and soughs, in this old dwelling, as it rushes through the long pa.s.sages from the water side. In such room our Shakespeare sits and writes. Sometime he stops and considers for a s.p.a.ce--thinks, and thinks deeply. Then again his pen glides swiftly over the paper before him, and he writes like the wind. The table at which he is seated is but little removed from the embayment of the window, and his eye, ever and anon, glances out upon the rushing tide, and wanders over the opposite landscape, then consisting of green meadows and stunted trees.

As he thus looks out upon the river, he sees boats filled with gay parties, cloaked and ruffed, and rapiered, attended by other boats, carrying musicians, who make the air resound with their melody--a gay and gallant sight, for these are courtiers going to Greenwich, or Mortlake, or Chelsea, such excursions being common in Elizabeth's day.

As the poet writes, there seems no effort in the composition. His thoughts flow, for the most part, so easily, that it seems but the careless noting down of whatever comes uppermost. He writes as his own Falstaff speaks--as if almost without the trouble of thought. Anon, he smiles and pauses; then he rises from his high-backed chair, takes a turn through the room, and gives utterance to the conceit which has suddenly struck him. The actor predominates over the author at such a moment, and he recites aloud the recent thought, and which his "often rumination" upon, the extravagance of action, amongst his a.s.sociates, has conjured up.

CHAPTER LIII.

THE POET AND HIS PATRON.

Whilst he gives his thoughts tongue, the door opens, and a bulky form seems to fill up the entrance--no other, indeed, than our old Stratford acquaintance John Froth.

"Ah! thou mad compound," said Froth, "and is such thy advice to the fraternity of the Blackfriars?"

"It is," returned Shakespeare.

"Then would we might see it approved in the acting," said Froth; "but 'tis thrown away upon me, as thou know'st. I am not for the personation of aught requiring such rules. If I am to turn mummer, I must enact something fit for a man of my parts to appear in."

"And therefore," said Shakespeare, "will I write a character fit only for thy huge bulk and greater follies."

"Nay, by my fay," said Froth, "I thought thou hadst already put me into shape, for so hast thou promised any time these two months past."

"'Tis better as it is," said Shakespeare, "for till I saw thy vagaries during this last affair with the Spaniard, thy arrant cowardice, thy shifts, for preferment, and then thy desire to keep out of action, I hardly could have displayed such a marvellous compound of frailty and flesh."

"Trouble me not with the remembrance thereof," said Froth; "I received my guerdon, my remuneration, and that was the aim in end."

"And which remuneration thou hast already dissipated in dice and liquor,--is't not so?" inquired Shakespeare.

"Thou hast spoken it, and not I," said Froth, "and so spoken it that I may hardly venture to gainsay it. Wilt furnish me forthwith a few crowns for present need, good William?"

"The more readily," returned Shakespeare, as he handed him the coin, "as I would fain be rid o' thee. See'st thou not, thou idle reveller, that I am busy here with deep premeditated lines--with written matters studiously devised?"

"Well, Will, I will hinder thee not. I will mar not thy labours. I will but fill me a chalice, and drink success to thy muse, and then to the tavern."

So saying, Froth helped himself from the flask upon the table, and pledged the health of his friend, smacking his lips after the draught with a sense of ineffable relish.

"Thou art a wondrous fellow, Will," he said, as he looked upon his friend; "thou wilt thrive. But, in sooth, envy already begins to dog thy heels. Green and Marlow like thee not, William; Green calls thee an upstart crow dressed with his feathers."

"Ah!" said Shakespeare, smiling, "methinks Green hath little reason to speak thus, seeing I have imp'd his wing with some of my own feathers.

He will scarce say that to my face."

"Nay," said Froth, "I dare be sworn he will not, for many of them know thee too well to offer insult to thy face. Marlow too speaks of thee as that 'tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide.'"

"Well," said Shakespeare, "their sayings pa.s.s by me like the wind. I pr'ythee be nought awhile, if thou art to remain here, or else betake thyself to other haunts."

"Farewell," said Froth; "you shall find me at the old haunt in Paul's whilst this coin holds out."

Scarcely had Froth departed, ere the sound of horses was heard without, and a man of n.o.ble presence, dressed in the extreme of fashion of that age of brave attire, entered the room. Shakespeare instantly rose, and advanced to meet him.

"I am proud to welcome my Lord of Southampton to my poor lodging," said the poet.

"Nay, by my fay, not altogether so poor either," said the n.o.ble, looking around him. "I am glad to find thee removed from thy old haunt to so goodly a lodgment, good William."

"And am I not indebted to your lordship's kind favour and friendship for being thus well lodged?" said Shakespeare. "When we first met, my lord, I was somewhat lower in estate than at the present time. A poor unfriended outcast; I do, indeed, owe thee much."

"Not a whit," said the Earl; "you owe all to your own surpa.s.sing excellence. I am greatly charmed with thy Tarquin and Lucrece. Nay, Raleigh, Ess.e.x, and others do swear by it as the most exquisite thing extant. I, who know thee better, think even better of thee than shall here say."

"You do me too much honour, my Lord," said Shakespeare; "like Venus and Adonis, (and which I had the honour of dedicating to you), Tarquin and Lucrece was but a first effort, when I was green in judgment. I shall hope better to deserve with more experience."

"I pray you to inform me," said Lord Southampton, after a pause, "who and what is yonder companion of thine, and whom I met as I entered the house,--a gross, fat man?"

Shakespeare smiled at the question. "A strange fellow, my Lord," he replied, "and who was known to me in my native town, and whom I have lately fallen in with here. Like myself, he was obliged to fly from Stratford, and being in some difficulties, I procured him employment in the theatres."

"A somewhat bulky actor," said Lord Southampton, "is he not."

"Nevertheless one whom I think even of giving a part to. The man is himself a character worth the studying, and if he exhibits himself before the curtain as he does in his true character, cannot fail to keep the audience in continual laughter. His peculiar humour, tone of voice, look, and jesture, coupled to such a person, are almost indescribable.

Added to this, he is so extraordinary a mimic that no one of us can move or speak before him, but he carries their voice, look, mien, and motion into another company.

"And yet upon the stage he may not be able to execute the same degree of perfection," said Southampton. "Some of your companions of the theatre, I have found prime fellows and witty knaves over their cups, and yet but heavy upon the boards."

"Truly so, my lord," said Shakespeare; "this is one of Nature's secrets, and which I have observed. Necessary qualifications which cannot be well spared in an actor, oftimes exist in men of the profession; and yet, with the a.s.sistance of all these united, we see such persons come forth upon the boards but poor and barren. In writing a character for my friend, I shall avoid making him play off his ordinary parts, except to produce himself when I think he will tell forcibly."