The 8th we weighed anchor at Plymouth, christmas songs lyrics and departed thence for Virginia.”
With this terse statement of fact an first book of Adam and the eve old-time traveller is the first book of Adam and eve content to record the beginning of a memorable voyage.
It was on the 8th of May, 1587, that two ships—one known as the Admiral, of a hundred and twenty tons, the other a fly-boat—set sail westward from the coast of England. There was also a pinnace of small burden carried on board the larger vessel, and ready to be manned for the navigation of shallow waters; but this, like a child in arms, was a thing of promise rather than present ability.
The aim of the voyage is briefly outlined: to establish an English colony in Virginia, where previous attempts at settlement had resulted in desertion and no success; to find fifteen men who had been left the year before to hold the territory for England; to plant crops; to produce and manufacture commodities for export; to extend commerce and dominions; to demand the lion’s share between possessions of France and Spain—the great central portion of a continent; and thus in all ways first and last to uphold the supremacy and majesty of England and the queen.
[40]
The ships had been provisioned at Portsmouth and Cowes, where many of the colonists embarked, including among the notable ones two Indians, Manteo and Towaye by name, who, several years before, had been brought to England from Roanoke by Arthur Barlow. At Portsmouth, among others, three soldiers came aboard, booted and spurred as though from a recent journey in the saddle; the one slim, tall, and bronzed by the sun; another no shorter, but broad and heavy in proportion; the third laughable in aspect, being fat, as if, like a stage buffoon, he had stuffed a pillow in his doublet, and leading, much to the astonishment of the passengers, a bear-cub that copied his own waddling gait, and followed on a chain of bondage with remarkable fidelity.
In the evening one of these soldiers stood alone on the Admiral’s high stern, a motionless figure, clean-cut against the sky. His eyes, blue like the deep sea, looked back toward the receding coastline, fixed on the dissolving land with a resigned fatality and regret.
With the sun, westward, the two ships went down slowly over the horizon, leaving England a memory behind—a memory, yet very real, while the haven, far ahead, somewhere beneath the crimson sky, seemed but a dream that could not shape itself—a dream, a picture, bright, alluring, undetailed, like the golden painting of the sun. Tall and erect as a naked fir-tree the man stood on the top deck in the stern—still stood when night came and there was not even a melting horizon to hold his gaze—still stood as though to turn would be to wake forever from a vision beside which all things actual must seem unreal. But at last he turned resolutely and, drawing his cloak about him, glanced off toward the darkening west; then, with a word to one and another[41] as he passed his fellow-voyagers, he sought the ship’s master to discuss plans for the maintenance and general welfare of the colony.
As he was about to enter the main cabin a soldier accosted him. “The die is cast, captain.”
“Yes, Rouse; we have done well in starting. May ill fortune throw no better.”
“Nay,” observed the Saxon giant, in low tones. “But already I mistrust this Simon Ferdinando, the master of our ship.”
“He is but a subordinate. We have the governor and his twelve assistants to depend on.”
“Ay, captain, and you.”
“I am one of the twelve.”
“God be praised!” said Hugh, fervently. “But there’s mischief in Simon. I always mislike these small men.”
“You forget our Roger Prat, no higher than your belt; and yet, Hugh Rouse, even you have no greater fidelity.”
“’Tis true, but his breadth is considerable. Cleave him in twain downward, as he’s ofttimes said, then stand his paunch on the top of his head, and Roger Prat would be as tall as any of us. ’Tis merely the manner of measurement.”
“In all things,” said Vytal, with a fleeting smile, and wishing to see this Ferdinando, the Admiral’s master, in order to judge of the man for himself, he entered the main cabin.
With Ferdinando he found John White, the governor appointed by Sir Walter Raleigh, at whose expense the voyage had been undertaken. The governor, whom Vytal had met but once before, was a man of medium stature and engaging personality. His expression, frank and open, promised well for sincere government, but his chin, only partly hidden[42] by a scant beard, lacked strong determination. Ferdinando, on the other hand, to whom Vytal was now introduced for the first time, so shifted his eyes while talking, much as a general moves an army’s front to conceal the true position, that candor had no part in their expression; while his low forehead and close brows bespoke more cunning than ability. He was, moreover, undoubtedly of Latin blood; therefore, in the judgment of Englishmen, given rather to strategy than open courage. Nevertheless, his reputation as a navigator had not yet suffered. That he relied much on this was made evident by his first conversation with Vytal. In answer to the latter’s questions concerning matters that bore directly on the management of the little fleet, Ferdinando replied, “Since Sir Walter Raleigh has wisely left the management to me, you need have no fear, I assure you, regarding your welfare.”
“What, then,” asked Vytal, “if you object not to the inquiry of one who studies that he may duly practise, what, then, are the main rules we observe?”
Carl Linnaeus
Love
Man in his social character
Elements of character
Roman Patriotism
Domestic Altar
Loadstar of My Life
You Know the Saying
Our Swords Will Play the Orator
The Day Before Yesterday
The Cause of Troubles
Precautions from the beginning
Desire to Exceed One's Program
The Daily Miracle
Some Wonderful Efforts
The Dawn of Freedom
Of Our Striving
The beginning of slavery
Second Residence in England
Return to Basle
First Visit to England
Life of Hans Holbein
To this the master made no answer, but, with an air of indulgent patronage, handed Vytal several sheets of paper well filled with writing. The soldier glanced over them, and read among others the following orders: “That every evening the fly-boat come up and speak with the Admiral, at seven of the clock, or between that and eight; and shall receive the order of her course as Master Ferdinando shall direct. If to any man in the fleet there happen any mischance, they shall presently shoot off two pieces by day, and if it be by night two pieces and show two lights.”
When Vytal had read these and many similar articles[43] he turned slowly to Ferdinando. “A careful system. Is it all from your own knowledge?”
“From whose else, think you?”
“I make no conjecture, but only ask if it be yours and yours alone.”
“It is,” replied Simon, and turning to John White, the governor, who had said little, he added, “Your assistant, worshipful sir, seemingly hath doubt of my word.” White turned to Vytal questioningly.
“Nay,” observed the soldier, “I would show no doubt whatever,” and so saying he left the cabin.
Similar conversations followed on subsequent evenings, Ferdinando boasting much of his seamanship; and once the governor went out with Vytal from the room of state. “You mistrust our ship’s master, Captain Vytal, although you would show it not on considering the expedience of harmony. Wherefore this lack of faith?”
“Because the orders and articles are framed exactly upon the plan of those issued by Frobisher in 1578, when he sought a northwest passage, and by Sir Humphrey Gilbert in 1583, changed, of course, to suit our smaller fleet. The worthy Ferdinando has effected a wise combination; he has done well—and lied in doing it.”
The governor looked up into Vytal’s dark face for the first time, searchingly. “How came you to know?” he queried.
“I remember things.”
“But where—”
“I forget other things,” was Vytal’s answer. “An you’ll permit me I’ll leave you. There’s a man’s face under that light”—he was walking toward it now alone—“a familiar face,” he repeated to himself, and the next minute exclaimed in amazement, “’Tis the man who fought beside me on the bridge!”
[44]
“Ay,” said the poet, smiling, “’tis Kyt Marlowe,[2] at your service in reality.”
Vytal scrutinized him keenly, Christopher returning the gaze with a look of admiration that increased as his eyes fell once more on the so-called bodkin at the soldier’s side. “You are readier with that implement than with your tongue,” he observed, finally.
“The most important questions,” returned Vytal, “are asked with an upraised eyebrow, an impatient eye.” There was an abrupt cogency and gravity of manner about the soldier that sometimes piqued his fellows into an attempted show of indifference by levity and freedom of utterance. They made as though they would assert their independence and disavow an allegiance that was demanded only by the man’s strong, compelling personality, and seldom or never by a word. He was masterful, and they, recognizing the silent mastery, must for pride’s sake rebel before succumbing to its power. Marlowe, with all his admiration, born of the soldier’s far-famed prowess and imperious will, proved no exception to this rule.
“I marvel,” he observed, with a slight irony and daring banter, “that so dominant a nature is readily subject to the coercive beauty of women’s faces. Even the Wolf’s eyes may play the—”
“What?”
“The sheep’s.” It was a bold taunt, and the poet was surprised at his own effrontery. But like a child he saw the fire as a plaything.
“Explain.” The word came from Vytal quietly and with no impatience.
[45]
“Oh, there have been other beguiling faces, so I’ve heard. A tale is told—” he hesitated.
“Of whom?”
“Of you.”
“What is it?”
“A tale vaguely hinting at a court amour. ’Tis said the queen would have knighted a certain captain for deeds of valor in the south; but at the moment of her promising the spurs, she found him all unheedful of her words, found him, in fact, with eyes gazing off entranced at a girlish face in the presence chamber, the face of her Majesty’s youngest lady-in-waiting. To those who saw our Queen Elizabeth then and read her face, the issue was seemingly plainer than day, blacker than night.
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
Our Swords Will Play Orator for Us
It would be difficult adequately to describe the expressions of amazement, in face and gesture, of those who had had this christmas songs lyrics fearless effrontery thrown at them. Its effect on Marlowe and Rouse was instantaneous. Both went back immediately to the table they had quitted, refraining from any further show of fight. The youth called Frazer was the first to speak.
“Who’s the insolent fellow?”
“If I should fetch him,” observed St. Magil, as no answer was forthcoming, “you would see a most extraordinary man.” He went to the window. “Nay, he’s gone. ’Tis always thus—up and down from hell’s mouth like the devil in the play. But I can describe that face as though even now it was here before me, and, mark you, I saw it not when its mouth defied us at the window. He is well called the Wolf.”
“Nay,” interposed the poet, “save because many fear him. I drink to the man!” and Marlowe turned to Rouse.
“To the man I follow!” said the good Hugh, simply; and they drank. But the cups of Frazer and St. Magil for once stood untouched upon the table.
Before the first book of Adam and eve conversation had gone further the tap-room door opened the first book of Adam and eve , admitting a short, stout woman of[21] middle age and rubicund visage. Glancing quickly about from one to another, her eyes at length rested on Thomas Watkins, who, having had his usually prominent place in the tavern gossip usurped by those of higher degree, and holding no small measure of ale within him, sat fast asleep and snoring. The sight of the breeches-maker in this position so enraged the new-comer that she awoke him by the startling method of boxing his ears soundly, and commanding him to follow her without delay. With a pained air, yet much alacrity, the poor leather-seller obeyed his orders. It was, indeed, his life-long obedience to his wife’s decrees that won him the pity of his fellow-men.
“There’s a customer at the shop, Tom Sot,” declared the shrew, leading her husband to the bridge, “who wants you. And lucky we are if he be honest, for I must needs leave him there to guard it while I come here and get you. But Sloth’s your name, and always will be. Had ever woman such a lazy clod to depend on?”
Thus she railed at the now miserable Watkins until they came to their shop at the sign of “The Roebuck,” on London Bridge. Finding it empty, the breeches-maker, with much alarm, looked up and down the street through the gathering darkness. The narrow way on the bridge was almost deserted save for a watchman slowly approaching from the London end with horn-sided lanthorn, and halberd in hand, who cried out monotonously his song of the familiar burden:
“Lanthorn and a whole candle-light!
Hang out your lights! Hear!”
And just across the bridge stood another man near the parapet, his tall frame sharply defined against[22] the sky. It was to him that Watkins went in the hope of obtaining information concerning his departed customer.
“Can you tell me, sir, did any man just leave my shop at the sign of ‘The Roebuck’ there?”
“A man did,” replied the stranger. “I am he.”
“And you were left to guard it, sir, in Gammer Watkins’s absence,” complained the breeches-maker.
“I have guarded it. ’Twas but five minutes ago that I came out, and I’ve kept a close eye upon your doorway through every one of those five minutes. I tell you, Thomas, the time that has passed since I went out of your shop with a new pair of breeches is much longer.”
The leather-seller looked up keenly into the speaker’s face. “Salt and bread!” he exclaimed; “’tis Master Vytal!”
“Yes, Tom, or Captain Vytal, as you will, being now a fighting man from the Low Countries.”
“Oh, sir, your presence brings me pleasure and consolation, I may say. How the times have changed in these few years—within, sir, and without! Have you heard about Queen Mary, how we have been delivered from her plots these two months past in a very, I may say, forcible way? Have you heard—?”
“Ay, Tom, all that, and more, too, on the road from the coast. But one thing I have not heard—how long will it take you to make me a pair of breeches?”
“But a short time, Captain Vytal. I was ever handy and quick with work for you.”
“And so, Tom, I have come back to you.”
“Ay, sir, but, alack!—the old days cannot come back. There are many, many changes since the good old times. The world, it seems to me, grows petty.”
[23]
“What! call you it petty when a queen comes to the block?”
“Nay, but look you, Captain Vytal.” He pointed to the top of the Southwark Gate. “See those heads spiked above us. They be thirty in number, yet all are but the pates of seminary priests who have entered England against the statute. Now this old bridge has had much nobler heads upon it, crowning the traitor’s gate. The head of Sir William Wallace looked down on the river long ago, and later the Earl of Northumberland’s. Some I have seen—Sir Thomas More’s, the Bishop of Rochester’s—”
“By Heaven!” broke in Vytal, “you are in no pleasant mood, Tom, on seeing me.”
“’Tis not you, captain. ’Tis”—his voice sank lower—“she,” and he pointed toward his shop. “Have you a wife yourself?”
“Nay, Tom, nor never shall have.”
“’Tis well. The thousand new statutes that are imposed upon us by her Majesty, the queen—God preserve her!—since you left, are not one whit so hard to bear as them her majesty—God preserve me!—Gammer Watkins, imposes.”
“There are two sides to every difference, Tom. Now, a little less at the ‘Tabard’—but tell me, do the citizens grow uneasy beneath these numerous decrees?”
“Nay; many are but slight annoyances seldom put in force. The wearing of a rapier longer than three feet is forbidden by law; the wearing of a woman’s ruff too large is prohibited by law. And our caps should be of cheaper stuff than velvet by law, and we must not blow upon horns or whistles in the streets by law—’uds precious, there is no end to it. But there is no statute against the flogging of blinded bears, captain—I had almost forgot this afternoon’s[24] exploit of thine. I saw it not, for when they had brought King Lud to such a pass I could not sit there, but went to the bear-house in the garden to show a country lad Old Sarcason at closer quarters. Yet I might have known it was you when Peter Sharp described the adventure.”
Vytal laughed. “I’m sorry you so soon forgot. I meant the thing to be a lasting lesson. But come, I want a pair of breeches. I go again abroad, but westward now, to the new country.”
They walked across to the shop. “I fear,” said Watkins, his voice sinking to a whisper, “you should not tarry long. Those bear-wards will not readily forgive you.”
“Now, Thomas, what has that to do with breeches?”
“Nothing, indeed,” returned the leather-seller, with a dry, crisp laugh. “Oh, but you never change, Master Vytal.”
They were but just within the shop when the needle-maker came hurrying to the bridge excitedly, with young Frazer, Marlowe, Alleyn the actor, Gorm, and a dozen others at his heels, St. Magil slowly following in the rear.
“They seek the jackanapes who dared to curse them from the window,” said Peter Sharp. “’Tis he, they say, that spoiled the bear-fight. His man, Rouse, hath started out in search, and they, being no more threatened by the giant, are bent on scouring the town. Oh, ’twill be brave sport to see the Wolf well harried.” The needle-maker looked keenly at Watkins, behind whom Vytal, unknowingly, stood concealed by the shadows of the shop.
Carl Linnaeus Love Man in his social character Elements of character Roman Patriotism Domestic Altar Loadstar of My Life You Know the Saying Our Swords Will Play the Orator The Day Before Yesterday The Cause of Troubles Precautions from the beginning Desire to Exceed One's Program The Daily Miracle Some Wonderful Efforts The Dawn of Freedom Of Our Striving The beginning of slavery Second Residence in England Return to Basle First Visit to England Life of Hans Holbein Watkins forced a laugh. “Ay, brave sport,” said he; “but ’tis not to the town he’s gone; he hath started out toward Lambeth.”
“Toward Lambeth!” cried young Frazer, who by[25] now stood face to face with Watkins. “Ho, for Lambeth, then; but first let us stop and invite the bear-wards thither. ’Tis in part their right to end the quarrel.”
Here, perhaps, the danger would have been averted had not a new quarrel arisen of far more serious consequence, and, indeed, so fraught with import that, although but incidental, we recognize it as one of those contentions in which the very Fates themselves, seeming to join, brawl like shrews until their thread is snarled and the whole fabric of a human life becomes a hopeless tangle.
As Watkins closed the door of his shop, Sir Walter St. Magil turned back toward the ‘Tabard’ in ugly mood. The wine, which at first had exhilarated him, being now soured by his disapproval of Frazer’s rashness, only added to his ill-humor. Young Frazer, on the other hand, who walked beside him, had grown merrier and even less cautious than before. Now that the Canary wine had fired his brain, other considerations were cast aside, all policy forgotten. The air of refinement and courtliness which, being so well assumed, had previously seemed genuine, left him suddenly. He became but an ill-bred roysterer, singing, as he started back, various catches of ribald songs, while Gorm, the bear-ward, arm-in-arm with Peter Sharp, followed not over-steadily, and several other tipplers, who, from their windows in the bridge houses, had seen the gathering before Watkins’s leather-shop, hurried out to bring up the rear with a chorus of vulgar jesting.
At the Southwark Gate Peter Sharp, the needle-maker, who by now was leading the motley throng with an apish dance, having caught the spirit of hilarity, came to a stand-still and turned to the bear-ward, who was shambling after him as steadily as his[26] bandy legs and tipsy condition would allow. “’S bodikin!” he exclaimed. “Now tell me, jovial Bruin-baiter, didst ever see so remarkable a sight?” He pointed ahead of him to a young girl approaching the gateway on the High Street, escorted by a man who was evidently her servant. “Here’s a wench with a ruff, indeed!”
“Who’s the insolent fellow?”
“If I should fetch him,” observed St. Magil, as no answer was forthcoming, “you would see a most extraordinary man.” He went to the window. “Nay, he’s gone. ’Tis always thus—up and down from hell’s mouth like the devil in the play. But I can describe that face as though even now it was here before me, and, mark you, I saw it not when its mouth defied us at the window. He is well called the Wolf.”
“Nay,” interposed the poet, “save because many fear him. I drink to the man!” and Marlowe turned to Rouse.
“To the man I follow!” said the good Hugh, simply; and they drank. But the cups of Frazer and St. Magil for once stood untouched upon the table.
Before the first book of Adam and eve conversation had gone further the tap-room door opened the first book of Adam and eve , admitting a short, stout woman of[21] middle age and rubicund visage. Glancing quickly about from one to another, her eyes at length rested on Thomas Watkins, who, having had his usually prominent place in the tavern gossip usurped by those of higher degree, and holding no small measure of ale within him, sat fast asleep and snoring. The sight of the breeches-maker in this position so enraged the new-comer that she awoke him by the startling method of boxing his ears soundly, and commanding him to follow her without delay. With a pained air, yet much alacrity, the poor leather-seller obeyed his orders. It was, indeed, his life-long obedience to his wife’s decrees that won him the pity of his fellow-men.
“There’s a customer at the shop, Tom Sot,” declared the shrew, leading her husband to the bridge, “who wants you. And lucky we are if he be honest, for I must needs leave him there to guard it while I come here and get you. But Sloth’s your name, and always will be. Had ever woman such a lazy clod to depend on?”
Thus she railed at the now miserable Watkins until they came to their shop at the sign of “The Roebuck,” on London Bridge. Finding it empty, the breeches-maker, with much alarm, looked up and down the street through the gathering darkness. The narrow way on the bridge was almost deserted save for a watchman slowly approaching from the London end with horn-sided lanthorn, and halberd in hand, who cried out monotonously his song of the familiar burden:
“Lanthorn and a whole candle-light!
Hang out your lights! Hear!”
And just across the bridge stood another man near the parapet, his tall frame sharply defined against[22] the sky. It was to him that Watkins went in the hope of obtaining information concerning his departed customer.
“Can you tell me, sir, did any man just leave my shop at the sign of ‘The Roebuck’ there?”
“A man did,” replied the stranger. “I am he.”
“And you were left to guard it, sir, in Gammer Watkins’s absence,” complained the breeches-maker.
“I have guarded it. ’Twas but five minutes ago that I came out, and I’ve kept a close eye upon your doorway through every one of those five minutes. I tell you, Thomas, the time that has passed since I went out of your shop with a new pair of breeches is much longer.”
The leather-seller looked up keenly into the speaker’s face. “Salt and bread!” he exclaimed; “’tis Master Vytal!”
“Yes, Tom, or Captain Vytal, as you will, being now a fighting man from the Low Countries.”
“Oh, sir, your presence brings me pleasure and consolation, I may say. How the times have changed in these few years—within, sir, and without! Have you heard about Queen Mary, how we have been delivered from her plots these two months past in a very, I may say, forcible way? Have you heard—?”
“Ay, Tom, all that, and more, too, on the road from the coast. But one thing I have not heard—how long will it take you to make me a pair of breeches?”
“But a short time, Captain Vytal. I was ever handy and quick with work for you.”
“And so, Tom, I have come back to you.”
“Ay, sir, but, alack!—the old days cannot come back. There are many, many changes since the good old times. The world, it seems to me, grows petty.”
[23]
“What! call you it petty when a queen comes to the block?”
“Nay, but look you, Captain Vytal.” He pointed to the top of the Southwark Gate. “See those heads spiked above us. They be thirty in number, yet all are but the pates of seminary priests who have entered England against the statute. Now this old bridge has had much nobler heads upon it, crowning the traitor’s gate. The head of Sir William Wallace looked down on the river long ago, and later the Earl of Northumberland’s. Some I have seen—Sir Thomas More’s, the Bishop of Rochester’s—”
“By Heaven!” broke in Vytal, “you are in no pleasant mood, Tom, on seeing me.”
“’Tis not you, captain. ’Tis”—his voice sank lower—“she,” and he pointed toward his shop. “Have you a wife yourself?”
“Nay, Tom, nor never shall have.”
“’Tis well. The thousand new statutes that are imposed upon us by her Majesty, the queen—God preserve her!—since you left, are not one whit so hard to bear as them her majesty—God preserve me!—Gammer Watkins, imposes.”
“There are two sides to every difference, Tom. Now, a little less at the ‘Tabard’—but tell me, do the citizens grow uneasy beneath these numerous decrees?”
“Nay; many are but slight annoyances seldom put in force. The wearing of a rapier longer than three feet is forbidden by law; the wearing of a woman’s ruff too large is prohibited by law. And our caps should be of cheaper stuff than velvet by law, and we must not blow upon horns or whistles in the streets by law—’uds precious, there is no end to it. But there is no statute against the flogging of blinded bears, captain—I had almost forgot this afternoon’s[24] exploit of thine. I saw it not, for when they had brought King Lud to such a pass I could not sit there, but went to the bear-house in the garden to show a country lad Old Sarcason at closer quarters. Yet I might have known it was you when Peter Sharp described the adventure.”
Vytal laughed. “I’m sorry you so soon forgot. I meant the thing to be a lasting lesson. But come, I want a pair of breeches. I go again abroad, but westward now, to the new country.”
They walked across to the shop. “I fear,” said Watkins, his voice sinking to a whisper, “you should not tarry long. Those bear-wards will not readily forgive you.”
“Now, Thomas, what has that to do with breeches?”
“Nothing, indeed,” returned the leather-seller, with a dry, crisp laugh. “Oh, but you never change, Master Vytal.”
They were but just within the shop when the needle-maker came hurrying to the bridge excitedly, with young Frazer, Marlowe, Alleyn the actor, Gorm, and a dozen others at his heels, St. Magil slowly following in the rear.
“They seek the jackanapes who dared to curse them from the window,” said Peter Sharp. “’Tis he, they say, that spoiled the bear-fight. His man, Rouse, hath started out in search, and they, being no more threatened by the giant, are bent on scouring the town. Oh, ’twill be brave sport to see the Wolf well harried.” The needle-maker looked keenly at Watkins, behind whom Vytal, unknowingly, stood concealed by the shadows of the shop.
Carl Linnaeus Love Man in his social character Elements of character Roman Patriotism Domestic Altar Loadstar of My Life You Know the Saying Our Swords Will Play the Orator The Day Before Yesterday The Cause of Troubles Precautions from the beginning Desire to Exceed One's Program The Daily Miracle Some Wonderful Efforts The Dawn of Freedom Of Our Striving The beginning of slavery Second Residence in England Return to Basle First Visit to England Life of Hans Holbein Watkins forced a laugh. “Ay, brave sport,” said he; “but ’tis not to the town he’s gone; he hath started out toward Lambeth.”
“Toward Lambeth!” cried young Frazer, who by[25] now stood face to face with Watkins. “Ho, for Lambeth, then; but first let us stop and invite the bear-wards thither. ’Tis in part their right to end the quarrel.”
Here, perhaps, the danger would have been averted had not a new quarrel arisen of far more serious consequence, and, indeed, so fraught with import that, although but incidental, we recognize it as one of those contentions in which the very Fates themselves, seeming to join, brawl like shrews until their thread is snarled and the whole fabric of a human life becomes a hopeless tangle.
As Watkins closed the door of his shop, Sir Walter St. Magil turned back toward the ‘Tabard’ in ugly mood. The wine, which at first had exhilarated him, being now soured by his disapproval of Frazer’s rashness, only added to his ill-humor. Young Frazer, on the other hand, who walked beside him, had grown merrier and even less cautious than before. Now that the Canary wine had fired his brain, other considerations were cast aside, all policy forgotten. The air of refinement and courtliness which, being so well assumed, had previously seemed genuine, left him suddenly. He became but an ill-bred roysterer, singing, as he started back, various catches of ribald songs, while Gorm, the bear-ward, arm-in-arm with Peter Sharp, followed not over-steadily, and several other tipplers, who, from their windows in the bridge houses, had seen the gathering before Watkins’s leather-shop, hurried out to bring up the rear with a chorus of vulgar jesting.
At the Southwark Gate Peter Sharp, the needle-maker, who by now was leading the motley throng with an apish dance, having caught the spirit of hilarity, came to a stand-still and turned to the bear-ward, who was shambling after him as steadily as his[26] bandy legs and tipsy condition would allow. “’S bodikin!” he exclaimed. “Now tell me, jovial Bruin-baiter, didst ever see so remarkable a sight?” He pointed ahead of him to a young girl approaching the gateway on the High Street, escorted by a man who was evidently her servant. “Here’s a wench with a ruff, indeed!”
You Know the Saying
Tis not often so,” he returned; “you know the saying, Thomas, that the breeches you make yourself are unusual easy for Christmas songs lyrics quick running to the tavern, and uncommon broad and thick in the seat, that you may sit on our ale-bench by the hour with small wear to them.” The crowd laughed yet more heartily at this, though many had heard the same stock jest before. “But now, to tell truth, Tom, ye’re the very first from the gardens.” He lowered his voice. “These be soldiers, as you see. Some arrived at Portsmouth from the Low Countries last month, and already must sally forth again, most madly, methinks, on the perilous Virginia voyage.”
The breeches-maker glanced about him for the first time with a close attention to the room’s occupants. For the most part they were unknown to him, several wearing the unmistakable air of fighting men. But his scrutiny was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of others more familiar in appearance. Leading the new arrivals into the tap-room came a short, nervous man, very thin both of body and voice. As he saw Watkins, his face, which had been eager, showed disappointment. “Faugh!” he ejaculated, turning to Groat; “Tom’s told you.”
The host looked as surprised as a very bland, corpulent person can. “Nay, Peter, what’s he told me?”
The expression of Peter Sharp, needle-maker by trade, news-monger by preference, grew eager again.[10] “That’s like Tom,” he declared. “Some observation concerning the ale-tap instead of a good story, I’ll warrant.” After reading the first book of Adam and eve He turned to his first book of adam and eve fellow-guests, with the exception of those who had entered behind him. “Were none of ye there,” he asked, “to see a most astounding bear-baiting?”
The soldiers looked up with interest from their games. Marlowe and Rouse in particular showed a keen attention to the speaker. “Alack!” whispered Rouse, “I knew he’d do it.” But his companion, all ears for what was coming, made a cautious gesture commanding silence, and said nothing.
“This is how it happened,” began the needle-maker, now sure of an attentive audience. “First, Old Sarcason—by Heaven, the gamest bear, as I thought, that ever entered ring!—came badly off. The wards must needs grab every dog’s tail and pull it might and main to hold them back from killing him. But Harry Hunks gave better fight, and nearly hugged a mastiff pup to death. And Little Bess of Bromley, too—ye should have seen her punish Queen Elgifa, a noble slut in her day. I’ve rarely seen so great sport at public baiting; but Bruin and his wards were on their mettle. The French ambassador was there. At the end they had a new pastime in store for us. And here came the trouble. Leading a small brute—him they call King Lud—faith, little more than cub, but strong as iron and uncommon savage, being a son of Old Sarcason and Little Bess—out they come with him, and blind his eyes. Then, tying him fast to the post, they flog his hide, each with a leathern whip, till the blood runs.[1] Whereat down jumps from a seat near the ring a man we knew not, tall and[11] travel-stained, and says that they should stop their ‘wanton sport.’ And following him into the ring jumps a clownish fellow of low stature and round paunch, like a stage jester in appearance. They both carried arms, the first a rapier, the mountebank a broadsword half his own length. We thought, then, it was all arranged, some new-conceived buffoonery to finish the baiting. Quick as can be, the two, with drawn swords, went forward and untied the bear, about whose back a lash still whistled. ‘Tie him up,’ says the tall man, pointing to one of the floggers. And suddenly ’twas done before we knew it. There stood Sir Knight of the Whip tied to the post in place of King Lud, and writhing most horribly, while the pot-bellied little clown danced about him, plying the self-same lash for dear life. In the mean time the other—of high station, I take it, despite his weather-worn garb—calmly unblinds the bear and turns him toward the sight at the whipping-post. The wards stood speechless, for Master Long-man held his rapier ready, and a pistol stuck out at his belt.”
The needle-maker paused for breath, and, having a certain dramatic instinct, called for a flagon of ale, in order to postpone his climax. The other inmates of the tavern now listened to the nervous little storyteller with keen interest and some excitement. The pair in a corner waited breathlessly for the end. From time to time as the narrative had proceeded the bigger of the two could scarcely suppress his agitation, but, being restrained by Marlowe, he managed to voice the alarm he felt by no more than some occasional smothered ejaculation, such as, “I knew he’d do it!” or, “In troth, he was ever thus!”
“But the most astonishing incident is yet to come,” resumed Peter Sharp, wiping the ale-foam from his lips. “No sooner did King Lud see what was going[12] forward than along he shambled slowly toward the clownish fellow, and, standing up on his hind legs, put a great paw on each of the little man’s shoulders, and looked at him in a most friendly way as dogs do. Whereat the mountebank dropped his whip and spoke to his superior officer, as I took the other to be. Then Sir Soldier, drawing out a fat purse and turning to the Master of the Sports, who was even now coming into the ring in great dismay, nodded and delivered the purse into his hands. At that the stout retainer made a comical bow to all the people around the ring, as who should say, ‘I hope we have amused you,’ and, leading King Lud by his chain, calmly walked out of the arena. From this we felt all the more sure that it had been part of the performance. But I could not believe that the angry and amazed looks of him who had been flogged in Bruin’s place, and of the wards, were feigned. Moreover, when the tall man left, he says to us all: ‘Call ye yourselves men and watch such sports as these? Get ye to your kennels with the other dogs.’ Whereupon he, too, walked from the ring slowly. It was all done with such despatch by him, and such a ready wit by his servant, that they befooled us utterly. Thinking it a comicality, no man in all the audience took action, and the few below us in the ring, being so terrified and bewildered by the sudden remonstrance and show of arms, stood dumfounded. But even then, I think, they might have regained their senses in time to send the twain to jail had not the Master of the Sports advised against pursuit, being, as I believe, well requited for King Lud and not unfamiliar with his purchaser.”
The needle-maker raised his cup and drank deep, while a buzz of conversation began about him. A look of unspeakable relief had come to the faces of the soldier and the poet in the corner.
[13]
Carl Linnaeus Love Man in his social character Elements of character Roman Patriotism Domestic Altar Loadstar of My Life You Know the Saying Our Swords Will Play the Orator The Day Before Yesterday The Cause of Troubles Precautions from the beginning Desire to Exceed One's Program The Daily Miracle Some Wonderful Efforts The Dawn of Freedom Of Our Striving The beginning of slavery Second Residence in England Return to Basle First Visit to England Life of Hans Holbein
Toward this pair the eyes of a group across the room were frequently directed. Among the latter company one figure was particularly noticeable, being that of a very young man, of medium size, bearing himself not ungracefully, and wearing a riding-cloak thrown off over one shoulder above an inconspicuous doublet of dark red satin, which, together with his silken hose and velvet, befeathered hat, revealed the civilian. The man nearest to him, many years his senior, was, by name, Sir Walter St. Magil; by profession, unmistakably a soldier. He, too, was of medium height and aristocratic carriage, though with a face rendered exceedingly ill-appearing by a cast in one of his eyes which drew the pupil so far in toward the nose as to leave but a half of it visible.
As the needle-maker concluded his tale this man smiled knowingly, and the smile had more of meaning in it than of mirth or pleasantness. “There is but one,” he said, that all might hear him—“but one with a brain so addled as to be capable of such folly. And that man, my masters, is none other than John—”
But the sentence died on his tongue, half spoken. For Hugh Rouse, who until now had taken no part in the general conversation, came forward from his corner like a great mastiff from its kennel.
“Nay, Sir Walter,” he objected, “I pray you make no mention of the man’s name; it will do no good.”
For an instant the other’s brow clouded, but, controlling himself with ease, he returned, suavely: “Oh, an you, as the man’s friend, desire it, I keep silence. Ne’ertheless, fool, I call him, name or no name, thus to interrupt a bear-baiting.”
Little satisfied with this forbearance, Hugh, whose honest face had been for the moment almost threatening,[14] reluctantly resumed his seat in the corner near Marlowe. “Ah, Hugh Rouse,” observed the latter, in an undertone, “your name neatly fits its owner. But you did well.”
In the mean time, Sir Walter St. Magil, whose remarks had been so unceremoniously interrupted by Rouse, was talking in a low voice with his young companion. “The man,” he said, so low that none but the immediate listener could hear him, “is Vytal—John Vytal. We’ve fought together in the Low Countries, but—” and here his voice sank to a whisper, while he glanced furtively about him, “he’s not one of our men.”
“Nay, I supposed not,” rejoined the young man, in a careless voice, contrasting strongly with his elder’s caution; “therefore, why consult this fellow’s pleasure?”
“Because we might but stir up mischief by opposing the brawling giant. Well I know him, for he is Vytal’s follower. As I live, the man has but few friends, yet those few would die for him.”
“Some day the opportunity may be theirs,” observed the other, smiling almost boyishly.
“Yes,” assented St. Magil, in a grimmer tone, “but now we must have patience. For the moment let us guard Vytal’s name as carefully as we conceal your own. Which reminds me—I’d almost forgot—what name dost go by now?”
“’Tis ‘Frazer’; but give heed! That tale of bear-flogging has set these louts at odds.”
He spoke truth, for Peter Sharp, the needle-maker, now not over-steady, thanks to the never-idle tapster, was indulging in an argument with Watkins, the breeches-maker, concerning his favorite entertainment. Entering with them into the discussion, though with less volubility and heat, were Samuel Gorm, a[15] bear-ward, and Alleyn, a young actor of plays and interludes. It was not, however, until Peter expressed the astonishing opinion that “none save a fool would enter a play-house, whereas, every man worthy of the name was at one time or another to be seen in the Paris Gardens,” that Hugh Rouse rushed into the argument in his customary reckless manner.
The breeches-maker glanced about him for the first time with a close attention to the room’s occupants. For the most part they were unknown to him, several wearing the unmistakable air of fighting men. But his scrutiny was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of others more familiar in appearance. Leading the new arrivals into the tap-room came a short, nervous man, very thin both of body and voice. As he saw Watkins, his face, which had been eager, showed disappointment. “Faugh!” he ejaculated, turning to Groat; “Tom’s told you.”
The host looked as surprised as a very bland, corpulent person can. “Nay, Peter, what’s he told me?”
The expression of Peter Sharp, needle-maker by trade, news-monger by preference, grew eager again.[10] “That’s like Tom,” he declared. “Some observation concerning the ale-tap instead of a good story, I’ll warrant.” After reading the first book of Adam and eve He turned to his first book of adam and eve fellow-guests, with the exception of those who had entered behind him. “Were none of ye there,” he asked, “to see a most astounding bear-baiting?”
The soldiers looked up with interest from their games. Marlowe and Rouse in particular showed a keen attention to the speaker. “Alack!” whispered Rouse, “I knew he’d do it.” But his companion, all ears for what was coming, made a cautious gesture commanding silence, and said nothing.
“This is how it happened,” began the needle-maker, now sure of an attentive audience. “First, Old Sarcason—by Heaven, the gamest bear, as I thought, that ever entered ring!—came badly off. The wards must needs grab every dog’s tail and pull it might and main to hold them back from killing him. But Harry Hunks gave better fight, and nearly hugged a mastiff pup to death. And Little Bess of Bromley, too—ye should have seen her punish Queen Elgifa, a noble slut in her day. I’ve rarely seen so great sport at public baiting; but Bruin and his wards were on their mettle. The French ambassador was there. At the end they had a new pastime in store for us. And here came the trouble. Leading a small brute—him they call King Lud—faith, little more than cub, but strong as iron and uncommon savage, being a son of Old Sarcason and Little Bess—out they come with him, and blind his eyes. Then, tying him fast to the post, they flog his hide, each with a leathern whip, till the blood runs.[1] Whereat down jumps from a seat near the ring a man we knew not, tall and[11] travel-stained, and says that they should stop their ‘wanton sport.’ And following him into the ring jumps a clownish fellow of low stature and round paunch, like a stage jester in appearance. They both carried arms, the first a rapier, the mountebank a broadsword half his own length. We thought, then, it was all arranged, some new-conceived buffoonery to finish the baiting. Quick as can be, the two, with drawn swords, went forward and untied the bear, about whose back a lash still whistled. ‘Tie him up,’ says the tall man, pointing to one of the floggers. And suddenly ’twas done before we knew it. There stood Sir Knight of the Whip tied to the post in place of King Lud, and writhing most horribly, while the pot-bellied little clown danced about him, plying the self-same lash for dear life. In the mean time the other—of high station, I take it, despite his weather-worn garb—calmly unblinds the bear and turns him toward the sight at the whipping-post. The wards stood speechless, for Master Long-man held his rapier ready, and a pistol stuck out at his belt.”
The needle-maker paused for breath, and, having a certain dramatic instinct, called for a flagon of ale, in order to postpone his climax. The other inmates of the tavern now listened to the nervous little storyteller with keen interest and some excitement. The pair in a corner waited breathlessly for the end. From time to time as the narrative had proceeded the bigger of the two could scarcely suppress his agitation, but, being restrained by Marlowe, he managed to voice the alarm he felt by no more than some occasional smothered ejaculation, such as, “I knew he’d do it!” or, “In troth, he was ever thus!”
“But the most astonishing incident is yet to come,” resumed Peter Sharp, wiping the ale-foam from his lips. “No sooner did King Lud see what was going[12] forward than along he shambled slowly toward the clownish fellow, and, standing up on his hind legs, put a great paw on each of the little man’s shoulders, and looked at him in a most friendly way as dogs do. Whereat the mountebank dropped his whip and spoke to his superior officer, as I took the other to be. Then Sir Soldier, drawing out a fat purse and turning to the Master of the Sports, who was even now coming into the ring in great dismay, nodded and delivered the purse into his hands. At that the stout retainer made a comical bow to all the people around the ring, as who should say, ‘I hope we have amused you,’ and, leading King Lud by his chain, calmly walked out of the arena. From this we felt all the more sure that it had been part of the performance. But I could not believe that the angry and amazed looks of him who had been flogged in Bruin’s place, and of the wards, were feigned. Moreover, when the tall man left, he says to us all: ‘Call ye yourselves men and watch such sports as these? Get ye to your kennels with the other dogs.’ Whereupon he, too, walked from the ring slowly. It was all done with such despatch by him, and such a ready wit by his servant, that they befooled us utterly. Thinking it a comicality, no man in all the audience took action, and the few below us in the ring, being so terrified and bewildered by the sudden remonstrance and show of arms, stood dumfounded. But even then, I think, they might have regained their senses in time to send the twain to jail had not the Master of the Sports advised against pursuit, being, as I believe, well requited for King Lud and not unfamiliar with his purchaser.”
The needle-maker raised his cup and drank deep, while a buzz of conversation began about him. A look of unspeakable relief had come to the faces of the soldier and the poet in the corner.
[13]
Carl Linnaeus Love Man in his social character Elements of character Roman Patriotism Domestic Altar Loadstar of My Life You Know the Saying Our Swords Will Play the Orator The Day Before Yesterday The Cause of Troubles Precautions from the beginning Desire to Exceed One's Program The Daily Miracle Some Wonderful Efforts The Dawn of Freedom Of Our Striving The beginning of slavery Second Residence in England Return to Basle First Visit to England Life of Hans Holbein
Toward this pair the eyes of a group across the room were frequently directed. Among the latter company one figure was particularly noticeable, being that of a very young man, of medium size, bearing himself not ungracefully, and wearing a riding-cloak thrown off over one shoulder above an inconspicuous doublet of dark red satin, which, together with his silken hose and velvet, befeathered hat, revealed the civilian. The man nearest to him, many years his senior, was, by name, Sir Walter St. Magil; by profession, unmistakably a soldier. He, too, was of medium height and aristocratic carriage, though with a face rendered exceedingly ill-appearing by a cast in one of his eyes which drew the pupil so far in toward the nose as to leave but a half of it visible.
As the needle-maker concluded his tale this man smiled knowingly, and the smile had more of meaning in it than of mirth or pleasantness. “There is but one,” he said, that all might hear him—“but one with a brain so addled as to be capable of such folly. And that man, my masters, is none other than John—”
But the sentence died on his tongue, half spoken. For Hugh Rouse, who until now had taken no part in the general conversation, came forward from his corner like a great mastiff from its kennel.
“Nay, Sir Walter,” he objected, “I pray you make no mention of the man’s name; it will do no good.”
For an instant the other’s brow clouded, but, controlling himself with ease, he returned, suavely: “Oh, an you, as the man’s friend, desire it, I keep silence. Ne’ertheless, fool, I call him, name or no name, thus to interrupt a bear-baiting.”
Little satisfied with this forbearance, Hugh, whose honest face had been for the moment almost threatening,[14] reluctantly resumed his seat in the corner near Marlowe. “Ah, Hugh Rouse,” observed the latter, in an undertone, “your name neatly fits its owner. But you did well.”
In the mean time, Sir Walter St. Magil, whose remarks had been so unceremoniously interrupted by Rouse, was talking in a low voice with his young companion. “The man,” he said, so low that none but the immediate listener could hear him, “is Vytal—John Vytal. We’ve fought together in the Low Countries, but—” and here his voice sank to a whisper, while he glanced furtively about him, “he’s not one of our men.”
“Nay, I supposed not,” rejoined the young man, in a careless voice, contrasting strongly with his elder’s caution; “therefore, why consult this fellow’s pleasure?”
“Because we might but stir up mischief by opposing the brawling giant. Well I know him, for he is Vytal’s follower. As I live, the man has but few friends, yet those few would die for him.”
“Some day the opportunity may be theirs,” observed the other, smiling almost boyishly.
“Yes,” assented St. Magil, in a grimmer tone, “but now we must have patience. For the moment let us guard Vytal’s name as carefully as we conceal your own. Which reminds me—I’d almost forgot—what name dost go by now?”
“’Tis ‘Frazer’; but give heed! That tale of bear-flogging has set these louts at odds.”
He spoke truth, for Peter Sharp, the needle-maker, now not over-steady, thanks to the never-idle tapster, was indulging in an argument with Watkins, the breeches-maker, concerning his favorite entertainment. Entering with them into the discussion, though with less volubility and heat, were Samuel Gorm, a[15] bear-ward, and Alleyn, a young actor of plays and interludes. It was not, however, until Peter expressed the astonishing opinion that “none save a fool would enter a play-house, whereas, every man worthy of the name was at one time or another to be seen in the Paris Gardens,” that Hugh Rouse rushed into the argument in his customary reckless manner.
The Day Before Yesterday
It is not to yesterday that we would take you now, but to a day before Christmas songs lyrics innumerable yesterdays, across the dead sea of Time to a haven mutable yet immortal. For the Elizabethan era is essentially of the quick, although its dead have lain entombed for centuries. The world of that first book of adam and eve renascent period, alight with the spontaneous fire of intellectual and passionate life, shines through the space of ages as though then, for the first time, it had been cast off from a pregnant sun. No one could finish reading the first book of Adam and eve.
Overcoming the remoteness of the epoch by an appreciation of this vivid reality, we pause at the outset near the great south gate of London Bridge as it stood three centuries ago.
On a certain April afternoon the massive stones and harsh outlines served to heighten by contrast the effect of lithe grace and nonchalance apparent in the figure of a young man, who, leaning lightly against the barbacan, presented a memorable[4] picture of idleness and ease. Yet a fleeting expression in the youthful face belied the indolence of attitude. For in more ways than one “Kind Kyt Marlowe” resembled the spring-tide, whose tokens of approach he intuitively recognized. His eyes, usually soft and slumberous with the light of dreams, now and again shone brilliant like black diamonds. With all his careless incontinence, he possessed a latent power, a deep, indeterminable force, portending broad hot days and nights of storm.
His face, mobile dark and passionate, showed an almost alarming intensity. His brow, lofty but not massive, was surmounted by silken hair so black as to appear almost purple in the sunlight. He wore no beard, a small mustache adding to the refinement of his features, save for the fulness of his lips, which it could not hide. Taken as a whole, his face was the face of a man who had no common destiny; of a man who would drain the cup and leave no dregs, be the draught life-elixir or poison; of a man, in short, who might all but transcend his humanity by the fulness of life within him, or be suffocated and overwhelmed by the very superabundance of that life. For there are some seeming to be born with a double share of vitality, a portion far greater than was meant for man; and when this vitality, maturing, begins its re-creation, threatening all feebler forms with a new revolutionary condition, then the error is apparently discovered and the entire share of life recalled.
Christopher Marlowe was one of these men, but as he leaned against the Southwark Gate, that afternoon in early life, looking up the High Street through the gathering dusk, his eyes showed little more than the cheerful glow of a wood-fire, the mere hint of an unrestrainable flame underlying their expression.
[5]
Soon, however, the poet’s reverie was broken. The afternoon’s bear-baiting being over, and Southwark’s amphitheatre empty of its throngs, a number of the earliest to leave were now upon the High Street, known then as Long Southwark. Seeing them approaching him on their way to London, Marlowe turned and walked in the same direction.
At the sign of “The Three Bibles” books and broadsides were for sale. It was this small, antiquated den on London Bridge that the author sought with the unconscious step of one who follows a familiar way.
He had but just entered the low-studded, gloomy shop, and greeted Paul Merfin, its owner, when the scabbard of a sword clanked on the threshold, and a man of great stature, accoutred as a soldier, darkened the doorway. With no prelude of salutation, the new-comer demanded of Merfin, in a voice of anxiety, “Tell me, hast seen—?” Then for the first time he became aware of Marlowe’s presence, and, lowering his heavy tones to a whisper, finished his query in the bookseller’s ear.
“Nay,” was Merfin’s answer, “I have seen nothing of him.”
The soldier’s face grew yet more uneasy. “Ill fortune!” he exclaimed; “it is always so,” and he would have left the shop had not Marlowe detained him.
“Stay,” said the poet, “I could not but hear your question, for your whisper, sir, being no gentler than a March wind, nips the ear whether we will or no. So you, I take it, are that giant, Hugh Rouse, who follows the Wolf. Of you twain I have heard much, and wondered if the tales from the South were true that told of so great a courage. I have seen the man, show me now the master.”
[6]
“Would, sir, that I could, but I know not where the master is. And who, may I ask, are you, that show so deep an interest?”
“Not one to be feared,” returned Marlowe, smiling; “an idle poet who has sung of braver men than his eyes have yet beheld, and would see a man still braver than the song—Kyt Marlowe, at your service, good my Rouse,” and so saying, the poet, with a hand through the big soldier’s arm, led the way from the shop out to the High Street of Southwark. “Had you not another comrade in the wars, a vagabond of most preposterous paunch and waddling legs? I have heard that he, too, follows milord, the Wolf.”
“There is such an one,” said Rouse, “but, alack! he also is missing. I pray you, though, call not our leader ‘Wolf’ again; none save fools and his enemies so name him.”
“But I have heard that he is ferocious as a wolf, lean and very gray. The sobriquet is not ill-fitting.”
“Nay,” said the soldier, “in truth it fits most aptly in description of his looks, for though he is but five-and-thirty, his head and beard are grizzled, that before were black as night.”
“’Tis not strange,” observed the poet, leading his new acquaintance toward a favorite hostelry; “campaigning in the South ages many a man before his time.”
“Ay, but that is not all.”
“What more, then?”
“It is briefly told,” answered the soldier. “His father was sent by her Majesty, our queen, with messages to Henry of Navarre, in whose army we two fought side by side. The envoy and his wife, who were passing through Paris—”
“What!” interrupted the poet, “were they his parents? I had forgot the story. It was the night[7] when Papists murdered Huguenots, the night of St. Bartholomew. An Englishman and his wife were slain ere their son, who had come from the South to warn them, could intervene. He saw his mother struck down, saw the sword and the bared breast in the glare of a dozen torches, and saw his father killed, too, after a brief struggle. Then the youth, who had cut his way nearer to the scene, found himself beset on all sides by a bristling thicket of steel that no man could divide. He fell. The Catholics laughed and left him for dead across the bodies of his parents. But the lad was not so easily undone. He rose, despite a wound beneath the heart, and, dripping blood, carried the two dead forms to the Seine, where, in the shadow of the Pont Neuf, he weighted his burdens with stones and buried them beyond the reach of desecration. The tale came to me as come so many legends of the wars from nameless narrators. That youth, then, is—”
“John Vytal,” concluded the soldier, gravely. “He had fought before then at Jarnac and Moncontour; but now he warred against the Catholics with redoubled fury. ’Twas through him, I tell you, came the victorious peace of Beaulieu and Bergerac, and the fall of Cahors.”
“Find me this man!” The words burst from the young poet in a voice of eager, impetuous command. “I must see him!”
“He was to have been at the ‘Tabard’ two hours since,” returned the soldier, despondently, “but came not.”
“Then let us return thither and wait for him a year, if need be. He will come at last, ’tis sure.”
The narrow way on the bridge near by was now choked with its evening throngs, and, as daylight began to fade, a babble of many tongues rose[8] and fell in the streets of Southwark, with which the creaking song of tavern signs, aswing in the evening breeze, blent an invitation to innumerable stragglers from the bear-fight.
“Eh, now,” said Rouse to one of these who joined him, “do you honor the ‘Spurre,’ Tom Watkins, or the ‘King’s Head’?”
“Nay, neither, Hugh; they lack that mustiness and age which make the inn. For this there’s none like the ‘Tabard,’ that being a most ancient hostel. D’ye know what ‘Tabard’ is?”
Carl Linnaeus Love Man in his social character Elements of character Roman Patriotism Domestic Altar Loadstar of My Life You Know the Saying Our Swords Will Play the Orator The Day Before Yesterday The Cause of Troubles Precautions from the beginning Desire to Exceed One's Program The Daily Miracle Some Wonderful Efforts The Dawn of Freedom Of Our Striving The beginning of slavery Second Residence in England Return to Basle First Visit to England Life of Hans Holbein “Nay, poorly; some kind o’ garment, I’ve heard.”
“It is, Hugh; a jacket with no sleeves, slit down from the armpits and winged on the shoulders. Thou’lt see it on the tavern sign. Only the heralds wear the things to-day, and call ’em coats-of-arms in service. Now, d’ye see, it’s meet that I, a breeches-maker, should mind me of other attire as well, and not go breast-bare about the town. So, Hugh Rouse, I make my breeches by day, and I put on my tabard by night, thank the Lord, and I’m a well-arrayed coxcomb, ye’ll allow. But here we are; get you in.”
The speaker, a thin fellow of middle age and height, laughed over this oft-repeated joke till his sallow face looked like a tangle of his own leathern thongs, showing all its premature wrinkles, and his bent shoulders shook convulsively; yet there was no sound in the laughter save a kind of whispered crackle like the tearing of stiff paper.
On entering the inn, Marlowe and the soldier sought an obscure corner, but Thomas Watkins, the breeches-maker, being a character of no small popularity among the worthies of the borough, and one who had the commiseration of many, for good and sufficient reasons, seeing the tap-room already well filled, remarked thereon to the host, after his usual[9] manner of forced joviality. “How now, have I allowed myself to be forestalled and beaten in our race from the gardens to your spigot?” He surveyed the tables, with their dice-boxes, cards, and foaming cups, feigning an astonished air. Several of the guests looked up at him, laughing, with a certain indulgent, almost pitying, amusement. Simon Groat, the tavern-keeper, smiled, too, in fat good-humor.
Overcoming the remoteness of the epoch by an appreciation of this vivid reality, we pause at the outset near the great south gate of London Bridge as it stood three centuries ago.
On a certain April afternoon the massive stones and harsh outlines served to heighten by contrast the effect of lithe grace and nonchalance apparent in the figure of a young man, who, leaning lightly against the barbacan, presented a memorable[4] picture of idleness and ease. Yet a fleeting expression in the youthful face belied the indolence of attitude. For in more ways than one “Kind Kyt Marlowe” resembled the spring-tide, whose tokens of approach he intuitively recognized. His eyes, usually soft and slumberous with the light of dreams, now and again shone brilliant like black diamonds. With all his careless incontinence, he possessed a latent power, a deep, indeterminable force, portending broad hot days and nights of storm.
His face, mobile dark and passionate, showed an almost alarming intensity. His brow, lofty but not massive, was surmounted by silken hair so black as to appear almost purple in the sunlight. He wore no beard, a small mustache adding to the refinement of his features, save for the fulness of his lips, which it could not hide. Taken as a whole, his face was the face of a man who had no common destiny; of a man who would drain the cup and leave no dregs, be the draught life-elixir or poison; of a man, in short, who might all but transcend his humanity by the fulness of life within him, or be suffocated and overwhelmed by the very superabundance of that life. For there are some seeming to be born with a double share of vitality, a portion far greater than was meant for man; and when this vitality, maturing, begins its re-creation, threatening all feebler forms with a new revolutionary condition, then the error is apparently discovered and the entire share of life recalled.
Christopher Marlowe was one of these men, but as he leaned against the Southwark Gate, that afternoon in early life, looking up the High Street through the gathering dusk, his eyes showed little more than the cheerful glow of a wood-fire, the mere hint of an unrestrainable flame underlying their expression.
[5]
Soon, however, the poet’s reverie was broken. The afternoon’s bear-baiting being over, and Southwark’s amphitheatre empty of its throngs, a number of the earliest to leave were now upon the High Street, known then as Long Southwark. Seeing them approaching him on their way to London, Marlowe turned and walked in the same direction.
At the sign of “The Three Bibles” books and broadsides were for sale. It was this small, antiquated den on London Bridge that the author sought with the unconscious step of one who follows a familiar way.
He had but just entered the low-studded, gloomy shop, and greeted Paul Merfin, its owner, when the scabbard of a sword clanked on the threshold, and a man of great stature, accoutred as a soldier, darkened the doorway. With no prelude of salutation, the new-comer demanded of Merfin, in a voice of anxiety, “Tell me, hast seen—?” Then for the first time he became aware of Marlowe’s presence, and, lowering his heavy tones to a whisper, finished his query in the bookseller’s ear.
“Nay,” was Merfin’s answer, “I have seen nothing of him.”
The soldier’s face grew yet more uneasy. “Ill fortune!” he exclaimed; “it is always so,” and he would have left the shop had not Marlowe detained him.
“Stay,” said the poet, “I could not but hear your question, for your whisper, sir, being no gentler than a March wind, nips the ear whether we will or no. So you, I take it, are that giant, Hugh Rouse, who follows the Wolf. Of you twain I have heard much, and wondered if the tales from the South were true that told of so great a courage. I have seen the man, show me now the master.”
[6]
“Would, sir, that I could, but I know not where the master is. And who, may I ask, are you, that show so deep an interest?”
“Not one to be feared,” returned Marlowe, smiling; “an idle poet who has sung of braver men than his eyes have yet beheld, and would see a man still braver than the song—Kyt Marlowe, at your service, good my Rouse,” and so saying, the poet, with a hand through the big soldier’s arm, led the way from the shop out to the High Street of Southwark. “Had you not another comrade in the wars, a vagabond of most preposterous paunch and waddling legs? I have heard that he, too, follows milord, the Wolf.”
“There is such an one,” said Rouse, “but, alack! he also is missing. I pray you, though, call not our leader ‘Wolf’ again; none save fools and his enemies so name him.”
“But I have heard that he is ferocious as a wolf, lean and very gray. The sobriquet is not ill-fitting.”
“Nay,” said the soldier, “in truth it fits most aptly in description of his looks, for though he is but five-and-thirty, his head and beard are grizzled, that before were black as night.”
“’Tis not strange,” observed the poet, leading his new acquaintance toward a favorite hostelry; “campaigning in the South ages many a man before his time.”
“Ay, but that is not all.”
“What more, then?”
“It is briefly told,” answered the soldier. “His father was sent by her Majesty, our queen, with messages to Henry of Navarre, in whose army we two fought side by side. The envoy and his wife, who were passing through Paris—”
“What!” interrupted the poet, “were they his parents? I had forgot the story. It was the night[7] when Papists murdered Huguenots, the night of St. Bartholomew. An Englishman and his wife were slain ere their son, who had come from the South to warn them, could intervene. He saw his mother struck down, saw the sword and the bared breast in the glare of a dozen torches, and saw his father killed, too, after a brief struggle. Then the youth, who had cut his way nearer to the scene, found himself beset on all sides by a bristling thicket of steel that no man could divide. He fell. The Catholics laughed and left him for dead across the bodies of his parents. But the lad was not so easily undone. He rose, despite a wound beneath the heart, and, dripping blood, carried the two dead forms to the Seine, where, in the shadow of the Pont Neuf, he weighted his burdens with stones and buried them beyond the reach of desecration. The tale came to me as come so many legends of the wars from nameless narrators. That youth, then, is—”
“John Vytal,” concluded the soldier, gravely. “He had fought before then at Jarnac and Moncontour; but now he warred against the Catholics with redoubled fury. ’Twas through him, I tell you, came the victorious peace of Beaulieu and Bergerac, and the fall of Cahors.”
“Find me this man!” The words burst from the young poet in a voice of eager, impetuous command. “I must see him!”
“He was to have been at the ‘Tabard’ two hours since,” returned the soldier, despondently, “but came not.”
“Then let us return thither and wait for him a year, if need be. He will come at last, ’tis sure.”
The narrow way on the bridge near by was now choked with its evening throngs, and, as daylight began to fade, a babble of many tongues rose[8] and fell in the streets of Southwark, with which the creaking song of tavern signs, aswing in the evening breeze, blent an invitation to innumerable stragglers from the bear-fight.
“Eh, now,” said Rouse to one of these who joined him, “do you honor the ‘Spurre,’ Tom Watkins, or the ‘King’s Head’?”
“Nay, neither, Hugh; they lack that mustiness and age which make the inn. For this there’s none like the ‘Tabard,’ that being a most ancient hostel. D’ye know what ‘Tabard’ is?”
Carl Linnaeus Love Man in his social character Elements of character Roman Patriotism Domestic Altar Loadstar of My Life You Know the Saying Our Swords Will Play the Orator The Day Before Yesterday The Cause of Troubles Precautions from the beginning Desire to Exceed One's Program The Daily Miracle Some Wonderful Efforts The Dawn of Freedom Of Our Striving The beginning of slavery Second Residence in England Return to Basle First Visit to England Life of Hans Holbein “Nay, poorly; some kind o’ garment, I’ve heard.”
“It is, Hugh; a jacket with no sleeves, slit down from the armpits and winged on the shoulders. Thou’lt see it on the tavern sign. Only the heralds wear the things to-day, and call ’em coats-of-arms in service. Now, d’ye see, it’s meet that I, a breeches-maker, should mind me of other attire as well, and not go breast-bare about the town. So, Hugh Rouse, I make my breeches by day, and I put on my tabard by night, thank the Lord, and I’m a well-arrayed coxcomb, ye’ll allow. But here we are; get you in.”
The speaker, a thin fellow of middle age and height, laughed over this oft-repeated joke till his sallow face looked like a tangle of his own leathern thongs, showing all its premature wrinkles, and his bent shoulders shook convulsively; yet there was no sound in the laughter save a kind of whispered crackle like the tearing of stiff paper.
On entering the inn, Marlowe and the soldier sought an obscure corner, but Thomas Watkins, the breeches-maker, being a character of no small popularity among the worthies of the borough, and one who had the commiseration of many, for good and sufficient reasons, seeing the tap-room already well filled, remarked thereon to the host, after his usual[9] manner of forced joviality. “How now, have I allowed myself to be forestalled and beaten in our race from the gardens to your spigot?” He surveyed the tables, with their dice-boxes, cards, and foaming cups, feigning an astonished air. Several of the guests looked up at him, laughing, with a certain indulgent, almost pitying, amusement. Simon Groat, the tavern-keeper, smiled, too, in fat good-humor.
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