"I feel some curiosity to know this witty knave," said the n.o.ble "pr'ythee bring him with thee to Southampton House when next you come."

"Providing your lordship can away with his grossness, and resist the attacks he is sure to make upon your purse," said Shakespeare, "you will be amused with him. But, unluckily, 'tis a familiar creature who makes himself enemies as easily as his humour delights."

"And this new play of thine," said Southampton, "holds it still for next week?"

"It does, my lord," said Shakespeare.

"Then have I news for thee of price, good William," said Southampton.

"The Queen intends to be present. She takes wondrous interest in all that thou dost, and has of late spoken most approvingly of thy efforts."

"I am much bounden to her Majesty," returned the poet; "and there again must feel grateful to your lordship for having turned her eye of favour towards my unworthy efforts."

"Thou hast sufficiently delighted us all, good William," said Lord Southampton; "and, if I am to judge by the ma.s.s of papers I behold here, you intend still further to delight us. Are these portions of ma.n.u.script pertaining to another production of the same sort?"

"In truth, my lord," said Shakespeare, "they do in some sort tend that way. But at present I am somewhat desultory in my doings. I have so many plans, on so many subjects, that what you behold are but the rough notes of such ideas as pa.s.s current. The sc.r.a.ps are of all sorts; perhaps fit for little else but to be cast to the waves without."

"Thou art, at least industrious," said Southampton, "and permit me to say, I believe not in the valueless quality of what I behold here. May I look upon one of these same unworthy sc.r.a.ps?" And Lord Southampton took up a fragment of paper containing some few lines of blank verse.

At first he seemed disposed to read it cursorily, as one slightly curious to know what had employed the pen of his friend. The very first line, however, seemed to strike him, and he read the verse attentively from beginning to end. He then recommenced it, and read it more slowly, observing the wondrous force of the lines more and more as he did so. He then stopped and looked at the pleasant smiling countenance of the writer, so una.s.suming, so devoid of all self-conceit, and then he read aloud--

"Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-siz'd monster of ingrat.i.tudes: Those sc.r.a.ps are good deeds past: which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright; To have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail, In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue. If you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forth right, Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost;-- Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O'errun and trampled on. Then what do they in present, Though less than yours in past, most o'ertop yours: For time is like a fashionable host That slighly shakes his parting guest by the hand; And with his arms out-stretch'd as he would fly, Grasps in the corner: Welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes that sighing."

"Why," he said, "thou hast written here a whole volume in a few brief lines. Not all the learning of the ancients ever produced so much in such compa.s.s. I will learn these lines, and have them ever before me. To what pertain they, good William?"

Shakespeare smiled. "Nay, 'tis but a fragment," he said. "My often rumination supplies many such. I shall perhaps adopt them in a play I have been thinking of writing."

"Thou wilt completely alter the old style of representation," said Southampton.

"'Tis my purpose so to do," returned Shakespeare.

"From what thou hast before shewn me," said Lord Southampton, "I think thou wilt do much. But bethink ye, William Shakespeare, albeit thou hast a quick wit and rapid pen, thou must not let things come hastily from thy hands. Good works, I take it, are plants of slow produce. The city lads and the inns of court have, I find, began to regard thee since thou hast remodelled the company of the Blackfriars. And hast thou,"

continued the earl after a pause, "still the name purpose of becoming a part proprietor in the theatre here?"

"Such is my ambition," said Shakespeare; "but that must be at a future period, when further success shall give warranty to my hopes."

"Nay, want of means shall not baulk thee, good William," said Lord Southampton, "since I see plainly that more power will greatly facilitate the bringing forth thy inimitable works. Look," he continued, taking the pen Shakespeare had been writing with, and scrawling a few lines, "there is an order for a thousand pounds; present it to my steward when thou wilt, and 'tis thine. Nay, double the sum, if required."

Shakespeare thanked his generous patron in terms of manly grat.i.tude; and soon afterwards the n.o.ble, after appointing his poetic friend to visit him, took his leave.

After the departure of Lord Southampton, the poet sat for some time, with his forehead leaning upon his hand, gazing upon the order his friend had given him.

Between my Lord Southampton and Shakespeare there was the most sincere friendship. The young n.o.ble appreciated the genius of the man, and felt quite a veneration for him; whilst the poet honoured one possessed of the fine feelings and generous and heroic spirit belonging to a more early and chivalrous age.

Since Shakespeare's flight from Stratford some time had now elapsed, during which he had not returned there. He had made a vow not to do so until he could re-appear under circ.u.mstances that would disarm the malevolence of his enemies; not until he had achieved a name. Oft-times had he written, and as often heard from his friends, sending them the greater portion of his earnings his efforts continually brought in. This was not the first gift of Lord Southampton; and a considerable sum he had before received had enabled him to settle his wife and children in comfortable circ.u.mstances in his native town. The money his n.o.ble friend had just now conferred upon him gave him a nearer prospect of revisiting Stratford be thought. And so the poet, with renewed energy, seized his pen, and again gave vent to his wondrous conceptions. As he writes, he remembers former days, and his thoughts revert again to his own sweet home and its neighbourhood, and again he dips his pen in his own heart.

Then he revels in the recollection of those orgies amidst the choice spirits of Old London. Those tavern suppers in the quaint dark courts where the hostels of the crowded city are situated. Those secluded taverns of Old London town now, indeed, no longer to be found. The player's loved haunt, and where the rollicking 'prentice and even occasionally, the n.o.bles of the Court congregated. Where he himself had fallen in with the Alsatian bully, the humourist, and all the varieties of the tavern haunter of the age; and from such he now draws his character, life-like and real, as if they walked and breathed and spoke before him.

And so the first part of the day pa.s.ses, and still Shakespeare writes, for the fit is upon him, and like many of his cla.s.s, albeit he spends in whole weeks, at times in joviality, excursionising with his comrades to Windsor and Greenwich, and "dafling the world aside" with the idlest; still there comes upon the man fits of deep thought, which are only to be relieved by the pen.

Whilst he writes, as the clanking tones of the clock of Barnard's Castle strike the sixth hour, the sound of a lute is heard in an adjoining apartment, accompanied by a voice of ravishing sweetness.

CHAPTER LIV.

A CONSULTATION.

As those dulcet sounds reached the ears of the poet, he laid down his pen and listened attentively. That voice, no rich in tone, so sweetly modulated, seemed deeply to affect him; and, as the song ceased, he rose and paced the apartment.

Again, he bears a short prelude upon the instrument, and pushing aside the arras from the wall, he opened a sliding panel, leading into a narrow pa.s.sage; one of those pa.s.sages so peculiar to old buildings, and which communicate from chamber to chamber, oft-times along, one entire wing of such edifice.

As he did so, the voice of the singer is again and again more plainly heard. How sweetly it sounds in that house, and at that hour, for the shadows are beginning to descend upon Old London.

The poet stands transfixed. His glorious countenance so softened by the sorrowful notes of the musician, proclaim how powerfully the strains affect him--"He is never merry when he hears sweet music."

Again the strains cease and all is silent, save the moaning of the wind without, and which hums through the cas.e.m.e.nt like an aeolian harp. After a pause, the poet again withdrew the tapestry which hung before the doorway, and, traversing the pa.s.sage, knocks gently against a small door which stood partially open at its extremity.

A sweet voice bids him enter, and the next moment he is in the presence of a young and beautiful female. Traces of recent illness are to be observed upon her cheek, as she sits, half inclined, upon a sort of couch placed near the window of the apartment;--a small lamp, placed upon a table near, giving better light for an attendant female, who is occupied in knitting.

The lady half rises, as the poet enters and as she does so, he sinks upon one knee, and respectfully kisses the hand she extends to him.

Nothing, indeed, can exceed the respectful attention with which the poet stands in the presence of that female. He does not even take the chair, placed near the couch on which she is seated, till she requires him to do so. And well indeed might Shakespeare gaze with interest, and no less admiration, upon that lady, as she again reclined upon the couch from which she had half risen at his entrance.

The perfect proportions of her form and features, softened as they both were in the subdued light of that antique apartment, rendered her in the eyes of the poet even more beautiful. Her dark hair fell in wavy ringlets upon her shoulders, and her large eyes beamed with an expression of sweetness and regard upon him, which made them full of peril to one so impa.s.sioned.

Frankly and gracefully she again stretched forth her hand. "My kind preserver," she said, "my generous and n.o.ble friend; but that weakness keeps me a prisoner to my couch, 'tis I who ought to kneel to thee."

"I heard the sweet tones, lady," said the poet, "which gave notice that I might approach."

"Alas!" she replied, "how can I ever requite thy generosity? Had it been my fortune to fall into other hands, I might, indeed, have been unhappy; but thou, oh! thou art different from other mortals."

"Beauty, lady," said Shakespeare, "provoketh thieves even sooner than gold. Nay, it is that beauty which has made fearful of trusting you in this evil town, save whilst I can myself guard over you. The wild and reckless spirits who dwell around us here, the desperate characters of many who, in their outward seeming, are of the virtuous, render a sojourn in this city unsafe, and therefore have I brought thee hither; and therefore have I const.i.tuted myself thy sole guardian till recovered strength shall enable you to take the journey you contemplate."

"You will forgive me, then," said the lady, "that although I have related to you some portion of my story, I yet conceal my own, and the name of those connected with the tale".

"I am in all thy friend and servant," said Shakespeare.

"And now that I have somewhat recovered," she continued, "recall to me in how much I am indebted to you during my illness. The attendant you have furnished me with hath partially informed me of your goodness, but I would fain hear the recital from your own lips."

"Your disguise," said Shakespeare, "whilst we journeyed hitherward, beguiled me, or I had never so far taxed your strength."

"Ah! but that journey," said the lady, "so travelled, can one mile of it, think you, be forgotten?"

"Nay," said the poet, smiting, "still can I not forgive myself. Those moonlight walks during our route have, I fear, wearied you."

"Could it be possible," said the lady, "for mortal to feel fatigue amidst those scenes, I might have wearied."

Shakespeare again smiled. He felt gratified at the compliment paid him.