PfiiilljifeiW^^ rmES OFTHE MERMAID TAVERN '- ALFRED NOYES PR 6037 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME PROM THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF 1 891 A.a'>4c?.3'7 ?te//i 97»4 PR 6027.09811""'™"'""-"'"^ Tales of the Mermaid Tavern. 3 643 956 H\4 Cornell University WB Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013643956 TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Ben Jonson From an Original Tainting TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN ALFRED NOTES Author of "Drake," "Skerwuood," "The Enchanted Island," etc. ILLVSTRATED NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, igi3, h Frederick A. Stokes Company All rights reserved April, zgz3 TO EDMUND GOSSE m GRATEFUL RECOLLECTION OP GREAT ENCOURAGEMENT CONTENTS PAGE I A Knight of the Ocean-Sea .... i II A Coiner of Angels 19 III Black Bill's Honey-moon 45 IV The Sign of the Golden Shoe .... 73 V The Companion of a Mile ..... 99 VI Big Ben 117 VII The Burial of a Queen 133 VIII Flos Mercatorum 169 IX Raleigh 305 ILLUSTRATIONS Ben Jonson From an Original Painting ..... Frontispiece FACING PAGE William Shakespeare From a Painting in the Collection of the Duke of Somerset 28 Sir Francis Bacon From an Old Print ...... . . 46 John Fletcher ........... 82 John Selden From a Painting Attributed to Sir Peter Lely, in the Bodleian Library, Oxford 124 Michael Drayton From an Original Painting in Dulwich College . .138 Francis Beaumont .170 Sir Walter Raleigh From a Painting in the Collection of the Duchess of Dorset ............ 206 I A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN 1 A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA UNDER that foggy sunset London glowed, Like one huge cob-webbed flagon of old wine. And, as I walked down Fleet Street, the soft sky Flowed thro' the roaring thoroughfares, transfused Their hard sharp outlines, blurred the throngs of black On either pavement, blurred the rolling stream Of red and yellow busses, till the town Turned to a golden suburb of the clouds. And, round that mighty bubble of St. Paul's, Over the up-turned faces of the street, An air-ship slowly sailed, with whirring fans, A voyager in the new-found realms of gold, A shadowy silken chrysalis whence should break What radiant wings in centuries to be. So, wandering on, while all the shores of Time Softened into Eternity, it seemed A dead man touched me with his living hand, A flaming legend passed me in the streets Of London — laugh who will ^ that City of Clouds, [ I J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Where what a dreamer yet, in spite of all, Is man, that splendid visionary child Who sent his fairy beacon through the dusk. On a blue bus before the moon was risen, — This Night, at eight. The Tempest! Dreaming thus, (Small wonder that my footsteps went astray!) I found myself within a narrow street, Alone. There was no rumour, near or far, Of the long tides of traflSc. In my doubt I turned and knocked upon an old inn-door. Hard by, an ancient inn of mullioned panes. And crazy beams and over-hanging eaves: And, as I knocked, the slowly changing west Seemed to change all the world with it and leave Only that old inn steadfast and unchanged, A rock in the rich-coloured tides of time. And, suddenly, as a song that wholly escapes Remembrance, at one note, wholly returns. There, as I knocked, memory returned to me. I knew it all — the little twisted street. The rough wet cobbles gleaming, far away. Like opals, where it ended on the sky; And, overhead, the darkly smiling face Of that old wizard inn; I knew by rote The smooth sun-bubbles in the worn green paint Upon the doors and shutters. [ 2] A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA There was one Myself had idly scratched away one dawn, One mad May-dawn, three hundred years ago. When out of the woods we came with hawthorn boughs And found the doors locked, as they seemed to-night. Three hundred years ago — nay, Time was dead! No need to scan the sign-board any more Where that white-breasted siren of the sea Curled her moon-silvered tail among such rocks As never in the merriest seaman's tale Broke the blue-bliss of fabulous lagoons Beyond the Spanish Main. And, through the dream. Even as I stood and listened, came a sound Of clashing wine-cups: then a deep-voiced song Made the old timbers of the Mermaid Inn Shake as a galleon shakes in a gale of wind When she rolls glorying through the Ocean-sea. SONG I Marchaunt Adventurers, chanting at the windlass, Early in the morning, we slipped from Plymouth Sound, All for Adventure in the great New Regions, All for Eldorado and to sail the world around! Sing! the red of sun-rise ripples round the bows again. Marchaunt Adventurers, O sing, we're outward bound. All to stuff the sunset in our old black galleon. All to seek the merchandise that no man ever found. [3 ] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Chorus: Marchaunt Adventurers! Marchaunt Adventurers! Marchaunt Adventurers, O, whither are ye bound? — All for Eldorado and the great new Sky-line, All to seek the merchandise that no man ever found. n Marchaunt Adventurers, O, what'ull ye bring home again ? — Woonders and works and the thunder of the sea! Whom will ye traffic with? — The King of the Sunset! What shall be your pilot then? — ^A wind from Galilee. Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty- handed ? — Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see. Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters. After many days, it shall return with usury. Chorus: Marchaunt Adventurers! Marchaunt Adventurers! What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be? — Englande ! — Englande ! — Englande ! — En^lande ! — Glory everlasting and the lordship of the sea! And there, framed in the lilac patch of sky That ended the steep street, dark on its light. And standing on those glistering cobble-stones Just where they took the sunset's kiss, I saw A figure like foot-feathered Mercury, Tall, straight and splendid as a sunset-cloud. Clad in a crimson doublet and trunk-hose, A rapier at his side; and, as he paused, [4] A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA His long fantastic shadow swayed and swept Against my feet. A moment he looked back, Then swaggered down as if he owned a world Which had forgotten — did I wake or dream:?— Even his gracious ghost! Over his arm He swung a gorgeous murrey-coloured cloak Of Ciprus velvet, caked and smeared with mud As on the day when — did I dream or wake? And had not all this happened once before? — When he had laid that cloak before the feet Of Gloriana! By that mud-stained cloak, 'Twas he! Our Ocean-Shepherd! Walter Raleigh! He brushed me passing, and with one vigorous thrust Opened the door and entered. At his heels I followed — into the Mermaid ! — through three yards Of pitch-black gloom, then into an old inn-parlour Swimming with faces in a mist of smoke That up-curled, blue, from long Winchester pipes. While — like some rare old picture, in a dream Recalled — quietly listening, laughing, watching. Pale on that old black oaken wainscot floated One bearded oval face, young, with deep eyes. Whom Raleigh hailed as "Will!" But as I stared A sudden buffet from a brawny hand Made all my senses swim, and the room rang With laughter as upon the rush-strewn floor My feet slipped and I fell. Then a gruff-voice Growled over me — " Get up now, John-a-dreams, [ 5 ] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Or else mine host must find another drawer! Hast thou not heard us calling all this while ? " And, as I scrambled up, the rafters rang With cries of "Sack! Bring me a cup of sack! Canary! Sack! Malmsey! and Muscadel!" I understood and flew. I was awake, A leather-jerkined pot-boy to these gods, A prentice Ganymede to the Mermaid Inn! There, flitting to and fro with cups of wine I heard them toss the Chrysomelan names From mouth to mouth — Lyly and Peele and Lodge, Kit Marlowe, Michael Drayton, and the rest. With Ben, rare Ben, brick-layer Ben, who rolled Like a great galleon on his ingle-bench. Some twenty years of age he seemed; and yet This young Gargantua with the bull-dog jaws. The T, for Tyburn, branded on his thumb. And grim pock-pitted face was growling tales To Dekker that would fright a buccaneer, — How in the fierce Low Countries he had killed His man, and won that scar on his bronzed fist; Was taken prisoner, and turned Catholick; Anjd, now returned to London, was resolved To blast away the vapours of the town With Boreas-throated plays of thunderous mirth. " I'll thwack their Tribulation- Wholesomes, lad, Their Yellow-faced Envies and lean Thorns-i'-the-Flesh, At the Black-friars Theatre, or The Rose, Or else The Curtain. Failing these, I'll find Some good square inn-yard with wide galleries, [6] A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA An4 windows level with the stage. 'Twill serve My Comedy of Vapours; though, I grant, For Tragedy a private House is best, Or, just as Burbage tip-toes to a deed Of blood, or, over your stable's black half-door, Marked Battlements in white chalk, your breathless David Glowers at the whiter Bathsheba within, Some humorous coach-horse neighs a ' hallelujah ' ! And the pit splits its doublets. Over goes The whole damned apple-barrel, and the yard Is all one rough and tumble, scramble and scratch Of prentices, green madams, and cut-purses For half-chewed Norfolk pippins. Never mind! We'll build the perfect stage in Shoreditch yet. And Will, there, hath half promised I shall write A piece for his own company! What d'ye think Of Venus and Adonis, his first heir, Printed last week? A bouncing boy, my lad! And he's at work on a Midsummer's Dream That turns the world to fairyland ! " All these And many more were there, and all were young ! There, as I brimmed their cups, I heard the voice Of Raleigh ringing across the smoke-wreathed room, — " Ben, could you put a frigate on the stage, I've found a tragedy for you. Have you heard The true tale of Sir Humphrey Gilbert? " "No!" " Why, Ben, of all the tragical affairs Of the Ocean-sea, and of that other Ocean [ 7 ] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Where all men sail so blindly, and misjudge Their friends, their charts, their storms, their stars, their God, If there be truth in the blind crowder's song I bought in Bread Street for a penny, this Is the brief type and chronicle of them all. Listen ! " Then Raleigh sent these rugged rhymes Of some blind crowder rolling in great waves Of passion across the gloom. At each refrain He sank his voice to a broad deep undertone. As if the distant roar of breaking surf Or the low thunder of eternal tides Filled up the pauses of the nearer storm, Storm against storm, a soul against the sea: — A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA Sir Humphrey Gilbert, hard of hand. Knight-in-chief of the Ocean-sea, Gazed from the rocks of his New Found Land And thought of the home where his heart would be. He gazed across the wintry waste That weltered and hissed like molten lead, — " He saileth twice who saileth in haste ! I'll wait the favour of Spring," he said. Ev€r the more, ever the more. He heard the winds and the waves roar! Thunder on thunder shook the shore. TTie yellow clots of foam went by Like shavings that curl from a ship-wright's plane, [8 ] A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA Clinging and flying, afar and nigh, Shuddering, flying and clinging again, A thousand bubbles in every one Shifted and shimmered with rainbow gleams; But — had they been planets and stars that spun He had let them drift by his feet like dreams: Heavy of heart was our Admirall, For, out of his ships, — and they were but three! — He had lost the fairest and most tall, And — he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea. Ever the more, ever the more. He heard the winds and the waves roar! Thunder on thunder shook the shore. Heavy of heart, heavy of heart. For she was a galleon mighty as May, And the storm that ripped her glory apart Had stripped his soul for the winter's way; And he was aware of a whisper blown From foc'sle to poop, from windward to lee, That the fault was his, and his alone. And — he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea. " Had he done that! Had he done this!" And yet his mariners loved him well; But an idle word is hard to miss, And the foam hides more than the deep can tell. [ 9 1 TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN And the deep had buried his best-loved books, With many a hard-won chart and plan : And a king that is conquered must see strange looks, So bitter a thing is the heart of man! And — " Who will you find to pay your debt ? For a venture like this is a costly thing ! Will they stake yet more, tho' your heart be set On the mightier voyage you planned for the Spring ? " He raised his head like a Viking crowned, — " I'll take my old flag to her Majestie, And she will lend me ten thousand pound To make her Queen of the Ocean-sea!" Ever the more, ever the more. He heard the winds and the waves roar! Thunder on thunder shook the shore. Outside — they heard the great winds blow! Outside — the blustering surf they heard, And the bravest there would ha' blenched to know That they must be taken at their own word. For the great grim waves were as molten lead — And he had two ships who sailed with three! — " And I sail not home till the Spring," he said, " They are all too frail for the Ocean-sea." But the trumpeter thought of an ale-house bench. And the cabin-boy longed for a Devonshire lane, [lO] A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA And the gunner remembered a green-gowned wench, And the foc'sle whisper went round again, — " Sir Humphrey Gilbert is hard of hand. But his courage went down with the ship, may-be, And we wait for the Spring in a desert land, For — he is afraid of the Ocean-sea." Ever the more, ever the more. He heard (he winds and the waves roarl Thunder on thunder shook the shore. He Itnew, he knew how the whisper went! He knew he must master it, last or first! He knew not how much or how little it meant; But his heart was heavy and like to burst. " Up with your sails, my sea-dogs all ! The wind has veered! And my ships," quoth he, " They will serve for a British Admirall Who is Knight-in-chief of the Ocean-seal" His will was like a North-east wind That swept along our helmless crew; But he would not stay on the Golden Hind. For that was the stronger ship of the two. " My little ship's-company, lads, hath passed Perils and storms a-many with me! Would ye have me forsake them at the last? They'll need a Knight of the Ocean-sea ! " ["] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Ever the more, ever the more. We heard the winds and the waves roar! Thunder on thunder sheok the shore. Beyond Cape Race, the pale sun splashed The grim grey waves with silver light Where, ever in front, his frigate crashed Eastward, for England and the night. And still as the dark began to fall, Ever in front of us, running free, We saw the sails of our Admirall Leading us home through the Ocean-sea. Ever the more, ever the more. We heard the winds and the waves roarl But he sailed on, sailed on before. On Monday, at noon of the third fierce day A-board our Golden Hind he came. With a trail of blood, marking his way On the salt wet decks as he walked half-lame. For a rusty nail thro' his foot had pierced. " Come, master-surgeon, mend it for me j Though I would it were changed for the nails that amerced The dying thief upon Calvary." The surgeon bathed and bound his foot, And the master entreated him sore to stay; [12] A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA But roughly he pulled on his great sea-boot With — " The wind is rising and I must away ! " I know not why so little a thing, When into his pinnace we helped him down, Should make our eye-lids prick and sting As the salt spray were into them blown. But he called as he went — " Keep watch and steer By my lanthorn at night ! " Then he waved his hand With a kinglier watch-word, " We are as near To heaven, my lads, by sea as by land ! " Ever the more, ever the more. We heard the gathering tempest roar! But he sailed on, sailed on before. Three hundred leagues on our homeward road. We strove to signal him, swooping nigh, That he would ease his decks of their load Of nettings and fights and artillery. And dark and dark that night 'gan fall, And high the muttering breakers swelled. Till that strange fire which seamen call " Castor and Pollux," we beheld, An evil sign of peril and death, Burning pale on the high main-mast; But calm with the might of Gennesareth Our Admirall's voice went ringing past, [13] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Clear thro' the thunders, far and clear, Mighty to counsel, clear to command, Joyfully ringing, " We are as near To heaven, my lads, by sea as by land ! " Ever the more, ever the more. We heard the rising hurricane roarl But he sailed on, sailed on befere. And over us fled the fleet of the stars. And, ever in front of us, far or nigh. The lanthorn on his cross-tree spars Dipped to the Pit or soared to the Sky! 'Twould sw^eep to the lights of Charles's Wain, As the hills of the deep 'ud mount and flee, Then swoop down vanishing cliffs again To the thundering gulfs of the Ocean-sea. We saw it shine as it swooped from the height. With ruining breakers on every hand. Then — a cry came out of the black mid-nighi. As near to heaven by sea as by land! And the light was out! Like a wind-blown spark. All in a moment! And we — and we — Prayed for his soul as we swept thro' the dark; For he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea. Over our fleets for evermore The winds 'ull triumph and the waves roarl But he sails on, sails on before! [14] A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA Silence a moment held the Mermaid Inn, Then Michael Drayton, raising a cup of wine, Stood up and said, — " Since many have obtained Absolute glory that have done great deeds, But fortune is not in the power of man, So they that, truly attempting, nobly fail, Deserve great honour of the common-wealth. Such glory did the Greeks and Romans give To those that in great enterprises fell Seeking the true commodity of their country And profit to all mankind; for, though they failed. Being by war, death, or some other chance. Hindered, their images were set up in brass, Marble and silver, gold and ivory. In solemn temples and great palace-halls, No less to make men emulate their virtues Than to give honour to their just deserts. God, from the time that He first made the world, Hath kept the knowledge of His Ocean-sea And the huge .^E^uinoctiall Continents Reserved unto this day. Wherefore I think No high exploit of Greece and Rome but seems A little thing to these Discoveries Which our adventurous captains even now Are making, out there, Westward, in the night. Captains most worthy of commendation, Hugh Willoughby — God send him home again Safe to the Mermaid! — and Dick Chauncellor, That excellent pilot. Doubtless this man, too, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, was worthy to be made [IS] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Knight of the Ocean-sea. I bid you all Stand up, and drink to his immortal fame ! " [i6] II A COINER OF ANGELS II A COINER OF ANGELS SOME three nights later, thro' the thick brown fog, A link-boy, dropping flakes of crimson fire, Flared to the door and, through its glowing frame, Ben Jonson and Kit Marlowe, arm in arm. Swaggered into the Mermaid Inn and called For red-deer pies. There, as they supped, I caught Scraps of ambrosial talk concerning Will, His Venus and Adonis. " Gabriel thought 'Twas wrong to change the old writers and create A cold Adonis." — " Laws were made for Will, Not Will for laws, since first he stole a buck In Charlecote woods." — "Where never a buck chewed fern," Laughed Kit, " unless it chewed the fern seed, too, And walked invisible." " Bring me some wine," called Ben, And, with his knife thrumming upon the board, He chanted, while his comrade munched and smiled. I Will Shakespeare's out like Robin Hood With his merry men all in green, [19 J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN To steal a deer in Charlecote wood [Where never a deer was seen, u He's hunted all a night of June, He's followed a phantom horn, He's killed a buck by the light of the moon, Under a fairy thorn. Ill He's carried it home with his merry, merry band, There never was haunch so fine; For this buck was born in Elfin-land And fed upon sops-in-wine. IV This buck had browsed on elfin boughs Of rose-marie and bay. And he's carried it home to the little white house Of sweet Anne Hathaway. " The dawn above your thatch is red ! Slip out of your bed, sweet Anne! I have stolen a fairy buck,'" he said, " The first since the world began. VI " Roast it on a golden spit, And see that it do not bum; [20] A COINER OF ANGELS For we never shall feather the like of it Out of the fairy fern." VII She scarce had donned her long white gown And given him kisses four, When the surly Sheriff of Stratford-town Knocked at the little green door. VIII They have gaoled sweet Will for a poacher; But squarely he fronts the squire, With "When did you hear in your woods of a deer? Was it under a fairy briar ? " IX Sir Thomas he puffs, — " If God thought good My water-butt ran with wine, Or He dropt me a buck in Charlecote wood, I wot it is mine, not thine ! " " If you would eat of elfin meat," Says Will, " you must blow up your horn ! Take your bow, and feather the doe That's under the fairy thorn! XI " If yooi would feast on elfin food, You've only the way to learn! [ax] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Take your bow and feather the doe That's under the fairy fern ! " XII They're hunting high, they're hunting low, They're all away, away. With horse and hound to feather the doe That's under the fairy spray! XIII Sir Thomas he raged! Sir Thomas he swore! But all and all in vain; For there never was deer in his woods before, And there never would be again! And, as I brought the wine — " This is my grace," Laughed Kit, " Diana grant the jolly buck That Shakespeare stole were toothsome as this pie." He suddenly sank his voice, — " Hist, who comes here ? Look — Richard Bamp, the Puritan! O, Ben, Ben, Your Mermaid Inn's the study for the stage. Your only teacher of exits, entrances. And all the shifting comedy. Be grave! Bame is the godliest hypocrite on earth! Remember I'm an atheist, black as coal. He has called me Wormall in an anagram. Help me to bait him; but be very grave. We'll talk of Venus." As he whispered thus, A long white face with small black-beaded eyes Peered at him through the doorway. All too well, [22] A COINER OF ANGELS Afterwards, I recalled that scene, when Bame, Out of revenge for this same night, I guessed, Penned his foul tract on Marlowe's tragic fate; And, twelve months later, I watched our Puritan Riding to Tyburn in the hangman's cart For thieving from an old bed-ridden dame With whom he prayed, at supper-time, on Sundays. Like a conspirator he sidled in. Clasping a little pamphlet to his breast, While, feigning not to see him, Ben began: — " Will's Venus and Adonis, Kit, is great, A round, sound, full-blown piece of thorough work, On a great canvas, coloured like one I saw In Italy, by one — Titian! None of the toys Of artistry your lank-haired losels turn, Your Phyllida — Love-lies-bleeding — ICiss-me-Quicks, Your fluttering Sighs and Mark-how-I-break-my-beats, Begotten like this, whenever and how you list. Your Moths of verse that shrivel in every taper; But a sound piece of craftsmanship to last Until the stars are out. 'Tis twice the length Of Vergil's books — he's listening! Nay, don't look! — Two hundred solid stanzas, think of that; But each a square celestial brick of gold Laid level and splendid. I've laid bricks and know What thorough work is. If a storm should shake The Tower of London down. Will's house would stand. Look at his picture of the stallion, Nostril to croup, that's thorough finished work! " [23] TALES OF THE MERMAlD TAVERN " 'Twill shock our Tribulation-Wholesomes, Ben ! Think of that kiss of Venus! Deep, sweet, slow, As the dawn breaking to its perfect flower And golden moon of bliss ; then slow, sweet, deep, Like a great honeyed sunset it dissolves Away! " A hollow groan, like a bass viol. Resounded thro' the room. Up started Kit In feigned alarm — " What, Master Richard Bame, Quick, Ben, the good man's ill. Bring him some wine! Red wine for Master Bame, the blood of Venus That stained the rose ! " " White wine for Master Bame," Ben echoed, " Juno's cream that "... Both at once They thrust a wine-cup to the sallow lips And smote him on the back. " Sirs, you mistake! " coughed Bame, waving his hands And struggling to his feet, " Sirs, I have brought A message from a youth who walked with you In wantonness, aforetime, and is now Groaning in sulphurous fires!" "Kit, that means' hell!" " Yea, sirs, a pamphlet from the pit of hell. Written by Robert Greene before he died. Mark what he styles it — A Groatsworth of Wit Bought with a Million of Repentance! " "Ah, Poor Rob was all his life-time either drunk. Wenching, or penitent, Ben! Poor lad, he died Young. Let me see now, Master Bame, you say [24] A COINER OF ANGELS Rob Greene wrote this on earth before he died, And then you printed it yourself in hell ! " " Stay, sir, I came not to this haunt of sin To make mirth for Beelzebub!" " O, Ben, That's you!" " 'Swounds, sir, am I Beelzebub ? Ogs-gogs!" roared Ben, his hand upon his hilt! " Nay, sir, I signified the god of flies ! I spake out of the scriptures!" snufHed Bame With deprecating eye. " I come to save A brand that you have kindled at your fire. But not yet charred, not yet so far consumed, One Richard Cholmeley, who declares to all He was persuaded to turn Atheist By Marlowe's reasoning. I have wrestled with him. But find him still so constant to your words That only you can save him from the fire." " Why, Master Bame," said Kit, " had I the keys To hell, the damned should all come out and dance A morrice round the Mermaid Inn to-night." " Nay, sir, the damned are damned ! " " Come, sit you down ! Take some more wine! You'd have them all be damned Except Dick Cholmeley. What must I unsay To save him ? " A quick eye-lid dropt at Ben. "Now tell me. Master Bame!" " Sir, he derides The books of Moses!" "Bame, do you believe? — [25] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN There's none to hear us but Beelzebub — Do you believe that we must taste of death Because God set a foolish naked wench Too near an apple-tree, how long ago? Five thousand years? But there were men on earth Long before that ! " " Nay, nay, sir, if you read The books of Moses . . ." " Moses was a juggler ! " " A juggler, sir, how, what ! " " Nay, sir, be calm ! Take some more wine — the white, if that's too red! I never cared for Moses! Help yourself To red-deer pie. Good! All the miracles You say that he performed — why, what are they? I know one Heriots, lives in Friday Street, Can do much more than Moses! Eat your pie In patience, friend, the mouth of man performs One good work at a time. What says he, Ben? The red deer stops his — what? Sticks in his gizzard? O — led them through the wilderness! No doubt He did — for forty years, and might have made The journey in six months. Believe me, sir, That is no miracle. Moses gulled the Jews! Skilled in the sly tricks of the Egyptians, Only one art betrayed him. Sir, his books Are filthily written. I would undertake — If I were put to write a new religion— A method far more admirable. Eh, what? Gruel in the vestibule? Interpret, Ben! His mouth's too full! O, the New Testament! Why, there, consider, were not all the Apostles Fishermen and base fellows, without wit [26] A COINER OF ANGELS Or worth ? " — again his eye-lid dropt at Ben, — " The Apostle Paul alone had wit, and he Was a most timorous fellow in bidding us Prostrate ourselves to worldly magistrates Against our conscience! I shall fry for this? I fear no bug-bears or hob-goblins, sir, And would have all men not to be afraid Of roasting, toasting, pitch-forks, or the threats Of earthly ministers, tho' their mouths be stuifed With curses or with crusts of red-deer pie! One thing I will confess — if I must choose — Give me the Papists that can serve their God Not with your scraps, but solemn ceremonies, Organs, and singing men, and shaven crowns. Your protestant is a hypocritical ass!" " Profligate ! You blaspheme ! " Up started Bame, A little unsteady now upon his feet. And shaking his crumpled pamphlet over his head! " Nay — if your pie be done, you shall partake A second course. Be seated, sir, I pray. We atheists will pay the reckoning! I had forgotten that a Puritan Will swallow Moses like a red-deer pie Yet choke at a wax-candle! Let me read Your pamphlet. What, 'tis half addressed to me! Ogs-gogs! Ben! Hark to this — the Testament Of poor Rob Greene would cut Will Shakespeare ofE With less than his own Groatsworth! Hark to this!' [27] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN And there, unseen by them, a quiet figure Entered the room and beckoning me for wine Seated himself to listen, Will himself. While Marlowe read aloud with knitted brows. Trust them not; for there is an upstart crow Beautified with our feathers/' — O, he bids All green eyes open : — ' And, being an absolute Johannes fac-totum is in his own conceit The only Shake-scene in a country!'" "Feathers!" Exploded Ben, "Why, come to that, he pouched Your eagle's feather of blank verse, and lit His Friar Bacon's little magic lamp At the Promethean fire of Faustus. Jove, It was a faery buck, indeed, that Will Poached in that green-wood." " Ben, see that you walk Like Adam, naked! Nay, in nakedness Adam was first. Trust me, you'll not escape This calumny ! Vergil is damned — he wears A hen-coop round his waist, nicked in the night From Homer! Plato is branded for a thief. Why, he wrote Greek! And old Prometheus, too. Who stole his fire from heaven ! " "Who printed it?" " Chettle! I know not why, unless he too Be one of these same dwarfs that find the world Too narrow for their jealousies. Ben, Ben, I tell thee 'tis the dwarfs that find no world Wide enough for their jostling, while the giants, [28] William Shakespeare From a Painting in the Collection of the Duke of Somerset A COINER OF ANGELS The gods themselves, can in one tavern find Room wride enough to swallowr the wide heaven With all its crowded solitary stars." " Let me begin, then, lad, with swallowing this." The voice of Shakespeare quietly broke in, As laying a hand on either shoulder of Kit He stood behind him in the gloom and smiled Across the table at Ben, whose eyes still blazed With boyhood's generous wrath. " Rob was a poet. And had I known ... no matter! I am sorry He thought I wronged him. His heart's blood beats in this. Look, where he says he dies forsaken, Kit I " " Died drunk, more like," growled Ben. " And if he did," Will answered, " none was there to help him home. Had not a poor old cobbler chanced upon him, Dying in the streets, and taken him to his house, And let him break his heart on his own bed. Read his last words. You know he left his wife And played the moth at tavern tapers, burnt His wings and dropt into the mud. Read here. His dying words to his forsaken wife. Written in blood, Ben, blood. Read it, '/ charge thee, Doll, by the love of @ur youth, by my soul's rest. See this man paid! Had he not succoured me I had died in the streets.' How young he was to call Thus on their poor dead youth, this withered shadow That once was Robin Greene. He left a child — See — in its face he prays her not to find The father's, but her own. 'He is yet green And may grow straight,' so flickers his last jest, [29] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Then out for ever. At the last he begged A pennjr-pott of malmsey. In the bill, All's printed now for crows and daws to peck, You'll find four shillings for his winding sheet. He had the poet's heart and God help all Who have that heart and somehow lose their way For lack of helm, souls that are blown abroad By the great winds of passion, without power To sway them, chartless captains. Multitudes ply Trimly enough from bank to bank of Thames Like shallow wherries, while tall galleons, Out of their very beauty driven to dare The uncompassed sea, founder in starless nights, And all that we can say is — 'They died drunk!'" " I have it from veracious witnesses," Bame snuffled, " that the death of Robert Greene Was caused by a surfeit, sir, of Rhenish wine And pickled herrings. Also, sir, that his shirt Was very foul, and while it was at wash He lay i' the cobbler's old blue smock, sir! " " Gods," The voice of Raleigh muttered nigh mine ear, " I had a dirty cloak once on my arm; But a Queen's feet had trodden it! Drawer, take Yon pamphlet, have it fried in cod-fish oil And bring it hither. Bring a candle, too, And sealing-wax! Be quick. The rogue shall eat it, And then I'll seal his lips." "No — not to-night," [30] A COINER OF ANGELS Kit whispered, laughing, " I've a prettier plan For Master Bame." " As for that scrap of paper," The voice of Shakespeare quietly resumed, " Why, which of us could send his heart and soul Thro' Caxton's printing-press and hope to find The pretty pair unmangled. I'll not trust The spoken word, no, not of my own lips, Before the Judgment Throne against myself Or on my own defence; and I'll not trust The printed word to mirror Robert Greene. See — here's another Testament, in blood, Written, not printed, for the Mermaid Inn. Rob sent it from his death-bed straight to me, Read it. 'Tis for the Mermaid Inn alone; And when 'tis read, we'll burn it, as he asks." Then, from the hands of Shakespeare, Marlowe took A little scroll, and, while the winds without Rattled the shutters with their ghostly hands And wailed among the chimney-tops, he read: — Greeting to all the Mermaid Inn From their old Vice and Slip of Sin, Greeting, Ben, to you, and you Will Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe, too. Greeting from your Might-have-been, Your broken sapling, Robert Greene. Read my letter — 'Tis my last, Then let Memory blot me out, [31] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN I would not make my maudlin past A trough for every swinish snout. First, I leave a debt unpaid, It's all chalked up, not much all told, For Bread and Sack. When I am cold, Doll can pawn my Spanish blade And pay mine host. She'll pay mine host! But ... I have chalked up other scores In your own hearts, behind the doors, Not to be paid so quickly. Yet, O, if you would not have my ghost Creeping in at dead of night. Out of the cold wind, out of the wet. With weeping face and helpless fingers Trying to wipe the marks away. Read what I can write, still write, While this life within them lingers. Let me pay, lads, let me pay. Item, for a peacock phrase, Flung out in a sudden blaze, Flung out at his friend Shake-scene, By this ragged Might-have-been, This poor Jackdaw, Robert Greene. Will, I knew it all the while! And you know it — and you smile ! My quill was but a Jackdaw's feather, While the quill that Ben, there, wields. Fluttered down thro' azure fields, From an eagle in the sun; [32] A COINER OF ANGELS And yours, Will, yours, no earth-born thing, A plume of rainbow-tinctured grain, Dropt out of an angel's wing. Only a Jackdaw's feather mine. And mine ran ink, and Ben's ran wine, And yours the pure Pierian streams. But I had dreams, O, I had dreams! Dreams, you understand me. Will; And I fretted at the tether That bound me to the lowly plain. Gnawed my heart out, for I knew Once, tho' that was long ago, I might have risen with Ben and you Somewhere near that Holy Hill Whence the living rivers flow. Let it pass. I did not know One bitter phrase could ever fly So far through that immortal sky — Seeing all my songs had flown so low — One envious phrase that cannot die From century to century. Kit Marlowe ceased a moment, and the wind. As if indeed the night were all one ghost, Wailed round the Mermaid Inn, then sent once more Its desolate passion through the reader's voice: — Some truth there was in what I said. Kit Marlowe taught you half your trade; And something of the rest you learned [33 J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN From me, — but all you took you earned. You took the best I had to give, You took my clay and made it live; And that — virhy that's vi^hat God must do!- My music made for mortal ears You flung to all the listening spheres. You took my dreams and made them true. And, if I claimed them, the blank air Might claim the breath I shape to prayer. I do not claim it! Let the earth Claim the thrones she brings to birth. Let the first shapers of our tongue Claim whate'er is said or sung, Till the doom repeal that debt And cancel the first alphabet. Yet when, like a god, you scaled The shining crags vi^here my foot failed; When I saw my fruit of the vine Foam in the Olympian cup, Or in that broader chalice shine Blood-red, a sacramental drink. With stars for bubbles, lifted up, Through the universal night, Up to the celestial brink. Up to that quintessential Light Where God acclaimed you for the wine Crushed from those poor grapes of mine; O, you'll understand, no doubt. How the poor vine-dresser fell. How a pin-prick can let out All the bannered hosts of hell, [34] A COINER OF ANGELS Nay, a knife-thrust, the sharp truth — I had spilt my wine of youth, The Temple was not mine to build. My place in the world's march was filled. Yet — through all the years to come — Men to whom my songs are dumb [Will remember them and me For that one cry of jealousy. That curse where I had come to bless. That harsh voice of unhappiness. They'll note the curse, but not the pang. Not the torment whence it sprang, They'll note the blow at my friend's back, But not the soul stretched on the rack. They'll note the weak convulsive sting, Not the crushed body and broken wing. Item, — for my thirty years. Dashed with sun and splashed vnth tears. Wan with revel, red with wine. This Jack-o-lanthorn life of mine. Other wiser, happier men, Take the full three-score-and-ten. Climb slow, and seek the sun. Dancing down is soon done. Golden boys, beware, beware, — The ambiguous oracles declare Loving gods for those that die Young, as old men may; but I, Quick as was my pilgrimage, Wither in mine April age. [35 J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Item, — one groatsworth of wit, Bought at an exceeding price, Ay, a million of repentance. Let me pay the whole of it. Lying here these deadly nights. Lads, for me the Mermaid lights Gleam as for a castaway Swept along a midnight sea The harbour-lanthorns, each a spark, A pin-prick in the solid dark, That lets trickle through a ray Glorious out of Paradise, To stab him with new agony. Let me pay, lads, let me pay! Let the Mermaid pass the sentence: I am pleading guilty now, A dead leaf on the laurel-bough, And the storm whirls me away. Kit Marlowe ceased; but not the wailing wind That round and round the sileot Mermaid Inn Wandered, with helpless fingers trying the doors, Like a most desolate ghost. A sudden throng Of players bustled in, shaking the rain From their plumed hats. " Veracious witnesses," The snuffle of Bame arose anew, " declare It was a surfeit killed him, Rhenish wine And pickled herrings. His shirt was very foul. He had but one. His doublet, too, was frayed. And his boots broken . . ." C36] A COINER OF ANGELS "What! Gonzago, you!" A short fat player called in a deep voice Across the room and, throwing aside his cloak To show the woman's robe he wore beneath, Minced up to Bame and bellowed — " 'Tis such men As you that tempt us women to our fall ! " And all the throng of players rocked and roared, Till at a nod and wink from Kit a hush Held them again. " Look to the door," he said, "Is any listening?" The young player crept, A mask of mystery, to the door and peeped. "All's well! The coast is clear!" "Then shall we tell Our plan to Master Bame ? " Round the hushed room Went Kit, a pen and paper in his hand, Whispering each to read, digest, and sign, While Ben re-filled the glass of Master Bame. "And now," said Kit aloud, "what think you, lads? Shall he be told ? " Solemnly one or two 'Gan shake their heads with " Safety! safety! Kit! " " O, Bame can keep a secret ! Come, we'll tell him ! He can advise us how a righteous man Should act! We'll let him share an he approve. Now, Master Bame, — come closer — my good friend, Ben Jonson here, hath lately found a way Of — hush! Come closer! — coining money, Bame." " Coining ! " " Ay, hush, now ! Hearken ! A certain sure, And indiscoverable method, sir! [371 TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN He is acquainted with one Poole, a felon Lately released from Newgate, hath great skill In mixture of metals — hush! — and, by the help Of a right cunning maker of stamps, we mean To coin French crowns, rose-nobles, pistolettes, Angels and English shillings." For one breath Bame stared at him with bulging beetle-eyes. Then murmured shyly as a country maid In her first wooing, " It's not against the law ? " " Why, sir, who makes the law? Why should not Bame Coin his own crowns like Queen Elizabeth? She is but mortal! And consider, too, The good works it should prosper in your hands, Without regard to red-deer pies and wine White as the Milky Way. Such secrets, Bame, Were not good for the general; but a few Discreet and righteous palms, your own, my friend, And mine, — what think you?" With a hesitant glance Of well-nigh child-like cunning, screwing his eyes, Bame laughed a little huskily and looked round At that grave ring of anxious faces, all Holding their breath and thrilling his blunt nerves With their stage-practice. " And no risk? " breathed Bame, " No risk at all? " " O, sir, no risk at all! We make the very coins. Besides, that part Touches not you. Yours is the honest face. That's all we want." " Why, sir, if you be sure There is no risk . . ." [38] A COINER OF ANGELS "You'll help to spend it. Good! We'll talk anon of this, and you shall carry More angels in your pocket, master Bame, Then e'er you'll meet in heaven. Set hand on seal To this now, master Bame, to prove your faith. Come, all have signed it. Here's the quill, dip, write. Good!" And Kit, pocketing the paper, bowed The gull to the inn-door, saying as he went, — " You shall hear further when the plan's complete. But there's one great condition — not one word. One breath of scandal more on Robert Greene. He's dead; but he was one of us. The day You air his shirt, I air this paper, too." No gleam of understanding, even then. Illumed that long white face: no stage, indeed, Has known such acting as the Mermaid Inn That night, and Bame but sniggered, " Why, of course. There's good in all men; and the best of us Will make mistakes." " But no mistake in this," Said Kit, " or all together we shall swing At Tyburn — who knows what may leap to light? — You understand? No scandal! " " Not a breath ! " So, in dead silence. Master Richard Bame Went out into the darkness and the night, To ask, as I have heard, for many a moon, The price of malmsey-butts and silken hose, And doublets slashed with satin. As the door Slammed on his back, the pent-up laughter burst [39] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN With echo and re-echo round the room, But ceased as Will tossed on the glowing hearth The last poor Testament of Robert Greene. All watched it burn. The black wind wailed and moaned Around the Mermaid as the sparks flew up. " God, what a night for ships upon the sea," Said Raleigh, peering through the wet black panes, " Well — we may thank Him for the Little Red Ring! " " The Little Red Ring" cried Kit, " the Little Red Ring/ " Then up stood Dekker on the old black settle. " Give it a thumping chorus, lads," he called. And sang this brave song of the Mermaid Inn: — Seven wise men on an old black settle, Seven wise men of the Mermaid Inn, Ringing blades of the one right metal. What is the best that a blade can win? Bread and cheese, and a few small kisses? Ha ! ha ! ha ! Would you take them — you ? — Ay, if Dame Venus would add to her blisses A roaring fire and a friend or two! Chorus: Up now, answer me, tell me true! — — Ay, if the hussy would add to her blisses A roaring fire and a friend or two! II What will you say when the world is dying? What, when the last wild midnight falls [40] A COINER OF ANGELS Chorus: Dark, too dark for the bat to be flying Round the ruins of old St. Paul's? What will be last of the lights to perish? What but the little red ring we knew, Lighting the hands and the hearts that cherish A fire, a fire, and a friend or two] Up now, answer me, tell me true! What will be last of the stars to perish? — The fire that lighteth a friend or two! Ill Up now, answer me, on your mettle Wisest man of the Mermaid Inn, Soberest man on the old black settle, Out with the truth ! It was never a sin. — Well, if God saved me alone of the seven, Telling me you must be damned, or you, " This," I would say, " This is hell, not heaven ! Give me the fire and a friend or two ! " Chorus: Steel was never so ringing true: " God," we would say, " this is hell, not heaven ! Give us the fire, and a friend or two ! " C4il Ill BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON / Ill BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON THE garlands of a Whitsun ale were strewn About our rushes, the night that Raleigh brought Bacon to sup with us. There, on that night, I saw the singer of the Faerie Queen Quietly spreading out his latest cantos For Shakespeare's eye, like white sheets in the sun. Marlowe, our morning-star and Michael Drayton Talked in that ingle-nook. And Ben was there. Humming a song upon that old black settle: " Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not ask for wine." But, meanwhile, he drank malmsey. Francis Bacon Straddled before the fire; and, all at once, He said to Shakespeare, in a voice that gripped The Mermaid Tavern like an arctic frost : " There are no poets in this age of ours. Not to compare with Plantus. They are all Dead, the men that were famous in old days." " Why — so they are," said Will. The humming stopped. I saw poor Spenser, a shy gentle soul. With haunted eyes like starlit forest pools. Smuggling his cantos under his cloak again. [45] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN " There's verse enough, no doubt," Bacon went on, " But English is no language for the Muse. Whom would you call our best? There's GabrielHarvey, And Edward, Earl of Oxford. Then there's Dyer, And Doctor Golding; while, for tragedy, Thomas, Lord Buckhurst, hath a lofty vein. And, in a lighter prettier vein, why, Will, There is thyself I But — where's Euripides?" " Dead," echoed Ben, in a deep ghost-like voice. And drip — drip — drip — outside we heard the rain Miserably dropping round the Mermaid Inn. " Thy Summer's Night — eh, Will ? Midsummer's Night ?— That's a quaint fancy," Bacon droned anew, " But — Athens was an error, Will ! Not Athens ! Titania knew not Athens! Those wild elves Of thy Midsummer's Dream — eh? Midnight's Dream? — Are English all. Thy woods, too, smack of England; They never grew round Athens. Bottom, too. He is not Greek! " "Greek?" Will said, with a chuckle, " Bottom a Greek? Why, no, he was the son Of Marian Hacket, the fat wife that kept An ale-house, Wincot-way. I lodged with her Walking from Stratford. You have never tramped Along that country side? By Burton Heath? Ah, well, you would not know my fairy-lands. It warms my blood to let my home-spuns play Around your cold white Athens. There's a joy In jumping time and space." [46] Sir Francis Bacon From an Old Print BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON But, as he took The cup of sack I proffered, solemnly The lawyer shook his head. " Will, couldst thou use Thy talents with discretion, and obey Classic examples, those mightst match old Plantus, In all except priority of the tongue. This English tongue is only for an age, But Latin for all time. So I propose To embalm in Latin my philosophies. Well-seize your hour ! But, ere you die, you'll sail A British galleon to the golden courts Of Cleopatra." "Sail it!" Marlowe roared, Mimicking in a fit of thunderous glee The drums and trumpets of his Tamburlaine : " And let her buccaneers bestride the sphinx. And play at bowls with Pharaoh's pyramids, And hale white Egypt with their tarry hands Home to the Mermaid! Lift the good old song That Rob Greene loved. Gods, how the lad would shout it ! Stand up and sing, John Davis! " "Up!" called Raleigh, " Lift the chanty of Black Bill's Honey-moon, Jack ! We'll keep the chorus going! " "Silence, all!" Ben Jonson echoed, rolling on his bench: " This gentle lawyer hath a longing, lads, To hear a right Homeric hymn. Now, Jack! But wet your whistle, first! A cup of sack For the first canto! Muscadel, the next! Canary for the last ! " I brought the cup. [47l TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN John Davis emptied it at one mighty draught, Leapt on a table, stamped with either foot, And straight began to troll this mad sea-tale: CANTO THE FIRST Let Martin Parker at hawthorn-tide Prattle in Devonshire lanes, Let all his pedlar poets beside Rattle their gallows-chains, A tale like mine they never shall tell Or a merrier ballad sing. Till the Man in the Moon pipe up the tune And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring ! Chorus: Till Philip of Spain in England reign,' And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring! All in the gorgeous dawn of day From grey old Plymouth Sound Our galleon crashed thro' the crimson spray To sail the world around: Cloud i' the Sun was her white-scrolled name,- There was never a lovelier lass For sailing in state after pieces of eight With her bombards all of brass. Chorus: Culverins, robinets, iron may-be; But her bombards all of brass! Now, they that go down to the sea in ships. Though piracy be their trade, [48] BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON For all that they pray not much with their lips They know where the storms are made: With the stars above and the sharks below, They need not parson or clerk; But our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still, Except — sometimes — in the dark! Chorus: Now let Kit Marlowe mark! Our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still, Except — sometimes — in the dark! All we adventured for, who shall say, Nor yet what our port might be? — A magical city of old Cathay, Or a castle of Muscovy, With our atheist bo'sun. Bill, Black Bill, Under the swinging Bear, Whistling at night for a seaman to light His little poop-lanthorns there. Chorus: On the deep, in the night, for a seaman to light His little lost lanthorns there. But, as over the Ocean-sea we swept, We chanced on a strange new land Where a valley of tall white lilies slept With a forest on either hand; A valley of white in a purple wood And, behind it, faint and far. Breathless and bright o'er the last rich height. Floated the sunset-star. [49J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Chorus: Fair and bright o'er the rose-red height, Venus, the sunset-star. 'Twas a marvel to see, as we beached our boat. Black Bill, in that peach-bloom air, With the great white lilies that reached to his throat Like a stained-glass bo'sun there, And our little ship's chaplain, puffing and red, A-starn as we onward stole. With the disk of a lily behind his head Like a cherubin's aureole. Chorus: He was round and red and behind his head He'd a cherubin's aureole. " Hyrcania, land of honey and bees, We have found thee at last," he said, "Where the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees," (O, the lily behind his head!) " The honey-comb swells in the purple wood ! 'Tis the swette which the heavens distil, Saith Pliny himself, on my little book-shelf! Is the world not sweet to thee, Bill ? " Chorus; " Saith Pliny himself, on my little book -shelf ! Is the world not sweet to thee. Bill ? " Now a man may taste of the devil's hot spice. And yet if his mind run back [50J BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON Cho To the honey of childhood's Paradise His heart is not wholly black; And Bill, Black Bill, from the days of his youth. The' his chest was broad as an oak, Had cherished one innocent little sweet tooth. And it itched as our chaplain spoke. He had kept one perilous little tooth. And it itched as our Chaplain spoke. All around was a mutter of bees, And Bill 'gan muttering too, — " \i the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees, (What else can a Didymus do?) I'll steer to the purple woods myself And see if this thing be so, Which the chaplain found on his little book-shelf, For Pliny lived long ago." Chorus: There's a platter of delf on his little book-shelf. And Pliny lived long ago. Scarce had he spoken when, out of the wood. And buffeting all around. Rooting our sea-boots where we stood. There rumbled a marvellous sound, As a mountain of honey were crumbling asunder, Or a sunset-avalanche hurled Honey-comb boulders of golden thunder To smother the old black world. [51] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Chorus: Honey-comb boulders of musical thunder To mellow this old black world. And the chaplain he whispered — "This honey, one saith, On my camphired cabin-shelf, None may harvest on pain of death; For the bee would eat it himself! None walketh those woods but him whose voice In the dingles you then did hear! " "A Voice?" growls Bill! "Ay, Bill, r-r-rejoice! 'TWas the great Hyrcanian Bear!" Chorus: Give thanks! ^g-joice! 'Twas the glor-r-r-ious Voice Of the great Hyrcanian Bear! But, marking that Bill looked bitter indeed. For his sweet tooth hungered sore, " Consider," he saith, " that the Sweet hath need Of the Sour, as the Sea of the Shore ! As the night to the day is our grief to our joy. And each for its brother prepares A banquet, Bill, that would otherwise cloy. Thus is it with honey and bears." Chorus: Roses and honey and laughter would cloy! Give us thorns, too, and sorrow and bears! " Consider," he saith, " how by fretting a string The lutanist maketh sweet moan, [52J BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON And a bird ere it fly must have air for its wing To buffet or fall like a stone: Tho' you blacken like Pluto you make but more white These blooms which not Enna could yield ! Consider, Black Bill, ere the coming of night. The lilies," he saith, " of the field." Chorus: " Consider, Black Bill, in this beautiful light, The lilies," he saith, " of the field." " Consider the claws of a Bear," said Bill, " That can rip off the flesh from your bones, While his belly could cabin the skipper and still Accommodate Timothy Jones! Why, that's where a seaman who cares for his grog Perspires how this world isn't square! If there's cause for a cow, if there's use for a dog. By Pope John, there's no Sense in a Bear I " Chorus: Cause for a cow, use for a dog, By'r Lakin, no Sense in a Bear! But our little ship's chaplain — " Sense," quoth he, " Hath the Bear tho' his making have none ; For, my little book saith, by the sting of this bee Would Ursus be wholly foredone, But, or ever the hive he adventureth nigh And its crisp gold-crusted dome, He lardeth his nose and he greaseth his eye With a piece of an honey-comb." [53 J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Chorus: His velvety nose and his sensitive eye With a piece of an honey-comb. Black Bill at the virord of that golden crust — For his ears had forgotten the roar, And his eyes grew soft with their innocent lust — 'Gan licking his lips once more: " Be it bound like a missal and printed as fair, With capitals blue and red, 'TIs a lie; for what honey could comfort a bear, Till the bear win the honey?" he said. Chorus: " Ay, whence the first honey wherewith the first bear First larded his nose?" he said. " Thou first metaphysical bo'sun. Bill," Our chaplain quizzingly cried, " Wilt thou riddle me redes of a dumpling still With thy ' how came the apple inside ' ? " " Nay," answered Bill, " but I quest for truth. And I find it not on your self! I will face your Hyrcanian bear, forsooth, And look at his nose myself." Chorus: For truth, for truth, or a little sweet tooth — I will into the woods myself. Breast-high thro' that foam-white ocean of bloom With its wonderful spokes of gold, Our sun-burnt crew in the rose-red gloom Like buccaneer galleons rolled: [54] BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON Breast-high, breast-high in the lilies we stood, And before we could say " good-night," Out of the valley and into the wood He plunged thro' the last rich light. Chorus: Out of the lilies and into the wood. Where the Great Bear walks all night! And our little ship's chaplain he piped thro' the trees As the moon rose, white and still, " Hylas, return to thy Heracles ! " And we helped him with " Come back, Bill! " Thrice he piped it, thrice we halloo*d. And thrice we were dumb to hark; But never an answer came from the wood. So — we turned to our ship in the dark. Chorus: Good-bye, Bill! you're a Didymus still; But — you're all alone in the dark. " This honey now " — as the first canto ceased. The great young Bacon pompously began — " Which Pliny calleth, as it were, the swette Of heaven, or spettle of the stars, is found In Muscovy. Now . . ." " Bring the muscadel," Ben Jonson roared — " 'Tis a more purple drink. And suits with the next canto! " At one draught John Davis drained the cup, and with one hand Beating the measure, rapidly trolled again. [55] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN CANTO THE SECOND Now, Rabelais, art thou quite foredone, Dan Chaucer, Drayton, Every One! Leave we aboard our Cloud i' the Sun This crew of pirates dreaming — Of Angels, minted in the blue Like golden moons, Rose-nobles, too, As under the silver-sliding dew Our emerald creek lay gleaming! Chorus: Under the stars lay gleaming! And mailed with scales of gold and green The high star-lilied banks between, Nosing our old black hulk unseen, Great alligators shimmered: Blood-red jaws i' the blue-black ooze, Where all the long warm day they snooze. Chewing old cuds of pirate-crews. Around us grimly glimmered. Chorus: Their eyes like rubies glimmered. Let us now sing of Bill, good sirs! Follow him, all green foresteres, Fearless of Hyrcanian bears As of these ghostly lilies! For O, not Drayton there could sing Of wild Pigwiggen and his King So merry a jest, so jolly a thing As this my tale of Bill is. [56] BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON Chorus: Into the woods where Bill is! Now starts he as a white owl hoots, And now he stumbles over roots, And now beneath his big sea-boots In yon deep glade he crunches Black cakes of honey-comb that were So elfin-sweet, perchance, last year; But neither Bo'sun, now, nor Bear At that dark banquet munches. Chorus: Onward still he crunches! Black cakes of honey-comb he sees Above him in the forks of trees. Filled by stars instead of bees. With brimming silver glisten: But ah, such food of gnome and fay Could neither Bear nor Bill delay Till where yon ferns and moon-beams play He starts and stands to listen! Chorus: What melody doth he listen? Is it the Night-Wind as it comes Through the wood and softly thrums Silvery tabors, purple drums, To speed some wild-wood revel? Nay, Didymus, what faint sweet din Of viol and flute and violin Makes all the forest round thee spin, The Night- Wind or the Devil? [57] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Chorus: No doubt at all — the Devil! He stares, with naked knife in hand, This buccaneer in fairyland! Dancing in a saraband The red ferns reel about him! Dancing in a morrice-ring The green ferns curtsey, kiss and cling! Their Marians flirt, their Robins fling Their feathery heels to flout him! Chorus: The whole wood reels about him. Dance, ye shadows! O'er the glade, Bill, the Bo'sun, undismayed. Pigeon-toes with glittering glade! Drake was never bolder! Devil or Spaniard, what cares he Whence your eerie music be? Till — lo, against yon old oak-tree He leans his brawny shoulder! Chorus: He lists and leans his shoulder! Ah, what melody doth he hear As to that gnarled old tree-trunk there He lays his wind-bit brass-ringed ear, And steals his arm about it? What Dryad could this Bo'sun win To that slow-rippling amorous grin? — 'Twas full of singing bees within! Not Didymus could doubt it! [58] BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON Chorus: So loud they buzzed about it! Straight, o'er a bough one leg he throws, And up that oaken main-mast goes With reckless red unlarded nose And goose-berry eyes of wonder! Till now, as in a galleon's hold. Below, he sees great cells of gold Whence all the hollow trunk up-rolled A low melodious thunder. Chorus: A sweet and perilous thunder! Ay, there, within that hollow tree, Will Shakespeare, might'st thou truly see The Imperial City of the Bee, In Chrysomelan splendour! And, in the midst, one eight-foot dome Swells o'er that Titan honey-comb Where the Bee-Empress hath her home, With such as do attend her. Chorus: Weaponed with stings attend her! But now her singing sentinels Have turned to sleep in waxen cells. And Bill leans down his face and smells The whole sweet summer's cargo — In one deep breath, the whole star's bloom, Lily and thyme and rose and broom, One Golden Fleece of flower-perfume In that old oaken Argo. [59J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Chorus: That green and golden Argo! And now he hangs with dangling feet Over that dark abyss of sweet, Striving to reach such wild gold meat As none could buy for money: His left hand grips a swinging branch When — I crack! Our Bo'sun, stout and stanch, Falls like an Alpine avalanche, Feet first into the honey! Chorus: Up to his ears in honey! And now his red un-larded nose And bulging eyes are all that shows Above it, as he pufEs and blows! And now — to 'scape the scathing Of that black host of furious bees His nose and eyes he fain would grease And bobs below those golden seas Like an old woman bathing. Chorus: Old Mother Hubbard bathing! And now he struggles, all in vain, To reach some little bough again; But, though he heaves with might and main. This honey holds his ribs, sirs, So tight, a barque might sooner try To steer a cargo through the sky Than Bill, thus honey-logged, to fly By flopping of his jib, sirs! [60] BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON Chorus: His tops'l and his jib, sirs! Like Oberon in the hive his beard With wax and honey all besmeared Would make the crescent moon afeard That now is sailing brightly Right o'er his leafy donjon-keep ! But that she knows him sunken deep, And that his tower is straight and steep, She would not smile so lightly. Chorus: Look down and smile so lightly. She smiles in that small heavenly space, Ringed with the tree-trunk's leafy grace. While upward grins his ghastly face As if some wid-wood Satyr, Some gnomish Ptolemy should dare Up that dark optic tube to stare. As all unveiled she floated there. Poor maiden moon, straight at her! Chorus: The buccaneering Stayr! But there, till some one help him out. Black Bill must stay, without a doubt. " Help I Helpl" he gives a mufHed shout! None but the white owls hear it! Who? Whoo? they cried: Bill answers "Me! I am stuck fast in this great tree! Bring me a rope, good Timothy! There's honey, lads, we'll share it! " [6il TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Chorus: Ay, now he wants to share it. Then, thinking help may come with morn, He sinks, half-famished and out-worn, And scarce his nose exalts its horn Above that sea of glory! But, even as he owns defeat, His belly saith, " A man must eat. And since there is none other meat. Come, lap this mess before 'ee! " Chorus: This glorious mess before 'ee. Then Dian sees a right strange sight As, bidding him a fond good-night. She flings a silvery kiss to light In that deep oak-tree hollow, And finds that gold and crimson nose A moving, munching, ravenous rose That up and down unceasing goes. Save when he stops to swallow! Chorus: He finds it hard to swallow! Ay, now his best becomes his worst. For honey cannot quench his thirst. Though he should eat until he burst; But, ah, the skies are kindly. And from their tender depths oi blue They send their silver-sliding dew. So Bill thrusts out his tongue anew And waits to catch it — blindly! [62] BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON Chorus: For ah, the stars are kindly! And sometimes, with a shower of rain, They strive to ease their prisoner's pain: Then Bill thrusts out his tongue again With never a grace, the sinner! And day and night and day goes by. And never a comrade comes anigh, And still the honey swells as high For supper, hreakfast, dinner! Chorus: Yet Bill has grown no thinner! The young moon grows to full and throws Her buxom kiss upon his nose, As nightly over the tree she goes. And peeps and smiles and passes, Then with her fickle silver flecks Our old black galleon's dreaming decks; And then her face, with nods and becks. In midmost ocean glasses. Chorus: 'Twas ever the way with lasses! Ah, Didymus, hast thou won indeed That Paradise which is thy meed? (Thy tale not all that run may read!) Thy sweet hath now no leaven! Now, like an onion in a cup Of mead, thou liest for Jove to sup, Could Polyphemus lift thee up With Titan hands Co heaven ! [63] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Chorus: This great oak-cup to heaven! The second canto ceased; and, as they raised Their wine-cups with the last triumphant note, Bacon, undaunted, raised his grating voice — " This honey which, in some sort, may be styled The Spettle of the Stars . . ." "Bring the Canary!" Ben Jonson roared. "It is a moral wine And suits the third, last canto! " At one draught John Davis drained it and began anew. CANTO THE THIRD A month went by. We were hoisting sail! We had lost all hope of Bill; Though, laugh as you may at a seaman's tale, He was fast in his honey-comb still ! And often he thinks of the chaplain's word In the days he shall see no more, — How the Sweet, indeed, of the Sour hath need ; And the Sea, likewise, of the Shore. Chorus: The chaplain's word of the Air and a Bird; Of the Sea, likewise, and the Shore! " O, had I the wings of a dove, I would fly To a heaven, of aloes and gall! I have honeyed," he yammers, " my nose and mine eye. And the bees cannot sting me at all! And it's O, for the sting of a little brown bee. Or to blister my hands on a rope, [64J BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON Or to buffet a thundering broad-side sea On a deck like a mountain-slope ! " Chorus: With her mast snapt short, and a list to port And a deck like a mountain-slope. But alas, and he thinks of the chaplain's voice When that roar from the woods out-break — R-r-re-joice! R-r-re-joice! Now, wherefore re- joice In the music a bear could make? 'Tis a judgment, maybe, that I stick in this tree; Yet in this I out-argued him fair! Though I live, though I die, in this honey-comb pie. By Pope Joan, there's no sense in a bear! Chorus: Notes in a nightingale, plums in a pie, By'r Lakin, no Sense in a Bear! He knew not our anchor was heaved from the mud: He was growling it over again. When — a strange sound suddenly froze his blood. And curdled his big slow brain! — A marvellous sound, as of great steel claws Gripping the bark of his tree. Softly ascended! Like lightning ended His honey-comb reverie! Chorus: The honey-comb quivered! The little leaves shivered ! Something was climbing the tree! [65 J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Something that breathed like a fat sea-cook, Or a pirate of fourteen ton ! But it clomb like a cat (tho' the whole tree shook) Stealthily tow'rds the sun, Till, as Black Bill gapes at the little blue ring Overhead, which he calls the sky. It is clean blotted out by a monstrous Thing Which — hath larded its nose and its eye. Chorus: O, well for thee, Bill, that this monstrous Thing Hath blinkered its little red eye. Still as a mouse lies Bill with his face Low down in the dark sweet gold) While this monster turns round in the leaf- fringed space! Then — taking a good firm hold. As the skipper descending the cabin-stair, Tail-first with a vast slow tread, Solemnly, softly, cometh this Bear Straight down o'er the Bo'sun's head. Chorus: Solemnly — slowly — cometh this Bear, Tail-first o'er the Bo'sun's head. Nearer — nearer — then all Bill's breath Out-bursts in one leap and yell! And this Bear thinks, " Now am I gripped from beneath By a roaring devfl from hell ! " And madly Bill clutches his brown bow-legs, And madly this Bear doth hale, [66] BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON With his little red eyes fear -mad for the skies And Bill's teeth fast in his tail! Chorus: Small wonder a Bear should quail! To have larded his nose, to have greased his eyes, And be stung at the last in his tail. Pull, Bo'sun! j^ull. Bear! In the hot sweet gloom, Pull Bruin, pull Bill, for the skies! Pull — out of their gold with a bombard's boom Come Black Bill's honeyed thighs! Pull ! Up ! Up ! Up ! with a scuffle and scramble. To that little blue ring of bliss, This Bear doth go with our Bo'sun in tow Stinging his tail, I wis. Cherus: And this Bear thinks — " Many great bees I know, But there never was Bee like this!" All in the gorgeous death of day We had slipped from our emerald creek, And our Cloud i' the Sun was careening away With the old gay flag at the peak, When, suddenly, out of the purple wood. Breast-high thro' the lilies there danced A tall lean figure, black as a nigger. That shouted and waved and pranced! Chorus: A gold-greased figure, but black as a nigger. Waving his shirt as he pranced! [671 TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN '"Tis Hylas! 'Tis Hylas!" our chaplain flutes, And our skipper he looses a shout! " 'Tis Bill! Black Bill, in his old sea-boats! Stand by to bring her about! Har-r-rd a-starboardi" And round we came. With a lurch and a dip and a roll, And a banging boom thro' the rose-red gloom For our old Black Bo'sun's soul ! Chorus: Alive! Not dead! Tho' behind his head He'd a seraphin's aureole! And our chaplain he sniffs, as Bill finished his tale, (With the honey still scenting his hair!) O'er a plate of salt beef and a mug of old ale — "By Pope John, there's no sense in a bear!" And we laughed, but our Bo'sun he solemnly growls — "Till the sails of yon heavens be furled, It taketh — now, mark! — all the beasts in the Ark, Teeth and claws, too, to make a good world!" Chorus: Till the great — blue — sails — be — furled. It taketh — now, mark! — all the beasts in the Ark, Teeth and claws, too, to make a good world ! "Sack! Sack! Canary! Malmsey! Muscadel!" — As the last canto ceased, the Mermaid Inn Chorussed, I flew from laughing voice to voice ; [68] BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON But, over all the hubbub, rose the drone Of Francis Bacon, — " Now, this Muscovy Is a cold clime, not favourable to bees (Or love, which is a weakness of the south) As well might be supposed. Yet, as hot lands Gender hot fruits and odoriferous spice, In this case we may think that honey and flowers Are comparable with the light airs of May And a more temperate region. Also we see, As Pliny saith, this honey being a swette Of heaven, a certain spettle of the stars. Which, gathering unclean vapours as it falls, Hangs as a fat dew on the boughs, the bees Obtain it partly thus, and afterwards Corrupt it in their stomaches, and at last Expel it through their mouths and harvest it In hives; yet, of its heavenly source it keeps A great part. Thus, by various principles Of natural philosophy we observe — " And, as he leaned to Drayton, droning thus, I saw a light gleam of celestial mirth Flit o'er the face of Shakespeare — scarce a smile - A swift irradiation from within As of a cloud that softly veils the sun. [69J IV THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE IV THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE WE had just set our brazier smouldering, To keep the Plague away. Many a house Was marked with the red cross. The bells tolled Incessantly. Nash crept into the room Shivering like a fragment of the night, His face yellow as parchment, and his eyes Burning. " The Plague ! He has taken it ! " voices cried. "That's not the Plague! The old carrion-crow is drunk; But stand away. What ails you, Nash my lad? " Then, through the clamour, as through a storm at sea, The master's voice, the voice of Ben, rang out, "Nash!" Ben leapt to his feet, and like a ship Shouldering the waves, he shouldered the throng aside. "What ails you, man? What's that upon your breast? Blood?" " Marlowe is dead," said Nash, And stunned the room to silence. . . . "Marlowe — dead!" Ben caught him by the shoulders. " Nash ! Awake ! What do you mean? Marlowe? Kit Marlowe? Dead? I supped with him — why — not three nights ago! You are drunk! You are dazed! There's blood upon your coat!" [73] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN "That's — where he died," said Nash, and suddenly sank Sidelong across a bench, bowing his head Between his hands. . . . Wept, I believe. Then, like a whip of steel, His lean black figure sprang erect again. " Marlowe ! " he cried, " Kit Marlowe, killed for a punk, A taffeta petticoat! Killed by an apple-squire! Drunk! I was drunk; but I am sober now. Sober enough, by God! Poor Kit is dead." The Mermaid Inn was thronged for many a night With startled faces. Voices rose and fell. As I recall them, in a great vague dream. Curious, pitiful, angry, thrashing out The tragic truth. Then, all along the Cheape, The ballad-mongers waved their sheets of rhyme. Croaking: Come buy I Come buy! The bloody death Of Wormall, writ by Master Richard Bamel Come buyl Come buy! The Atheist's Tragedy. And, even in Bread Street, at our very door. The crowder to his cracked old fiddle sang: — " He was a poet of proud repute And wrote full many a play. Now strutting in a silken suit. Now begging by the way." Then, out of the hubbub and the clash of tongues, The bawdy tales and scraps of balladry, (As out of chaos rose the slow round world) At last, though for the Mermaid Inn alone, [74] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE Emerged some tragic semblance of a soul, Some semblance of the rounded truth, a world Glimpsed only through great mists of blood and tears, Yet smitten, here and there, with dreadful light, As I believe, fron/ heaven. Strangely enough, (Though Ben forgot his pipe and Will's deep eyes Deepened and softened, when they spoke of Kit, For many a month thereafter) it was Nash That took the blow like steel into his heart. Nash, our " Piers Penniless," whom Rob Greene had called " Young Juvenal," the first satirist of our age, Nash, of the biting tongue and subtle sneer. Brooded upon it, till his grief became Sharp as a rapier, ready to lunge in hate At all the lies of shallower hearts. One night, The night he raised the mists from that wild world, He talked with Chapman in the Mermaid Inn Of Marlowe's poem that was left half-sung, His Hero and Leander. "Kit desired. If he died first, that you should finish it," Said Nash. A loaded silence filled the room As with the imminent spirit of the dead Listening. And long that picture haunted me: Nash, like a lithe young Mephistopheles Leaning between the silver candle-sticks. Across the oak table, with his keen white face, Dark smouldering eyes, and black, dishevelled hair; [75 J. TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Chapman, with something of the steady strength That helms our ships, and something of the Greek, The cool clear passion of Platonic thought Behind the fringe of his Olympian beard And broad Homeric brows, confronting him Gravely. There was a burden of mystery Brooding on all that night; and, when at last Chapman replied, I knew he felt it, too. The curious pedantry of his wonted speech Was charged with living undertones, like truths Too strange and too tremendous to be breathed Save thro' a mask. And though, in lines that flamed Once with strange rivalry, Shakespeare himself defied Chapman, that spirit " by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch," Will's nimbler sense Was quick to breathings from beyond our world And could not hold them lightly. "Ah, then Kit," Said Chapman, " had some prescience of his end. Like many another dreamer. What strange hints Of things past, present, and to come, there lie Sealed in the magic pages of that music Which, laying strong hold on universal laws, Ranges beyond these mud-walls of the flesh, Though dull wits fail to follow. It was this That made men find an oracle in the books Of Vergil, and an everlasting fount Of science in the prophets." Once again That haunted silence filled the shadowy room; [76] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE And, far away up Bread Street, we could hear The crowder, piping of black Wormall still: — "He had a friendj once gay and green. Who died of want alone. In whose black fate he might have seen The warning of his own." " Strange he should ask a hod-man like myself To crown that miracle of his April age," Said Chapman, murmuring softly under breath, "Amorous Leander, beautiful and young . . . Why, Nash, had I been only charged to raise Out of its grave in the green Hellespont The body of that boy. To make him sparkle and leap thro' the cold waves And fold young Hero to his heart again, The task were scarce as hard. But . . . stranger still," — And his next words, although I hardly knew All that he meant, went tingling through my flesh — " Before you spoke, before I knew his wish, I had begun to write! I knew and loved His work. Himself I hardly knew at all; And yet — I know him now ! I have heard him now And, since he pledged me in so rare a cup, I'll lift and drink to him, though lightnings fall From envious gods to scourge me. I will lift This cup in darkness to the soul that reigns In light on Helicon. Who knows how near? [77] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN For I have thought, sometimes, when I have tried To work his will, the hand that moved my pen Was mine, and yet — not mine. The bodily mask Is mine, and sometimes, dull as clay, it sleeps With old Musseus. Then strange flashes come. Oracular glories, visionary gleams. And the mask moves, not of itself, and sings." " I know that thought," said Nash. " A mighty ship, A lightning-shattered wreck, out in that night, Unseen, has foundered thundering. We sit here Snug on the shore, and feel the wash of it. The widening circles running to our feet. Can such a soul go down to glut the sharks Without one ripple? Here comes one sprinkle of spray. Listen ! " And through that night, quick and intense. And hushed for thunder, tingled once again. Like a thin wire, the crowder's distant tune: — " Had he been prenticed to the trade His father followed still. This exit he had never made. Nor played a part so ill." " Here is another," said Nash, " I know not why; But like a weed in the long wash, I too Was moved, not of myself, to a tune like this. O, I can play the crowder, fiddle a song On a dead friend, with any the best of you. Lie and kick heels in the sun on a dead man's grave And yet — God knows — it is the best we can ; And better than the world's way, to forget." [781 THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE So saying, like one that murmurs happy words To torture his own grief, half in self-scorn, He breathed a scrap of balladry that raised The mists a moment from that Paradise, That primal w'orld of innocence, where Kit In childhood played, outside his father's shop, Under the sign of the Golden Shoe, as thus: — A cobbler lived in Canterbury — He is dead now, poor soul ! — He sat at his door and stitched in the sun, Nodding and smiling at everyone; For St. Hugh makes all good cobblers merry And often he sang as the pilgrims passed, " I can hammer a soldier's boot. And daintily glove a dainty foot. Many a sandal from my hand Has walked the road to Holy Land. Knights may fight for me, priests may pray for me, Pilgrims walk the pilgrim's way for me, I have a work in the world to do ! — Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl. To good St. Hugh! — The cobbler must stick to his last." And anon he would cry "Kit! Kit! Kit!" to his little son, " Look at the pilgrims riding by ! Dance down, hop down, after them, run ! " Then, like an unfledged linnet, out Would tumble the brave little lad. With a piping shout, — [79 J TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN " O, look at them, look at them, look at them. Dad ! Priest and prioress, abbot and friar, Soldier and seaman, knight and squire! How many countries have they seen? Is there a king there, is there a queen? Dad, one day. Thou and I must ride like this, AH along the Pilgrim's Way, By Glastonbury and Samarcand, El Dorado and Cathay, London and Persepolis, AH the way to Holy Land ! " Then, shaking his head as if he knew. Under the sign of the Golden Shoe, Touched by the glow of the setting sun, While the pilgrims passed. The little cobbler would laugh and say: " When you are old you will understand 'Tis a very long way To Samarcand! Why, largely to exaggerate Befits not men of small estate. But — I should say, yes, I should say, 'Tis a hundred miles from where you stand; And a hundred more, my little son, A hundred more, to Holy Land! . . . I have a work in the world to do — Trowl the bowl, the nut-broivn bowl- To good St. Hugh! — The cobbler must stick to his last/' [80] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE " Which last," said Nash, breaking his rhyme off short, " The crowder, after his kind, would seem to approve. Well — all the waves from that great wreck out there Break, and are lost in one with-drawing sigh: The little lad that used to play Around the cobbler's door, Kit Marlowe, Kit Marlowe, We shall not see him more. But — could I tell you how that galleon sank, Could I but bring you to that hollow whirl, The black gulf in mid-ocean, where that wreck Went thundering down, and round it hell still roars, That were a tale to snap all fiddle-strings." " Tell me," said Chapman. " Ah, you wondered why," Said Nash, " you wondered why he asked your help To crown that work of his. Why, Chapman, think, Think of the cobbler's awl — there's a stout lance To couch at London, there's a conquering point To carry in triumph through Persepolis! I tell you Kit was nothing but a child, When some rich patron of the Golden Shoe Beheld him riding into Samarcand Upon a broken chair, the which he said Was a white steed, splashed with the blood of kings. When, on that patron's bounty, he did ride So far as Cambridge, he was a brave lad, Untamed, adventurous, but still innocent, O, innocent as the cobbler's little self! [8i] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN He brought to London just a bundle and stick, A slender purse, an Ovid, a few scraps Of song, and all unshielded, all unarmed A child's heart, packed with splendid hopes and dreams. I say a child's heart, Chapman, and that phrase Crowns, not dis-crowns, his manhood. Well — he turned An honest penny, taking some small part In plays at the Red Bull. And, all the while. Beyond the paint and tinsel of the stage, Beyond the greasy cock-pit with its reek Of orange-peel and civet, as all of these Were but the clay churned by the glorious rush Of his white chariots and his burning steeds. Nay, as the clay were a shadow, his great dreams, Like bannered legions on some proud crusade. Empurpling all the deserts of the world. Swept on in triumph to the glittering towers Of his abiding City. Then — he met That damned blood-sucking cockatrice, the pug Of some fine strutting mummer, one of those plagues Bred by our stage, a puff-ball on the hill Of Helicon. As for his wench — she too Had played so many parts that she forgot The cue for truth. King Puff had taught her well. He was the vainer and more foolish thing. She the more poisonous. One dark day, to spite Archer, her latest paramour, a friend And apple-squire to Puff, she set her eyes [82] j^B ■ ^■g ^H Ii ^^Hh '' ' ■' '■ m ^^^^^Bh ^^'''v^ ^^^^^^^^^^^P w^^ 1 ^ b ^^ii 1^ ■ jW^^M ^^H 1 1 John Fletcher THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE On Marlowe . . . feigned a joy in his young art, Murmured his songs, used all her London tricks To coney-catch the country green-horn. Man, Kit never even saw her painted face! He pored on books by candle-light and saw Everything thro' a mist. O, I could laugh To think of it, only — his up-turned skull There, in the dark, now that the flesh drops off, Has laughed enough, a horrible silent laugh, To think his Angel of Light was, after all. Only the red-lipped Angel of the Plague. He was no better than the rest of us. No worse. He felt the heat. He felt the cold. He took her down to Deptford to escape Contagion, and the crashing of sextons' spades On dead men's bones in every churchyard round; The jangling bell and the cry. Bring out your dead. And there she told him of her luckless life. Wedded, deserted, both against her will, A luckless Eve that never knew the snake. True and half-true she mixed in one wild lie. And then — she caught him by the hand and wept. No death-cart passed to warn him with its bell. Her eyes, her perfumed hair, and her red mouth, Her warm white breast, her civet-scented skin. Swimming before him, in a piteous mist, Made the lad drunk, and — she was in his arms; And all that God had meant to wake one day Under the Sun of Love, suddenly woke By candle-light and cried, ' The Sun ; The Sun ! ' And he believed it. Chapman, he believed it! [83] TALES OF THE MERIMAID TAVERN He was a cobbler's son, and he believed In Love! Blind, through that mist, he caught at Love, The everlasting King of all this vi^orld. Kit w^as not clever. Clever men — like Pomp — Might jest. And fools might laugh. But when a man, Simple as all great elemental things. Makes his whole heart a sacrificial fire To one whose love is in her supple skin, There comes a laughter in which jests break up Like icebergs in a sea of burning marl. Then dreamers turn to murderers in an hour. Then topless towers are burnt, and the Ocean-sea Tramples the proud fleet, down, into the dark, And sweeps over it, laughing. Come and see, The heart now of this darkness — no more waves, But the black central hollow where that wreck Went down for ever. How should Piers Penniless Brand that wild picture on the world's black heart? — Last night I tried the way of the Florentine, And bruised myself; but we are friends together Mourning a dead friend, none will ever knowl — Kit, do you smile at poor Piers Penniless, Measuring it out? Ah, boy, it is my best! Since hearts must beat, let it be terza rima, A ladder of rhyme that two sad friends alone May let down, thus, to the last circle of hell." So saying, and motionless as a man in trance, Nash breathed the words that raised the veil anew, [84J THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE Strange intervolving words which, as he spake them, Moved like the huge slow whirlpool of that pit Where the wreck sank, the serpentine slow folds Of the lewd Kraken that sucked it, shuddering, down: This is the Deptford Inn. Climb the dark stair. Come, come and see Kit Marlowe lying dead! See, on the table, by that broken chair. The little phials of paint — the white and red. A cut-lawn kerchief hangs behind the door. Left by his punk, even as the tapster said. There is the gold-fringed tafEeta gown she wore, And, on that wine-stained bed, as is most meet, He lies alone, never to waken more. O, still as chiselled marble, the frayed sheet Folds the still form on that sepulchral bed, Hides the dead face, and peaks the rigid feet. Come, come and see Kit Marlowe lying dead! Draw back the sheet, ah, tenderly lay bare The splendour of that Apollonian head; The gloriole of his flame-coloured hair; The lean athletic body, deftly planned To carry that swift soul of fire and air; The long thin flanks, the broad breast, and the grand Heroic shoulders! Look, what lost dreams lie Cold in the fingers of that delicate hand; [85] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN And, shut within those lyric lips, what cry Of unborn beauty, sunk in utter night, Lost worlds of song, sealed in an unknown sky. Never to be brought forth, clothed on with light. Was this, then, this the secret of his song? — Who ever loved that loved not at first sight? It was not Love, not Love, that wrought this wrong; And yet — what evil shadow of this dark town Could quench a soul so flame-like clean and strong. Strike the young glory of his manhood down. Dead, like a dog, dead in a drunken brawl. Dead for a phial of paint, a tafEeta gown? What if his blood were hot? High over all He heard, as in his song the world still hears, Those angels on the burning heavenly wall Who chant the thunder-music of the spheres. Yet — through the glory of his own young dream Here did he meet that face, wet with strange tears, Andromeda, with piteous face astream. Hailing him, Perseus. In her treacherous eyes As in dark pools the mirrored stars will gleam. Here did he see his own eternal skies; And here — she laughed, nor found the dream amiss; But bade him pluck and eat — in Paradise, L86] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE Here did she hold him, broken up with bliss, Here, like a supple snake, around him coiled. Here did she pluck his heart out with a kiss, Here were the wings clipped and the glory soiled, Here adders coupled in the pure white shrine. Here was the Wine spilt, and the Shew-bread spoiled. Black was that feast, though he who poured the Wine Dreamed that he poured it in high sacrament. Deep in her eyes he saw his own eyes shine, Beheld Love's god-head and was well content. Subtly her hand struck the pure silver note. The throbbing chord of passion that God meant To swell the bliss of heaven. Round his young throat She wound her swarthy tresses; then, with eyes Half mad to see their power, half mad to gloat, Half mad to batten on their own devilries. And mark what heaven-born splendours they could quell. She held him quivering in a mesh of lies, And in soft broken speech began to tell — There as, against her heart, throbbing he lay — The truth that hurled his soul from heaven to hell. Quivering, she watched the subtle whip-lash flay The white flesh of the dreams of his pure youth; Then sucked the blood and left them cold as clay. [87] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Luxuriously she lashed him with the truth. Against his mouth her subtle mouth she set To show, as through a mask, O, without ruth, As through a cold clay mask (brackish and wet With what strange tears!) it was not his, not his, The kiss that through his quivering lips she met. Kissing him, " Thus," she whispered, " did he kiss. Ah, is the sweetness like a sword, then, sweet? hast night — ah, kiss again — aching with bliss. Thus was I made his own, from head to feet." — A sudden agony thro' his body swept Tempestuously. — " Our wedded pulses beat Like this and this; and then, at dawn, he slept." She laughed, pouting her lips against his cheek To drink; and, as in answer, Marlowe wept. As a dead man in dreams, he heard her speak. Clasped in the bitter grave of that sweet clay, Wedded and one with it, he moaned. Too weak Even to lift his head, sobbing, he lay. Then, slowly, as their breathings rose and fell, He felt the storm of passion, far away. Gather. The shuddering waves began to swell. And, through the menace of the thunder-roll, The thin quick lightnings, thrilling through his hell, [88] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE Lightnings that hell itself could not control (Even while she strove to bow his neck anew) Woke the great slumbering legions of his soul. Sharp was that severance of the false and true, Sharp as a sword drawn from a shuddering wound. But they, that were one flesh, were cloven in two. Flesh leapt from clasping flesh, without a sound. He plucked his body from her white embrace, And cast him down, and grovelled on the ground. Yet, ere he went, he strove once more to trace, Deep in her eyes, the loveliness he knew ; Then — spat his hatred into her smiling face. She clung to him. He flung her off. He drew His dagger, thumbed the blade, and laughed — " Poor punk! What ? Would you make me your own murderer, too ? " " That was the day of our great feast," said Nash, " Aboard the Golden Hind. The grand old hulk Was drawn up for the citizens' wonderment At Deptford. Ay, Piers Penniless was there! Soaked and besotted as I was, I saw Everything. On her poop the minstrels played. And round her sea-worn keel, like meadow-sweet Curtseying round a lightning-blackened oak, [89] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Prentices and their sweethearts, heel and toe, Danced the brave English dances, clean and fresh As May. But in her broad gun-guarded waist Once red with British blood, long tables groaned For revellers not so worthy. Where her guns Had raked the seas, barrels of ale were sprung, Bestrid by roaring tipplers. Where at night The storm-beat crew silently bowed their heads With Drake before the King of Life and Death, A strumpet wrestled with a mountebank For pence, a loose-limbed Lais with a clown Of Cherry Hilton. Leering at their lewd twists, Cross-legged upon the deck, sluggish with sack, Like a squat toad sat Puff . . . Propped up against the bulwarks, at his side. Archer, his apple-squire, hiccoughed a bawdy song. Suddenly, through that orgy, with wild eyes. Yet with her customary smile, O, there I saw in day-light what Kit Marlowe saw Through blinding mists, the face of his first love. She stood before her paramour on the deck. Cocking her painted head to right and left, Her white teeth smiling, but her voice a hiss: ' Quickly,' she said to Archer, ' come away, Of there'll be blood spilt!' ' Better blood than wine,' Said Archer, struggling to his feet, ' but who. Who would spill blood ? ' ' Marlowe ! ' she said. L90] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE Then Puff Reeled to his feet. 'What, Kit, the cobbler's son? The lad that broke his leg at the Red Bull, Tamburlaine-Marlowe, he that would chain kings To's chariot-wheel? What, is he rushing hither? He would spill blood for Gloriana, hey? O, my Belphoebe, you will crack my sides? Was this the wench that shipped a thousand squires? O, ho! But here he comes. Now, solemnly, lads, — Now walk the angels on the walls of heaven To entertain divine Zenocratel ' And there stood Kit, high on the storm-scarred poop, Against the sky, bare-headed. I saw his face, Pale, innocent, just the clear face of that boy Who walked to Cambridge with a bundle and stick, — The little cobbler's son. Yet — there I caught My only glimpse of how the sun-god looked, And only for one moment. When he saw His mistress, his face whitened, and he shook. Down to the deck he came, a poor weak man; And yet — by God — the only man that day In all our drunken crew. ' Come along. Kit,' Cried Puff, ' we'll all be friends now, all take hands. And dance — ha ! ha ! — the shaking of the sheets ! ' Then Archer, shuflBing a step, raised his cracked voice In Kit's own song to a falsetto tune. Snapping one hand, thus over his head as he danced: — [91] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN ' Come, live with me, and be my hve. And we will all the pleasures prove! ' . . . PufE reeled between, laughing. ' Damn you,' cried Kit, And, catching the fat swine by his round soft throat. Hurled him headlong, crashing across the tables. To lie and groan in the red bilge of wine That washed the scuppers. Kit gave him not one glance. ' Archer,' he said in a whisper. Instantly A long thin rapier flashed in Archer's hand. The ship was one wild uproar. Women screamed And huddled together. A drunken clamorous ring Seethed around Marlowe and his enemy. Kit drew his dagger, slowly, and I knew Blood would be spilt. * Here, take my rapier, Kit ! ' I cried across the crowd, seeing the lad , Was armed so slightly. But he did not hear. I could not reach him. All at once he leapt Like a wounded tiger, past the rapier point Straight at his enemy's throat. I saw his hand Up-raised to strike! I heard a harlot's scream, And, in mid-air, the hand stayed, quivering, white, A frozen menace. I saw a yellow claw Twisting the dagger out of that frozen hand; I saw his own steel In that yellow grip. His own lost lightning raised to strike at him! [92] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE I saw it flash! I heard the driving grunt Of him that struck! Then, with a shout, the crowd Sundered, and through the gap, a blank red thing Streaming with blood, came the blind face of Kit, Reeling, to me! And I, poor drunken I, Held my arms wide for him. Here, on my breast. With one great sob, he burst his heart and died." Nash ceased. And, far away down Friday Street, The crowder with his fiddle wailed again: " Blaspheming Tamholin must die And Faustus meet his end. Repent, repent, or presentlie To hell ye must descend." And, as in answer. Chapman slowly breathed Those mightiest lines of Marlowe's own despair: " Think'st thou that I who saw the face of God, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven. Am not tormented with ten thousand hells? " " Ah, you have said it," said Nash, " and there you know Why Kit desired your hand to crown his work. He reverenced you as one whose temperate eyes Austere and grave, could look him through and through; One whose firm hand could grasp the reins of law And guide those furious horses of the sun. As Ben and Will can guide them, where you will. His were, perchance, the noblest steeds of all. And from their nostrils blew a fierier dawn [93] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Above the world. That glory is his own ; But where he fell, he fell. Before his hand Had learned to quell them, he was dashed to the earth. 'Tis yours to show that good men honoured him. For, mark this. Chapman, since Kit Marlowe fell, There will be fools that, in the name of Art, Will wallow in the mire, crying ' I fall, I fall from heaven ! ' — fools that have only heard From earth, the rumour of those golden hooves Far, far above them. Yes, you know the kind. The fools that scorn Will for his lack of fire Because he quells the storms they never knew. And rides above the thunder; fools of Art That skip and vex, like little vicious fleas. Their only Helicon, some green madam's breast. Art! Art! O, God, that I could send my soul. In one last wave, from that night-hidden wreck, Across the shorps of all the years to be; O, God, that like a crowder I might shake Their blind dark casements with the pity of it, Piers Penniless his ballad, a poor scrap, That but for lack of time, and hope and pence. He might have bettered ! For a dead man's sake',, Thus would the wave break, thus the crowder cry:- Dead, like a dog upon the road; Dead, for a harlot's Idss ; The Apollonian throat and brow. The lyric lips, so silent now, The flaming wings that heaven bestowed For loftier airs than this! [94] THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE The sun-like eyes whose light and life Had gazed an angel's down, That burning heart of honey and fire, Quenched and dead for an apple-squire, Quenched at the thrust of a mummer's knife. Dead — for a taffeta gown! The wine that God had set apart, The noblest wine of all. Wine of the grapes that angels trod. The vintage of the glory of God, The crimson wine of that rich heart, Spilt in a drunken brawl. Poured out to make a steaming bath That night in the Devil's Inn, A steaming bath of living wine Poured out for Circe and her swine, A bath of blood for a harlot To supple and sleek her skin. And many a fool that finds it sweet Through all the years to be. Crowning a lie with Marlowe's fame. Will ape the sin, will ape the shame, Will ape our captain in defeat; But — not in victory; Till Art become a leaping-house. And Death be crowned as Life, And one wild jest out-shine the soul [95] TALES (OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Of Truth . . . O, fool, is this your goal? You are not our Kit Marlowe, But the drunkard with the knife; Not Marlowe, but the Jack-o'-Lent That lured him o'er the fen! O, ay, the tavern is in its place. And the punk's painted smiling face, But where is our Kit Marlowe The man, the king of men? Passion ? You kiss the painted mouth, The hand that clipped his wings. The hand that into his heart she thrust And tuned him to her whimpering lust. And played upon his quivering youth As a crowder plucks the strings. But he who dared the thunder-roll. Whose eagle-wings could soar, Buffeting down the clouds of night. To beat against the Light of Light, That great God-blinded eagle-soul, We shall not see him more." [96] V THE COMPANION OF A MILE THE COMPANION OF A MILE THWACK! Thwack! One early dawn upon our door I heard the bladder of some motley fool Bouncing, and all the dusk of London shook With bells! I leapt from bed, — had I forgotten? — I flung my casement wide and craned my neck Over the painted Mermaid. There he stood, ^ His right leg yellow and his left leg blue, With jingling cap, a sheep-bell at his tail, Wielding his eel-skin bladder, — bang! thwack! bang! — Catching a comrade's head with the recoil And skipping away! All Bread Street dimly burned Like a reflected sky, green, red and white With littered branches, ferns and hawthorn-clouds; For, round Sir Fool, a frolic morrice-troop Of players, poets, prentices, mad-cap queans, Robins and Marians, coloured like the dawn. And sparkling like the green-wood whence they came With their fresh boughs all dewy from the dark. Clamoured, Come down! Come down, and let us in! High over these, I suddenly saw Sir Fool Leap to a sign-board, swing to a conduit-head. And perch there, gorgeous on the morning sky. Tossing his crimson cocks-comb to the blue And crowing like Chanticleer, Give them a rouse! [99] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Tickle it, tabourer! Nimbly, lasses, nimbly/ Tuck up your russet petticoats and dance! Let the Cheape know it is the first of May/ And as I seized shirt, doublet and trunk-hose, I saw the hobby-horse come cantering down, A paste-board steed, dappled a rosy white Like peach-bloom, bridled with purple, bitted with gold, A crimson foot-cloth on his royal flanks. And, riding him. His Majesty of the May! Round him the whole crowd frolicked with a shout, And as I stumbled down the crooked stair I heard them break into a dance and sing: — SONG I Into the woods we'll trip and go, Up and down and to and fro. Under the moon to fetch in May, And two by two till break of day, A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not ? Even so — Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go. II Out of the woods we'll dance and sing Under the morning-star of Spring, Into the town with our fresh boughs [lOO] THE COMPANION OF A MILE And knock at every sleeping house, Not sighing, Or crying. Though Love knows no denying! Then, round your summer queen and king. Come, young lovers, dance and sing, Dance and sing! " Chorus," the great Fool tossed his gorgeous crest, And lustily crew against the deepening dawn, " Chorus" till all the Cheape caught the refrain. And, with a double thunder of frolic feet. Its ancient nut-brown tabors woke the Strand: — A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not? Even so, — Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go. Into the Mermaid with a shout they rushed As I shot back the bolts, and bang, thwack, bang. The bladder bounced about me. What cared I? This was all England's holy-day ! " Come in. My yellow-hammers," roared the Friar Tuck Of this mad morrice, " come you into church, My nightingales, my scraps of Lincoln green. And hear my sermon ! " On a window-seat He stood, against the diamonded rich panes In the old oak parlour and, throwing back his hood, [lOl] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Who should it be but Ben, rare Ben himself? The wild troop laughed around him, some a-sprawl On tables, kicking parti-coloured heels, Some with their Marians jigging on their knees, And, in the front of all, the motley fool Cross-legged upon the rushes. O, I knew him, — Will Kemp, the player, who danced from London town To Norwich in nine days and was proclaimed Freeman of Marchaunt Venturers and hedge-king Of English morrice-dancery for ever! His nine-days' wonder, through the country-side Was hawked by every ballad-monger. Kemp Raged at their shake-rag Muses. None but I Guessed ever for what reason, since he chose His anticks for himself and, in his games, Was more than most May-fools fantastical. I watched his thin face, as he rocked and crooned, Shaking the squirrels' tails around his ears; And, out of all the players I had seen, His face was quickest through its clay to flash The passing mood. Though not a muscle stirred, The very skin of it seemed to flicker and gleam With little summer lightnings of the soul At every fleeting fancy. For a man So quick to bleed at a pin-prick or to leap Laughing through hell to save a butterfly, This world was difficult; and perchance he found In his fantastic games that open road Which even Will Shakespeare only found at last In motley and with some wild straws in his hair. [102] THE COMPANION OF A MILE But "Drawer! drawer!" bellowed Friar Ben, " Make ready a righteous breakfast while I preach ; — Tankards of nut-brown ale, and cold roast beef, Cracknels, old cheese, flaunes, tarts and clotted cream, Hath any a wish not circumscribed by these ? " " A white-pot custard, for my white-pot queen," Cried Kemp, waving his bauble, " mark this, boy, A white-pot custard for my queen of May, — She is not here, but that concerns not thee! — A white-pot Mermaid custard, with a crust, Lashings of cream, eggs, apple-pulse and spice, A little- sugar and manchet bread. Away! Be swift!" And as I bustled to and fro, The Friar raised his big brown fists again And preached in mockery of the Puritans Who thought to strip the moonshine wings from Mab, Tear down the May-poles, rout our English games, And drive all beauty back into the sea. Then laughter and chatter and clashing tankards drowned All but their May-day jollity a-while. But, as their breakfast ended, and I sank Gasping upon a bench, there came still more Poets and players crowding into the room; And one — I only knew him as Sir John — Waved a great ballad at Will Kemp and laughed, " Atonement, Will, atonement ! " "What," groaned Kemp, " Another penny poet ? How many lies [103] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Does this rogue tell? Sir, I have sufEered much From these Melpomenes and strawberry quills, And think them better at their bloody lines On The Blue Lady. Sir, they set to work At seven o'clock in the morning, the same hour That I, myself, that's Cavaliero Kemp, With heels of feather and heart of cork, began Frolickly footing, from the great Lord Mayor • Of London, tow'rds the worshipful Master Mayor Of Norwich." " Nay, Kemp, this is a May-day tune, A morrice of country rhymes, made by a poet Who thought it shame so worthy an act as thine Should wither in oblivion if the Muse With her Castalian showers could keep it green. And while the fool nid-nodded all in time, Sir John, in swinging measure, trolled this tale: — I With Georgie Sprat, my overseer, and Thomas Slye, my tabourer. And William Bee, my courier, when dawn emblazed the skies, I met a tall young butcher as I danced by little Sudbury, Head-master o' morrice-dancers all, high headborough of hyes. By Sudbury, by Sudbury, by little red-roofed Sudbury, He wished to dance a mile with me! I made a courtly bow: [104] THE COMPANION OF A MILE I fitted him with morrice-bells, with treble, bass and tenor bells, And " Tickle your iabor, Tom," I cried, " we're going to market now." And rollicking down the lanes we dashed, and frolicking up the hills we clashed, And like a sail behind me flapped his great white frock a-while. Till, with a gasp, he sank and swore that he could dance with me no more; And — over the hedge a milk-maid laughed, Not dance with him a milef "You lout!" she laughed, "I'll leave my pail, and dance with him for cakes and ale! I'll dance a mile for love," she laughed, " and win my wager, too. Your feet are shod and mine are bare; but when could leather dance on air? A milk-maid's feet can fall as fair and light as falling dew." I fitted her with morrice-bells, with treble, bass and tenor bells : The fore-bells, as I linked them at her throat, how soft they sang! Green linnets in a golden nest, they chirped and trembled on her breast, And, faint as elfin blue-bells, at her nut-brown ankles rang, [1053 TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN I fitted her with morrice-bells that sweetened into wood- bine bells, And trembled as I hung them there and crowned her sunny brow: "Strike up," she laughed, "my summer king!" And all her bells began to ring, And " Tickle your tabor, Tom" I cried, " we're going to Sherwood now!" When cocks were crowing, and light was growing, and horns were blowing, and milk-pails flowing. We swam thro' waves of emerald gloom along a chestnut aisle, Then, up a shining hawthorn-lane, we sailed into the sun again. Will Kemp and his companion, his companion of a mile. " Truer than most," snarled Kemp, " but mostly lies ! And why does he forget the miry lanes By Brainford with thick woods on either side. And the deep holes, where I could find no ease But skipped up to my waist ? " A crackling laugh Broke from his lips which, if he had not worn The cap and bells, would scarce have roused the mirth Of good Sir John, who roundly echoed it, Then waved his hand and said, " Nay, but he treats Your morrice in the spirit of Lucian, Will, Who thought that dancing was no mushroom growth, But sprung from the beginning of the world When Love persuaded earth, air, water, fire, And all the jarring elements to move [io6] THE COMPANION OF A MILE In measure. Right to the heart of it, my lad, The song goes, though the skin mislike you so." " Nay, an there's more of it, I'll sing it, too ! 'Tis a fine tale. Sir John, I have it by heart. Although 'tis lies throughout." Up leapt Will Kemp, And crouched and swayed, and swung his bauble round, Marking the measure as they trolled the tale, Chanting alternately, each answering each. n The Fool The tabor fainted far away behind us, but her feet that day They beat a rosier morrice o'er the fairy-circled green. Sir John And o'er a field of buttercups, a field of lambs and buttercups, We danced along a cloth of gold, a summer king and queen ! The Fool And straying we went, and swaying we went, with lamb- kins round us playing we went; Her face uplift to drink the sun, and not for me her smile, We danced, a king and queen of May, upon a fleeting holy- day. But O, she'd won her wager, my companion of a mile ! Sir Jshn Her rosy lips they never spoke, though every rosy foot-fall broke [107] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN The dust, the dust to Eden-bloom; and, past the throb- bing blue. All ordered to her rhythmic feet, the stars were dancing with my sweet. And all the world a morrice-dance ! The Fool She knew not; but I knew! Love like Amphion with his lyre, made all the elements con- spire To build His world of music. All in rhythmic rank and file, I saw them in their cosmic dance, catch hands across, re- tire, advance. For me and my companion, my companion of a mile! Sir John The little leaves on every tree, the rivers winding to the sea. The swinging tides, the wheeling winds, the rolling heavens above, Around the May-pole Igdrasil, they worked the Morrice- master's will. Persuaded into measure by the all-creative Love. That hour I saw, from depth to height, this wildering uni- verse unite! The lambs of God around us and His passion in every flower! [io8] THE COMPANION OF A MILE The Fool His grandeur in the dust, His dust a blaze of blinding majesty, And all His immortality in one poor mortal hour. And Death was but a change of key in Life the golden melody, And Time became Eternity, and Heaven a fleeting smile; For all was each and each was all, and all a wedded unity, Her heart in mine, and mine in my companion of a mile. Thwack/ Thwack/ He whirled his bauble round about, " This fellow beats them all," he cried, " the worst Those others wrote was that I hopped from York To Paris with a mortar on my head. This fellow sends me leaping through the clouds To buss the moon! The best is yet to come; Strike up. Sir John! Ha! ha! You know no more?" Kempt leapt upon a table. " Clear the way," He cried, and with a great stamp of his foot And a wild crackling laugh, drew all to hark. " With hey and ho, through thick and thin, The hobby-horse is forgotten. But I must finish what I begin, Tho' all the roads be rotten. " By all those twenty thousand chariots, Ben, Hear this true tale they shall! Now, let me see, Where was Will Kemp? Bussing the moon's pale mouth? Ah, yes!" He crouched above the listening throng, — " Good as a play," I heard one whispering quean, — [109] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN And, waving his bauble, shuffling with his feet In a dance that marked the time, he sank his voice As if to breathe great secrets, and so sang: — III At Melford town, at Melford town, at little grey-roofed Melford town, A long mile from Sudbury, upon the village green. We danced into a merry rout of country-folk that skipt about A hobby-horse, a May-pole, and a laughing white-pot queen. They thronged about us as we stayed, and there I gave my sunshine maid An English crown for cakes and ale — her dancing was so true! And "Nay," she said, "I danced my mile for love!" I answered with a smile, " 'Tis but a silver token, lass, thou'st won that wager, too." I took my leash of morrice-bells, my treble, bass and tenor bells, They pealed like distant marriage-bells! And up came William Bee With Georgia Sprat, my overseer, and Thomas Slye, my tabourer, " Farewell," she laughed, and vanished with a Suffolk courtesie. [no] THE COMPANION OF A MILE I leapt away to Rockland, and from Rockland on to Hing- ham, From Hingham on to Norwich, sirs! I hardly heard a-while The throngs that followed after, with their shouting and their laughter, For a shadow danced beside me, my companion of a mile! At Norwich, by St. Giles his gate, I entered, and the Mayor in state. With all the rosy knights and squires for twenty miles about. With trumpets and with minstrelsy, was waiting there to welcome me; And, as I skipt into the street, the City raised a shout. They gave me what I did not seek! I fed on roasted swans a week! They pledged me in their malmsey, and they lined me warm with ale! They sleeked my skin with red-deer pies, and all that runs and swims and flies ; But, through the clashing wine-cups, O, I heard her clanking pail. And, rising from his crimson chair, the worshipful and portly Mayor Bequeathed me forty shillings every year that I should live, With five good angels in my hand that I might drink while I could stand! [Ill] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN They gave me golden angels! What I lacked they could not give. They made Will Kemp, thenceforward, sirs, Freeman of Marchaunt Venturers! They hoped that I would dance again from Norwich up to York; Then they asked me, all together, had I met with right May weather, And they praised my heels of feather, and my heart, my heart of cork. As I came home by Sudbury, by little red-roofed Sudbury, I waited for my bare-foot maid, among her satin kine! I heard a peal of wedding-bells, of treble, bass and tenor bells: "Ring well," I cried, "this bridal morn! You soon shall ring for mine ! " I found her foot-prints in the grass, just where she stood and saw me pass, I stood within her own sweet field and waited for my may. I laughed. The dance has turned about! I stand within: she'll pass without. And — down the road the wedding came, the road I danced that day! I saw the wedding-folk go by, with laughter and with minstrelsy, I gazed across her own sweet hedge, I caught her happy smile, [112] THE COMPANION OF A MILE / saw the tall young butcher pass to little red-roofed Sud- bury, His bride upon his arm, my lost companion of a mile. Down from his table leapt the motley Fool. His bladder bounced from head to ducking head, His crackling laugh rang high, — " Sir John, I danced In February, and the song says May! A fig for all your poets, liars all! Away to Fenchurch Street, lasses and lads. They hold high revel there this May-day morn. Away ! " The mad-cap throng echoed the cry. He drove them with his bauble through the door; Then, as the last gay kerchief fluttered out He gave one little sharp sad lingering cry As of a lute-string breaking. He turned back And threw himself along a low dark bench; His jingling cap was crumpled- in his fist, And, as he lay there, all along Cheapside The happy voices of his comrades rang: — Out of the woods we'll dance and sing Under the morning-star of Spring, Into the town with our fresh boughs And knock at every sleeping house, Not sighing, Or crying. Though Love knows no denying! Then, round your summer queen and king, Come, young lovers, dance and sing, Dance and sing! [113] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN His motley shoulders heaved. I touched his arm, "What ails you, sir?" He raised his thin white face, Wet with the May-dew still. A few stray petals Clung in his tangled hair. He leapt to his feet, " 'Twas February, but I danced, boy, danced In May! Can you do this?" Forward he bent Over his feet, and shuffled it, heel and toe, Out of the Mermaid, singing his old song — A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not? Even so, — Come, young lovers, trip and go. Trip and go. Five minutes later, over the roaring Strand, Chorus, I heard him crow, and half the town Reeled into music under his crimson comb. [114] VI BIG BEN VI BIG BEN GODS, what a hubbub shook our cobwebs out The day that Chapman, Marston and our Ben Waited in Newgate for the hangman's hands. Chapman and Marston had been prisoned first For some imagined insult to the Scots In Eastward Ho, the play they wrote with Ben. But Ben was famous now, and our brave law Would fain have winked and passed the big man by. The lesser men had straightway been condemned To have their ears cut off, their noses slit. With other tortures. Ben had risen at that! He gripped his cudgel, called for a quart of ale, Then like Helvellyn with his rocky face And mountain-belly, he surged along Cheapside, Snorting with wrath, and rolled into the gaol. To share the punishment. "There is my mark! 'Tis not the first time you have branded me," Said our big Ben, and thrust his broad left thumb Branded with T for Tyburn, into the face Of every protest. " That's the mark you gave me Because I killed my man in Spitalfields, A duel honest as any your courtiers fight. [117] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN But I was no Fitzdotterel, bore no gules And azure, robbed no silk-worms for my hose, I was Ben Jonson, out of Annandale, Bricklayer in common to the good Lord God. You branded me. I wear no three-piled ruff. You cannot rub it out." The Mermaid Inn Buzzed like a hornet's nest, upon the day Fixed for their mutilation. And the stings Were ready, too; for rapiers flashed and clashed Among the tankards. Dekker was there, and Nash, Brome (Jonson's body-servant, whom he taught His art of verse and, more than that, to love him,) And half a dozen more. They planned to meet The prisoners going to Tyburn, and attempt A desperate rescue. All at once we heard A great gay song come marching down the street, A single voice, and twenty marching men. Then the full chorus, twenty voices strong: — The prentice whistles at break of day All under fair roofs and towers. When the old Cheap openeth every way Her little sweet inns like flowers; And he sings like a lark, both early and late. To think, if his house take fire. At the good Green Dragon in Bishopsgate He may drink to his heart's desire. Chorus: Or sit at his ease in the old Cross Keys And drink to his heart's desire. [ii8] BIG BEN But I, as I walk by Red Rose Lane, Tho' it warmeth my heart to see The Swan, The Golden Hind, and The Crane, With the door set wide for me; Tho' Signs like daffodils paint the strand When the thirsty bees begin, Of all the good taverns in Engeland My choice is — The Mermaid Inn. Chorus: There is much to be said for The Saracen's Head, But my choice is The Mermaid Inn. Into the tavern they rushed, these roaring boys. " Now broach your ripest and your best," they cried. " All's well ! They are all released ! They are on the way! Old Camden and young Selden worked the trick. Where is Dame Dimpling? Where's our jolly hostess? Tell her the Mermaid Tavern will have guests: We are sent to warn her. She must raid Cook's Row, And make their ovens roar. Nobody dines This day with old Duke Humphrey. Red-deer pies, Castles of almond crust, a shield of brawn Big as the nether mill-stone, barrels of wine, Three roasted peacocks! Ben is on the way! " Then all the rafters rang with song again: — There was a Prince — long since, long since? — To East-Cheape did resort. For that he loved The Blue Boar's Head Far better than Crown or Court; [119] TALES OF THE MERINIAID TAVERN But old King Harry in Westminster Hung up, for all to see, Three bells of power in St. Stephen's Tower, Yea, bells of a thousand and three. Chorus: Three bells of power in a timber tower, Thirty; thousand and three. For Harry the Fourth was a godly king And loved great godly bells! He bade them ring and he bade them swing Till a man might hear nought else. In every tavern it soured the sack With discord and with din; But they drowned it all in a madrigal Like this, at the Mermaid Inn. Chorus: They drowned it all in a madrigal Like this, at the Mermaid Inn. " But how did Selden work it? " — " Nobody knows. They will be here anon. Better ask Will. He's the magician!" — "Ah, here comes Dame Dimpling!" And, into the rollicking chaos our good Dame — A Dame of only two and thirty springs — All lavender and roses and white kerchief, Bustled, to lay the tables. Fletcher flung His arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. But all she said was " One — two — three — four — five — Six at a finch, in yonder window-seat." [lao] BIG BEN " A health to our Dame Dimpling," Beaumont cried, And Dekker, leaping on the old black settle, Led all their tumult into a song again: — What is the Mermaid's merriest toast? Our hostess — good Dame Dimpling! Who is it rules the Mermaid roast? Who is it bangs the Mermaid host, The' her hands be soft as her heart almost? Dame Dimpling! She stands at the board in her fresh blue gown With the sleeves tucked up — Dame Dimpling ! She rolls the white dough up and down And her pies are crisp, and her eyes are brown. So — she is the Queen of all this town, — Dame Dimpling! Her sheets are white as black-thorn bloom, White as her neck, Dame Dimpling! Her lavender sprigs in the London gloom Make every little bridal-room A country nook of fresh perfume, — Dame Dimpling! She wears white lace on her dark brown hair: And a rose on her breast. Dame Dimpling! And who can show you a foot as fair Or an ankle as neat when she climbs the stair, Taper in hand, and head in the air, And a rose in her cheek? — O, past compare, Dame Dimpling! [121] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN " But don't forget those oyster-pies," cried Lyly, " Nor the roast beef," roared Dekker. " Prove yourself The Muse of meat and drink." There was a shout In Bread Street, and our windows all swung wide. Six heads at each. Nat Field bestrode our sign And kissed the painted Mermaid on her lips, Then waved his tankard. " Here they come," he cried. " Camden and Selden, Chapman and Marston, too. And half Will's company with our big Ben Riding upon their shoulders." "Look!" cried Dekker, " But where is Atlas now? O, let them have it! A thumping chorus, lads ! Let the roof crack ! " And all the Mermaid clashed and banged again In thunderous m.easure to the marching tune That rolled down Bread Street,, forty voices strong : — At Ypres Inn, by Wring-wren lane. Old John of Gaunt would dine: He scarce had opened an oyster or twain, Or drunk one flagon of wine, When, all along the Vintry Ward, He heard the trumpets blow. And a voice that roared — " If thou love thy lord, Tell John of Gaunt to go! " Chorus: A great voice roared — " If thou love thy lord. Tell John of Gaunt to go! " [122] BIG BEN Then into the room rushed Haviland That fair fat Flemish host, " They are marching hither with sword and brand, Ten thousand men — almost ! It is these oysters or thy sweet life, Thy blood or the best of the bin ! — " " Proud Pump, avaunt ! " quoth John of Gaunt, " I will dine at the Mermaid Inn! " Chorus: "Proud Pump, avaunt!" quoth John of Gaunt, "There is wine at the Mermaid Inn!" And in came Ben like a great galleon poised High on the white crest of a shouting wave. And then the feast began. The fragrant steam As from the kitchens of Olympus drew A throng of ragged urchins to our doors. Ben ordered them a castellated pie That rolled a cloud around them where they sat Munching upon the cobble stones. Our casements Dripped with the golden dews of Helicon; And, under the warm feast our cellarage Gurgled and foamed in the delicious cool With crimson freshets — "Tell us," cried Nat Field, When pipes began to puff. " How did you work it ? " Camden chuckled and tugged his long white beard. " Out of the mouth of babes," he said and shook His head at Selden ! " O, young man, young man, There's a career before you ! Selden did it. [123] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Take my advice, my children. Make young Selden Solicitor-general to the Mermaid Inn. That rosy silken smile of his conceals A scholar! Yes, that suckling law^fer there Puts my grey beard to shame. His courteous airs And silken manners hide the nimblest wit That ever trimmed a sail to catch the wind Of courtly favour. Mark my words now, Ben, That youth will sail right up against the wind By skilful tacking. But you run it fine, Selden, you run it fine. Take my advice And don't be too ironical, my boy. Or even the King will see it." He chuckled again, '' But tell them of your tractate! " " Here it is," Quoth Selden, twisting a lighted paper spill. Then, with his round cherubic face aglow Lit his long silver pipe, "Why, first," he said, " Camden being Clarencieux King-at-arms, He read the King this little tract I wrote Against tobacco." And the Mermaid roared With laughter. "Well, you went the way to hang All three of them," cried Lyly, " and, as for Ben, His Trinidado goes to bed with him." " Green gosling, quack no more," Selden replied. Smiling that rosy silken smile anew. " The King's a critic/ When have critics known The poet from his creatures, God from me? How many cite Polonius to their sons [124] John Selden From a Painting Attributed to Sir Peter Lelp, in the Bodleian Library, Oxford BIG BEN And call it Shakespeare? Well, I took my text From sundry creatures of our great big Ben, And called it ' Jonson.' Camden read it out Without the flicker of an eye. His beard Saved us, I think. The King admired his text. ' There is a manf he read, ' lies at death's door Thro' taking of tobacco. Yesterday He voided a bushel of soot.' ' Grod bless my soul, A bushel of soot ! think of it ! ' said the King. ' The man who wrote those great and splendid words,' Camden replied, — I had prepared his case Carefully — ' lies in Newgate prison, sire. His nose and ears await the hangman's knife.' 'Ah,' said the shrewd King, goggling his great eyes Cannily. ' Did he not defame the Scots? ' ' That's true,' said Camden, like a man that hears Truth for the first time. ' O ay, he defamed 'em ' The King said, very wisely, once again. *Ah, but,' says Camden, like a man that strives With more than mortal wit, ' only such Scots As flout your majesty, and take tobacco. He is a Scot, himself, and hath the gift Of preaching.' Then we gave him Jonson's lines Against Virginia. 'Neither do thou lust After that tawny weed; for who can tell. Before the gathering and the making up. What alligarta may have spawned thereon,' Or words to that effect. [125] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN ' Magneeficent ! ' Spluttered the King — ' who knows ? Who knows, indeed ? That's a grand touch, that Alligarta, Camden ! ' ' The Scot who wrote those great and splendid words,' Said Camden, ' languishes in Newgate, sire. His ears and nose — ' And there, as we arranged With Inigo Jones, the ladies of the court Assailed the King in tears. Their masque and ball Would all be ruined. All their Grecian robes, Procured at vast expense, were wasted now. The masque was not half-written. Master Jones Had lost his poets. They were all in gaol. Their noses and their ears .... ' God bless my soul,' Spluttered the King, goggling his eyes again, ' What d'you make of it, Camden ? ' — ' I should say A Puritan plot, sire; for these justices — Who love tobacco — use their law, it seems, To flout your Majesty at every turn. If this continue, sire, there'll not be left A loyal ear or nose in all your realm.' At that, our noble monarch well-nigh swooned. He hunched his body, padded as it was Against the assassin's knife, six inches deep With great green quilts, wagged his enormous head, Then, in a dozen words, he wooed destruction: ' It is presumption and a high contempt In subjects to dispute what kings can do,' He whimpered. ' Even as it is blasphemy [126] BIG BEN To thwart the will of God.' He waved his hand, And rose. ' These men must be released, at once ! ' Then, as I think, to seek a safer place, He waddled from the room, his rickety legs Doubling beneath that great green feather-bed He calls his ' person.' — I shall dream to-night Of spiders, Camden. — But in half an hour, Inigo Jones was armed with Right Divine To save such ears and noses as the ball Required for its perfection. Think of that! And let this earthly ball remember, too, That Chapman, Marston, and our great big Ben Owe their poor adjuncts to — ten Grecian robes And ' Jonson ' on tobacco ! England loves Her poets, O supremely, when they're dead." " Selden, you saved us in the nick of time ; But Ben has narrowly escaped her love," Said Chapman gravely. " What do you mean ? " said Lodge. And, as he spoke, there was a sudden hush, A tall gaunt woman with great burning eyes. And white hair blown back softly from a face Ethereally fierce, as might have looked Cassandra in old age, stood at the door. " Where is my Ben ? " she said. "Mother!" cried Ben. He rose and caught her in his mighty arms. Her labour-reddened, large-boned hands entwined Behind his neck. " She brought this to the gaol," [127] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Said Chapman quietly, tossing a phial across To Camden, "And he meant to take it, too! Before the hangman touched him. Half an hour And you'd have been too late to save big Ben. He has lived too much in ancient Rome to love A slit nose and the pillory. He'd have wrapped His purple round him like an emperor. I think she had another for herself." " There's Roman blood in both," Dekker replied ; " Don't look. She is vreeping now," And, while Ben held That gaunt old body sobbing against his heart, Dekker, to make her think they paid no heed, Began to sing; and very softly now. Full forty voices echoed the refrain: — The Cardinal's Hat is a very good inn. And so is the Puritan's Head; But I knew a sign of Wine, a Wine That is better when all is said. It is whiter than Venus, redder than Mars, It was old when the world begun; For all good inns are moons or stars But the Mermaid is their Sun. Chorus: They are all alight like moons in the night, But the Mermaid is their Sun. Therefore, when priest or parson cries That inns like flowers increase, I say that mine inn is a church likewise. And I say to them " Be at peace ! " [128] BIG BEN An host may gather in dark St. Paul's To salve their souls from sin; But the Light may be where " two or three " Drink Wine in the Mermaid Inn. Chorus: The Light may be where "two or three" Drink Wine in the Mermaid Inn. [129] VII THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN VII THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN ''T*WAS on an All Souls' Eve that our good Inn JL — Whereof, for ten years now, myself was host — Heard and took part in its most eerie tale. It was a bitter night; and master Ben, — His hair now flecked with grey, though youth still fired His deep and ageless eyes, — in the old oak-chair. Over the roaring hearth, puffed at his pipe; A little sad, as often I found him now Remembering vanished faces. Yet the years Brought others round him. Wreaths of Heliochrise Gleamed still in that great tribe of Benjamin, Burned still across the malmsey and muscadel. Chapman and Browne, Herrick, — a name like thyme Crushed into sweetness by a bare-foot maid Milking, at dewy dawn, in Elfin-land, — These three came late, and sat in a little room Aside, supping together, on one great pie, Whereof both crust and coffin were prepared By master Herrick's receipt, and all washed down With mighty cups of sack. This left with Ben, John Ford, wrapped in his cloak, brooding aloof, Drayton and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden. [133] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Suddenly, in the porch, I heard a sound Of iron that grated on the flags. A spade And pick came edging through the door, "O, room! Room for the master-craftsman," muttered Ford, And grey old sexton Scarlet hobbled in. He shuffled off the snow that clogged his boots, — On my clean rushes ! — brushed it from his cloak Of Northern Russet, wiped his rheumatic knees, Blew out his lanthorn, hung it on a nail. Leaned his rude pick and spade against the wall, Flung back his rough frieze hood, flapped his gaunt arms, " Plenty of work, eh Timothy ? " said Ben. And called for ale. " Come to the fire," said Lodge. " Room for the wisest counsellor of kings. The kindly sage that puts us all to bed. And tucks us up beneath the grass-green quilt." "Work? Where's my liquor? O, ay, there's work to spare," Old Scarlet croaked, then quaffed his creaming stoup, While Ben said softly — " Pity you could not spare. You and your Scythe-man, some of the golden lads That I have seen here in the Mermaid Inn ! " Then, with a quiet smile he shook his head And turned to master Drummond of Hawthornden. " Well, songs are good ; but flesh and blood are better. The grey old tomb of Horace glows for me Across the centuries, with one little fire Lit by a careless hand." Then, under breath. Yet with some passion, he murmured this brief rhyme: — [134] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN Duke ridentem, laughing through the ages, Dulce loquentem, O, fairer far tp me, Rarer than the wisdom of all his golden pages Floats the happy laughter of his vanished Lalage. Dulce loquentem, — we hear it and we know it. Dulce ridentem, — so musical and low. " Mightier than marble is my song! " Ah, did the poet Know why little Lalage was mightier even so? Ill Dulce ridentem, — through all the years that sever, Clear as o'er yon hawthorn hedge we heard her passing by,- Lalagen amabo, — a song may live for ever Dulce loquentem, — but Lalage must die. " I'd lilce to learn that rhyme," the sexton said; " I've a fine memory too. You start me now, I'd keep it up all night with ancient ballads." And then — a strange thing happened. I saw John Ford " With folded arms and melancholy hat " (As in our Mermaid jest he still would sit) Watching old Scarlet like a man in trance. The Sexton gulped his ale and smacked his lips, Then croaked again — " O, ay, there's work to spare, We fills 'em faster than the spades can dig." And, all at once, the lights burned low and blue. [135] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Ford leaned right forward, with his grim black eyes Widening. " Why, that's a marvellous ring! " he said, And pointed to the sexton's gnarled old hand Spread on that black oak-table like the claw Of some great bird of prey. " A ruby worth The ransom of a queen ! " The fire leapt up ! The sexton stared at him; Then stretched his hand out, with its blue-black nails, Full in the light, a grim earth-coloured hand. But bare as it was born. " There was a ring ! I could have sworn it ! Red as blood ! " cried Ford. And Ben and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden All stared at hith. For such a silent soul Was master Ford that, when he suddenly spake. It struck the rest as dumb as if the Sphinx Had opened its cold stone lips. He would sit mute Brooding, aloof, for hours, his cloak around him, A staff between his knees, as if prepared For a long journey, a lonely pilgrimage To some dark tomb; a strange and sorrowful soul. Yet not — as many thought him — harsh or hard. But of a most kind patience. Though he wrote In blood, they say, the blood came from his heart; And all the sufferings of this world he took To his own soul, and bade them pasture there; Till out of his compassion, he became A monument of bitterness. He rebelled; And so fell short of that celestial height Whereto the greatest only climb, who stand [136] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN By Shakespeare, and accept the Eternal Law. These find, in law, firm footing for the soul, The strength that binds the stars, and reins the sea, The base of being, the pillars of the world, The pledge of honour, the pure cord of love, The form of truth, the golden floors of heaven. These men discern a height beyond all heights, A depth below all depths, and never an end Without a pang beyond it, and a hope; Without a heaven beyond it, and a hell. For these, despair is like a bubble pricked, An old romance to make young lovers weep. For these, the law becomes a fiery road, A Jacob's ladder through that vast abyss. Lacking no rung from realm to loftier realm. Nor wanting one degree from dust to wings. These, at the last, radiant with victory, Lay their strong hands upon the winged steeds And fiery chariots, and exult to hold, Themselves, the throbbing reins, whereby they steer The stormy splendours. He, being less, rebelled, Cried out for unreined steeds, and unruled stars. An unprohibited ocean and a truth Untrue; and the equal thunder of the law Hurled him to night and chaos, who was born To shine upon the forehead of the day. And yet — the voice of darkness and despair May speak for heaven where heaven would not be heard, May fight for heaven where heaven would not prevail, And the consummate splendour of that strife, [137] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Swallowing up all discords, all defeat, In one huge victory, harmonising all, Make Lucifer, at last, at one with God. There, — on that All Souls' Eve, you might have thought A dead man spoke, to see how Drayton stared. And Drummond started. " You saw no ruby ring," The old sexton muttered sullenly. " If you did, The worse for me, by all accounts. The lights Burned low. You caught the fire-light on my fist. What was it like, this ring? " "A band of gold. And a great ruby, heart-shaped, fit to burn Between the breasts of Lais. Am I awake Or dreaming? " " Well, — that makes the second time ! There's many have said they saw it, out of jest. To scare me. For the astrologer did say The third time I should die. Now, did you see it? Most likely someone's told you that old tale! You hadn't heard it, now ? " Ford shook his head. "What tale?" said Ben. " O, you could make a book About my life. I've talked with quick and dead. And neither ghost nor flesh can fright me now! I wish it was a ring, so's I could catch him, And sell him; but I've never seen him yet. A white witch told me, if I did, I'd go Clink, just like that, to heaven or t'other place, [138] Michael Drayton Prom an Original Painting in Dulwich College THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN Whirled in a fiery chariot with ten steeds The way Elijah went. For I have seen So many mighty things that I must die Mightily. Well, — I came, sirs, to my craft The day mine uncle Robert dug the grave For good Queen Katharine, she whose heart was broke By old King Harry, a very great while ago. Maybe you've heard about my uncle, sirs? He was far-famous for his grave-digging. In depth, in speed, in neatness, he'd no match 1 They've put a fine slab to his memory In Peterborough Cathedral — Robert Scarlet, Sexton for half a century, it says, In Peterborough Cathedral, where he built The last sad habitation for two queens, .And many hundreds of the common sort. And now himself, who for so many built Eternal habitations, others have buried. Obiit anno atatis, ninety-eight, July the second, fifteen ninety-four. We should do well, sir, with a slab like that, Shouldn't we ? " And the sexton leered at Lodge. " Not many boasts a finer slab than that, There's many a king done worse. Ah, well, you see, He'd a fine record. Living to ninety-eight. He buried generations of the poor, A countless host, and thought no more of it Than digging potatoes. He'd a lofty mind That found no satisfaction in small deeds. But from his burying of two queens he drew [139] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN A lively pleasure. Could he have buried a third, It would indeed have crowned his old white hairs. But he was famous, and he thought, perchance, A third were mere vain-glory. So he died. I helped him with the second." The old man leered To see the shaft go home. Ben filled the stoup With ale. " So that," quoth he, " began the tale About this ruby ring? " " But who," said Lodge, " Who was the second queen ? " " A famous queen, And a great lover! When you hear her name, Your hearts will leap. Her beauty passed the bounds Of modesty, men say, yet — she died young! We buried her at midnight. There were few That knew it;' for the high State Funeral Was held upon the morrow, Lammas morn. Anon you shall hear why. A strange thing that, — To see the mourners weeping round a hearse That held a dummy cofSn. Stranger still To see us lowering the true coffin down By torchlight, with some few of her true friends. In Peterborough Cathedral, all alone." " Old as the world," said Ford. " It is the way Of princes. Their true tears and smiles are seen At dead of night, like ghosts raised from the grave! And all the luxury of their brief, bright noon, Cloaks but a dummy throne, a mask of life ; And, at the last, drapes a false catafalque. Holding a vacant urn, a mask of death. [140] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN But tell, tell on!" The sexton took a draught Of ale and smacked his lips, " Mine uncle lived A mile or more from Peterborough then. And, past his cottage, in the dead of night, Her royal coach came creeping through the lanes. With scutcheons round it and no crowd to see, And heralds carrying torches in their hands, And none to admire, but him and me, and one, A pedlar-poet, who lodged with us that week And paid his lodging with a bunch of rhymes. By these, he said, my uncle Robert's fame Should live, as in a picture, till the crack Of doom. My uncle thought that he should pay Four-pence beside; but, when the man declared The thought unworthy of these august events, My uncle was abashed. And, truth to tell. The rhymes were mellow, though here and there he swerved From truth to make them so. Nor would he change ' June ' to ' July ' for all that we could say. ' I never said the month was June,' he cried, ' And if I did, Shakespeare hath jumped an age! Gods, will you hedge me round with thirty nights? " June " rhymes with " moon " ! ' With that, he flung them down And strode away like Lucifer, and was gone, Before old Scarlet could approach again The matter of that four-pence. [141I TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Yet his rhymes Have caught the very colours of that night! I can see through them, Ay, just as through our cottage window-panes, Can see the great black coach, Carrying the dead queen past our garden-gate. The roses bobbing and fluttering to and fro, Hide, and yet show the more by hiding, half. And, like smoked glass through which you see the sun, The song shows truest when it blurs the truth. This is the way it goes." He rose to his feet, Picked up his spade, and struck an attitude. Leaning upon it. " I've got to feel my spade. Or I'll forget it. This is the way I speak it. Always." And, with a schoolboy's rigid face, And eyes fixed on the rafters, he began, Sing-song, the pedlar-poet's bunch of rhymes: — As I went by the cattle-shed The grey dew dimmed the grass. And, under a twisted apple-tree, Old Robin Scarlet stood by me. " Keep watch ! Keep watch to-night," he said, " There's things 'uU come to pass. " Keep watch until the moon has cleared The thatch of yonder rick; Then I'll come out of my cottage-door To wait for the coach of a queen once more; And — you'll say nothing of what you've heard. But rise and follow me quick." [142] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN " And what 'uU I see if I keep your trust, And wait and watch so late ? " " Pride," he said, " and Pomp," he said, " Beauty to haunt you till you're dead, And Glorious Dust that goes to dust, Passing the white farm-gate. " You are young and all for adventure, lad, And the great tales to be told: This night, before the clock strike one. Your lordliest hour will all be done; But you'll remember it and be glad, In the days when you are old! " All in the middle of the night, My face was at the pane; When, creeping out of his cottage-door. To wait for the coach of a queen once more, Old Scarlet, in the moon-light, Beckoned to me again. He stood beneath a lilac-spray. Like Father Time for dole. In Reading Tawny cloak and hood. With mattock and with spade he stood. And, far away to southward, A bell began to toll. He stood beneath a lilac-spray. And never a word he said; But, as I stole out of the house, [143] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN He pointed over the orchard boughs, Where, not with dawn or sunset, The Northern sky grew red. I followed him, and half in fear, To the old farm-gate again; And, round the curve of the long white road, I saw that the dew-dashed hedges glowed Red with the grandeur drawing near, And the torches of her train. They carried her down with singing, With singing sweet and low. Slowly round the curve they came, Twenty torches dropping flame, The heralds that were bringing her The way we all must go. 'Twas master William Dethick, The Garter King of Arms, Before her royal coach did ride. With none to see his Coat of Pride, For peace was on the country-side. And sleep upon the farms; Peace upon the red farm, Peace upon the grey. Peace on the heavy orchard trees, And little white-walled cottages. Peace upon the wayside, And sleep upon the way. [144] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN So master William Dethick, With forty horse and men, Like any common man and mean Rode on before the Queen, the Queen, And — only a wandering pedlar Could tell the tale again. How, like a cloud of darkness, Between the torches moved Four black steeds and a velvet pall Crowned with the Crown Imperiall And — on her shield — the lilies, The lilies that she loved. Ah, stained and ever stainless, Ah, white as her own hand, White as the wonder of that brow, Crowned with colder lilies now. White on the velvet darkness. The lilies of her land 1 The witch from over the water. The fay from over the foam, The bride that rode thro' Edinbro' town With satin shoes and a silken gown, A queen, and a great king's daughter, — Thus they carried her home. With torches and with scutcheons, Unhonoured and unseen. With the lilies of France in the wind a-stir, [145] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN And the Lion of Scotland over her, Darkly, in the dead of night. They carried the Queen, the Queen! The sexton paused and took a draught of ale. " 'Twas there," he said, " I joined 'em at the gate. My uncle and the pedlar. What they sang. The little shadowy throng of men that walked Behind the scutcheoned coach with bare bent heads I know not; but 'twas very soft and low. They walked behind the rest, like shadows flung Behind the torch-light, from that strange dark hearse. And, some said, afterwards, they were the ghosts Of lovers that this queen had brought to death. A foolish thought it seemed to me, and yet Like the night-wind they sang. And there was one An olive-coloured man, — the pedlar said Was like a certain foreigner that she loved. One Chastelard, a wild French poet of hers. Also the pedlar thought they sang ' farewell ' In words like this, and that the words in French Were written by the hapless Queen herself, When as a girl she left the vines of France For Scotland and the halls of Holyrood: — Though thy hands have plied their trade Eighty years without a rest, Robin Scarlet, never thy spade Built a house for such a guest! [146] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN Carry her where, in earliest June, All the whitest hawthorns blow; Carry her under the midnight moon, Singing very soft and low. Slow between the low green larches, carry the lovely lady sleeping. Past the low white moon-lit farms, along the lilac- shadowed way! Carry her through the summer darkness, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping! Answering only, to any that ask you, whence ye carry her, — Fotheringhay ! II. She was gayer than a child! — Let your torches droop for sorrow. — Laughter in her eyes ran wild! — Carry her down to Peterboro'. — Words were kisses in her mouth! — Let no word of blame be spoken, — She was Queen of all the South! — In the North, her heart was broken. — They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping, Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance. Out of the cold grey Northern mists, we carry her weep- ing, weeping, weeping, — O, ma patrie. La plus cherie. Adieu, plaisant pays de France! [147] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN in I Many a red heart died to beat — Music swelled in Holyrood! — Once, beneath her fair white feet. — Now the floors may rot with blood — She was young and her deep hair — — Wind and rain were all her fate! — Trapped young Love as in a snare. — And the wind's a sword in the Canongate! Edinboro'l Edinboro'! Music built the towers of Troy, but thy gray walls are built of sorrow I Wind-swept hills, and sorrowful glens, of thrifty sowing and iron reaping, What if her foot were fair as a sunbeam, how should it touch or melt your snows? What if her hair were a silken mesh? Hands of steel can deal hard blows. Iron breast-plates bruise fair flesh! Carry her southward, palled in purple, Weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping, What had their rocks to do with roses? Body and soul she was all one rose. Thus, through the summer night, slowly they went, We three behind, — the pedlar-poet and I, And Robin Scarlet. The moving flare that ringed The escutcheoned hearse, lit every leaf distinct Along the hedges and woke the sleeping birds, [148] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN But drew no watchers from the drowsier farms. Thus, through a world of innocence and sleep, We brought her to the doors of her last home. In Peterborough Cathedral. Round her tomb They stood, in the huge gloom of those old aisles. The heralds with their torches, but their light Struggled in vain with that tremendous dark. Their ring of smoky red could only show A few sad faces round the purple pall. The wings of a stone angel overhead. The base of three great pillars, and, fitfully, Faint as the phosphorus glowing in some old vault. One little slab of marble, far away. Yet, or the darkness, or the pedlar's words Had made me fanciful, I thought I saw Bowed shadows praying in those unplumbed aisles, Nay, dimly heard them weeping, in a grief That still was built of silence, like the drip Of water from a frozen fountain-head. We laid her in her grave. , We closed the tomb. With echoing footsteps all the funeral went; And I went last to close and lock the doors ; Last, and half frightened of the enormous gloom That rolled along behind me as one by one The torches vanished. O, I was glad to see The moon-light on the kind turf-mounds again. But, as I turned the key, a quivering hand Was laid upon my arm. I turned and saw That foreigner with the olive-coloured face. From head to foot he shivered, as with cold. He drew me into the shadows of the porch. [149] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN ' Come back with me,' he whispered, and slid his hand — Like ice it was ! — ■ along my wrist, and slipped A ring upon my finger, muttering quick. As in a burning fever, ' All the wealth Of Eldorado for one hour! Come back! I must go back and see her face again ! I was not there, not there, the day she — died. You'll help me with the coffin. Not a soul Will know. Come back! One moment, only one!' I thought the man was mad, and plucked my hand Away from him. He caught me by the sleeve, And sank upon his knees, lifting his face Most piteously to mine. 'One moment! See! I loved her! ' I saw the moonlight glisten on his tears. Great, long, slow tears they were; and then — my God- As his face lifted and his head sank back Beseeching me — I saw a crimson thread Circling his throat, as though the headsman's axe Had cloven it with one blow, so shrewd, so keen, The head had slipped not from the trunk. I gasped; And, as he pleaded, stretching his head back. The wound, O like a second awful mouth. The wound began to gap. I tore my cloak Out of his clutch. My keys fell with a clash. I left them where they lay, and with a shout I dashed into the broad white empty road. There was no soul in sight. Sweating with fear I hastened home, not daring to look back; [150] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN But as I turned the corner, I heard the clang Of those great doors, and knew he had entered in. Not till I saw before me in the lane The pedlar and my uncle did I halt And look at that which clasped my finger still As with a band of ice. My hand was bare! I stared at it and rubbed it. Then I thought I had been dreaming. There had been no ring! The poor man I had left there in the porch, Being a Frenchman, talked a little wild ; But only wished to look upon her grave. And I — I was the madman ! So I said Nothing. But all the same, for all my thoughts, I'd not go back that night to find the keys, No, not for all the rubies in the crown Of Prester John. The high State Funeral Was held on Lammas Day. A wondrous sight For Peterborough! For myself, I found Small satisfaction in a catafalque That carried a dummy coffin. None the less. The pedlar thought that as a Solemn Masque, Or Piece of Purple Pomp, the thing was good. And worthy of a picture in his rhymes ; The more because he said it shadowed forth The ironic face of Death. The Masque, indeed Began before we buried her. For a host [151] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Of Mourners — Lords and Ladies — on Lammas eve Panting with eagerness of pride and place, Arrived in readiness for the morrow's pomp, And at the Bishop's Palace they found prepared A mighty supper for them, where they sat All at one table. In a Chamber hung With scutcheons and black cloth, they drank red wine And feasted, while the torches and the Queen Crept through the darkness of Northampton lanes. At seven o'clock on Lammas Morn they woke. After the Queen was buried; and at eight The Masque set forth, thus pictured in the rhymes With tolling bells, which on the pedlar's lips Had more than paid his lodging: Thus he spake it. Slowly, sounding the rhymes like solemn bells, And tolling, in between, with lingering tongue : — Tolll — From the Palace the Releevants creep, — A hundred poor old women, nigh their end, Wearing their black cloth gowns, and on each head An ell of snow-white holland which, some said. Afterwards they might keep, — Ah J Toll! — with nine new shillings each to spend. For all the trouble that they had, and all The sorrow of walking to this funeral. Toll! — And the Mourning Cloaks in purple streamed Following, a long procession, two by two. Her Household first. With these. Monsieur du Preau Her French Confessor, unafraid to show [152] THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN The golden Cross that gleamed About his neck, warned what the crowd might do Said / will wear it, though I die for it/ So subtle in malice was that Jesuit. Toll/ — Sir George Savile in his Mourner's Gown Carried the solemn Cross upon a Field Azure, and under it by a streamer borne Upon a field of Gules, an Unicorn Argent and, lower down, A scrolled device upon a blazoned shield. Which seemed to say — I am silent till the end ! — Toll/ Toll/ — In my defence, God me defend! Toll/ — and a hundred poor old men went by. Followed by two great Bishops. — Toll, ah toll/ — Then, with White Staves and Gowns, four noble lords; Then sixteen Scots and Frenchmen with drawn swords; Then, with a Bannerol, Sir Andrew Noel, lifting to the sky The Great Red Lion. Then the Crown and Crest Borne by a Herald on his glittering breast. And now — ■ ah now, indeed, the deep bell tolls ! — That empty Coffin, with its velvet pall. Borne by six Gentlemen, under a canopy Of purple, lifted by four knights, goes by. The Crown Imperiall Burns on the Coffin-head. Four Bannerols On either side, uplifted by four squires, Roll on the wind their rich heraldic fires. [153] TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN Toll! The Chief Mourner — the fair Russell! —