Chapter 2

“Many of your cloth and kidney do that, good Master Silas, and make no wry faces about it,” quoth the youngster, with indiscreet merriment, although short of laughter, as became him who had already stepped too far and reached the mire.

To save paper and time, I shall now, for the most part, write only what they all said, not saying that they said it, and just copying out in my clearest hand what fell respectively from their mouths.

SIR SILAS.

“I did indeed spit it forth, and emunge my lips, as who should not?”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“Would it were so!”

SIR SILAS.

“_Would it were so_! in thy teeth, hypocrite!”

SIR THOMAS.

“And, truly, I likewise do incline to hope and credit it, as thus paraphrased and expounded.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“Wait until this blessed day next year, sir, at the same hour. You shall see it forth again at its due season; it would be no miracle if it lasted. Spittle may cure sore eyes, but not blasted mouths and scald consciences.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Why! who taught thee all this?”

Then turned he leisurely toward Sir Silas, and placing his hand outspreaden upon the arm of the chaplain, said unto him in a low, judicial, hollow voice,—

“Every word true and solemn! I have heard less wise saws from between black covers.”

Sir Silas was indignant at this under-rating, as he appeared to think it, of the church and its ministry, and answered impatiently, with Christian freedom,—

“Your worship surely will not listen to this wild wizard in his brothel-pulpit!”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“Do I live to hear Charlecote Hall called a brothel-pulpit? Alas, then, I have lived too long!”

SIR SILAS.

“We will try to amend that for thee.”

William seemed not to hear him, loudly as he spake and pointedly unto the youngster, who wiped his eyes, crying,—

“Commit me, sir! in mercy commit me! Master Ephraim! Oh, Master Ephraim! A guiltless man may feel all the pangs of the guilty! Is it you who are to make out the commitment? Dispatch! dispatch. I am a-weary of my life. If I dared to lie, I would plead guilty.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Heyday! No wonder, Master Ephraim, thy entrails are moved and wamble. Dost weep, lad? Nay, nay; thou bearest up bravely. Silas, I now find, although the example come before me from humble life, that what my mother said was true—’t was upon my father’s demise—‘In great grief there are few tears.’”

Upon which did the youth, Willy Shakspeare, jog himself by the memory, and repeat these short verses, not wide from the same purport:

“There are, alas, some depths of woe Too vast for tears to overflow.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Let those who are sadly vexed in spirit mind that notion, whoever indited it, and be men. I always was; but some little griefs have pinched me woundily.”

Master Silas grew impatient, for he had ridden hard that morning, and had no cushion upon his seat, as Sir Thomas had. I have seen in my time that he who is seated on beech-wood hath very different thoughts and moralities from him who is seated on goose-feathers under doe-skin. But that is neither here nor there, albeit, an’ I die, as I must, my heirs, Judith and her boy Elijah, may note it.

Master Silas, as above, looked sourishly, and cried aloud,—

“The witnesses! the witnesses! testimony! testimony! We shall now see whose black goes deepest. There is a fork to be had that can hold the slipperiest eel, and a finger that can strip the slimiest. I cry your worship to the witnesses.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Ay, indeed, we are losing the day; it wastes toward noon, and nothing done. Call the witnesses. How are they called by name? Give me the paper.”

The paper being forthwith delivered into his worship’s hand by the learned clerk, his worship did read aloud the name of Euseby Treen. Whereupon did Euseby Treen come forth through the great hall-door which was ajar, and answer most audibly,—

“Your worship!”

Straightway did Sir Thomas read aloud, in like form and manner, the name of Joseph Carnaby; and in like manner as aforesaid did Joseph Carnaby make answer and say,—

“Your worship!”

Lastly did Sir Thomas turn the light of his countenance on William Shakspeare, saying,—

“Thou seest these good men deponents against thee, William Shakspeare.” And then did Sir Thomas pause. And pending this pause did William Shakspeare look steadfastly in the faces of both; and stroking down his own with the hollow of his hand from the jaw-bone to the chin-point, said unto his honour,—

“Faith! it would give me much pleasure, and the neighbourhood much vantage, to see these two fellows good men. Joseph Carnaby and Euseby Treen! Why! your worship! they know every hare’s form in Luddington-field better than their own beds, and as well pretty nigh as any wench’s in the parish.”

Then turned he with jocular scoff unto Joseph Carnaby, thus accosting him, whom his shirt, being made stiffer than usual for the occasion, rubbed and frayed,—

“Ay, Joseph! smoothen and soothe thy collar-piece again and again! Hark ye! I know what smock that was knavishly cut from.”

Master Silas rose up in high choler, and said unto Sir Thomas,—

“Sir! do not listen to that lewd reviler; I wager ten groats I prove him to be wrong in his scent. Joseph Carnaby is righteous and discreet.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“By daylight and before the parson. Bears and boars are tame creatures, and discreet, in the sunshine and after dinner.”

EUSEBY TREEN.

“I do know his down-goings and uprisings.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“The man and his wife are one, saith holy Scripture.”

EUSEBY TREEN.

“A sober-paced and rigid man, if such there be. Few keep Lent like unto him.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“I warrant him, both lent and stolen.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Peace and silence! Now, Joseph Carnaby, do thou depose on particulars.”

JOSEPH CARNABY.

“May it please your worship! I was returning from Hampton upon Allhallowmas eve, between the hours of ten and eleven at night, in company with Master Euseby Treen; and when we came to the bottom of Mickle Meadow, we heard several men in discourse. I plucked Euseby Treen by the doublet, and whispered in his ear, ‘Euseby! Euseby! let us slink along in the shadow of the elms and willows.’”

EUSEBY TREEN.

“_Willows and elm-trees_ were the words.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“See, your worship! what discordances! They cannot agree in their own story.”

SIR SILAS.

“The same thing, the same thing, in the main.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“By less differences than this estates have been lost, hearts broken, and England, our country, filled with homeless, helpless, destitute orphans. I protest against it.”

SIR SILAS.

“Protest, indeed! He talks as if he were a member of the House of Lords. They alone can protest.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Your attorney may _object_, not _protest_, before the lord judge.

“Proceed you, Joseph Carnaby.”

JOSEPH CARNABY.

“In the shadow of the willows and elm-trees, then—”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“No hints, no conspiracies! Keep to your own story, man, and do not borrow his.”

SIR SILAS.

“I overrule the objection. Nothing can be more futile and frivolous.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“So learned a magistrate as your worship will surely do me justice by hearing me attentively. I am young; nevertheless, having more than one year written in the office of an attorney, and having heard and listened to many discourses and questions on law, I cannot but remember the heavy fine inflicted on a gentleman of this county who committed a poor man to prison for being in possession of a hare, it being proved that the hare was in his possession, and not he in the hare’s.”

SIR SILAS.

“Synonymous term! synonymous term!”

SIR THOMAS.

“In what term sayest thou was it? I do not remember the case.”

SIR SILAS.

“Mere quibble mere equivocation! Jesuitical! Jesuitical!”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“It would be Jesuitical, Sir Silas, if it dragged the law by its perversions to the side of oppression and cruelty. The order of Jesuits, I fear, is as numerous as its tenets are lax and comprehensive. I am sorry to see their frocks flounced with English serge.”

SIR SILAS.

“I don’t understand thee, viper!”

SIR THOMAS.

“Cease thou, Will Shakspeare! Know thy place. And do thou, Joseph Carnaby, take up again the thread of thy testimony.”

JOSEPH CARNABY.

“We were still at some distance from the party, when on a sudden Euseby hung an —” {21a}

SIR THOMAS.

“As well write _drew back_, Master Ephraim and Master Silas! Be circumspecter in speech, Master Joseph Carnaby! I did not look for such rude phrases from that starch-warehouse under thy chin. Continue, man!”

JOSEPH CARNABY.

“‘Euseby,’ said I in his ear, ‘what ails thee, Euseby?’ ‘I wag no farther,’ quoth he. ‘What a number of names and voices!’”

SIR THOMAS.

“Dreadful gang! a number of names and voices! Had it been any other day in the year but Allhallowmas eve! To steal a buck upon such a day! Well! God may pardon even that. Go on, go on. But the laws of our country must have their satisfaction and atonement. Were it upon any other day in the calendar less holy, the buck were nothing, or next to nothing, saving the law and our conscience and our good report. Yet we, her Majesty’s justices, must stand in the gap, body and soul, against evil-doers. Now do thou, in furtherance of this business, give thine aid unto us, Joseph Carnaby!—remembering that mine eye from this judgment-seat, and her Majesty’s bright and glorious one overlooking the whole realm, and the broader of God above, are upon thee.”

Carnaby did quail a matter at these words about the judgment-seat and the broad eye, aptly and gravely delivered by him moreover who hath to administer truth and righteousness in our ancient and venerable laws, and especially, at the present juncture, in those against park-breaking and deer-stealing. But finally, nought discomfited, and putting his hand valiantly atwixt hip and midriff, so that his elbow well-nigh touched the taller pen in the ink-pot, he went on.

JOSEPH CARNABY.

“‘_In the shadow of the willows and elm-trees_,’ said he, ‘_and get nearer_.’ We were still at some distance, maybe a score of furlongs, from the party—”

SIR THOMAS.

“Thou hast said it already—all save the score of furlongs.”

“Hast room for them, Master Silas?”

“Yea,” quoth Master Silas, “and would make room for fifty, to let the fellow swing at his ease.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Hast room, Master Ephraim?”

“’T is done, most worshipful!” said I. The learned knight did not recollect that I could put fifty furlongs in a needle’s eye, give me pen fine enough.

But far be it from me to vaunt of my penmanship, although there be those who do malign it, even in my own township and parish; yet they never have unperched me from my calling, and have had hard work to take an idle wench or two from under me on Saturday nights.

I memorize thus much, not out of any malice or any soreness about me, but that those of my kindred into whose hands it please God these papers do fall hereafter, may bear up stoutly in such straits; and if they be good at the cudgel, that they, looking first at their man, do give it him heartily and unsparingly, keeping within law.

Sir Thomas, having overlooked what we had written, and meditated a while thereupon, said unto Joseph,—

“It appeareth by thy testimony that there was a huge and desperate gang of them afoot. Revengeful dogs! it is difficult to deal with them. The laws forbid precipitancy and violence. A dozen or two may return and harm me; not me, indeed, but my tenants and servants. I would fain act with prudence, and like unto him who looketh abroad. He must tie his shoe tightly who passeth through mire; he must step softly who steppeth over stones; he must walk in the fear of the Lord (which, without a brag, I do at this present feel upon me), who hopeth to reach the end of the straightest road in safety.”

SIR SILAS.

“Tut, tut! your worship! Her Majesty’s deputy hath matchlocks and halters at a knight’s disposal, or the world were topsyturvy indeed.”

SIR THOMAS.

“My mental ejaculations, and an influx of grace thereupon, have shaken and washed from my brain all thy last words, good Joseph! Thy companion here, Euseby Treen, said unto thee—ay—”

JOSEPH CARNABY.

“Said unto me, ‘What a number of names and voices! And there be but three living men in all! And look again! Christ deliver us! all the shadows save one go leftward; that one lieth right upon the river. It seemeth a big, squat monster, shaking a little, as one ready to spring upon its prey!’”

SIR THOMAS.

“A dead man in his last agonies, no doubt! Your deer-stealer doth boggle at nothing. He hath alway the knife in doublet and the devil at elbow.

“I wot not of any keeper killed or missing. To lose one’s deer and keeper too were overmuch.

“Do, in God’s merciful name, hand unto me a glass of sack, Master Silas! I wax faintish at the big, squat man. He hath harmed not only me, but mine. Furthermore, the examination is grown so long.”

Then was the wine delivered by Sir Silas into the hand of his worship, who drank it off in a beaker of about half a pint,—but little to his satisfaction, for he said shortly afterward,—

“Hast thou poured no water into the sack, good Master Silas? It seemeth weaker and washier than ordinary, and affordeth small comfort unto the breast and stomach.”

“Not I, truly, sir,” replied Master Silas “and the bottle is a fresh and sound one. The cork reported on drawing, as the best diver doth on sousing from Warwick bridge into Avon. A rare cork! as bright as the glass bottle, and as smooth as the lips of any cow.”

SIR THOMAS.

“My mouth is out of taste this morning; or the same wine, mayhap, hath a different force and flavor in the dining-room and among friends. But to business—what more?”

“Euseby Treen, what may it be?” said I.

“I know,” quoth he, “but dare not breathe it.”

SIR THOMAS.

“I thought I had taken a glass of wine, verily. Attention to my duty as a magistrate is paramount. I mind nothing else when that lies before me.

“Carnaby! I credit thy honesty, but doubt thy manhood. Why not breathe it, with a vengeance?”

JOSEPH CARNABY.

“It was Euseby who dared not.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Stand still! Say nothing yet; mind my orders. Fair and softly! compose thyself.”

They all stood silent for some time, and looked very composed, awaiting the commands of the knight. His mind was clearly in such a state of devotion that peradventure he might not have descended for a while longer to his mundane duties, had not Master Silas told him that, under the shadow of his wing, their courage had returned and they were quite composed again.

“You may proceed,” said the knight.

JOSEPH CARNABY.

“Master Treen did take off his cap and wipe his forehead. I, for the sake of comforting him in this his heaviness, placed my hand upon his crown; and truly I might have taken it for a tuft of bents, the hair on end, the skin immovable as God’s earth!”

Sir Thomas, hearing these words, lifted up his hands above his own head, and in the loudest voice he had yet uttered did he cry,—

“Wonderful are thy ways in Israel, O Lord!”

So saying, the pious knight did strike his knee with the palm of his right hand; and then gave he a sign, bowing his head and closing his eyes, by which Master Carnaby did think he signified his pleasure that he should go on deposing. And he went on thus:—

JOSEPH CARNABY.

“At this moment one of the accomplices cried, ‘Willy! Willy! prithee stop! enough in all conscience! First thou divertedst us from our undertaking with thy strange vagaries, thy Italian girls’ nursery sigh, thy Pucks and pinchings, and thy Windsor whimsies. No kitten upon a bed of marum ever played such antics. It was summer and winter, night and day with us within the hour; and in such religion did we think and feel it, we would have broken the man’s jaw who gainsaid it. We have slept with thee under the oaks in the ancient forest of Arden, and we have wakened from our sleep in the tempest far at sea. {29a} Now art thou for frightening us again out of all the senses thou hadst given us, with witches and women more murderous than they.’

“Then followed a deeper voice: ‘Stouter men and more resolute are few; but thou, my lad, hast words too weighty for flesh and bones to bear up against. And who knows but these creatures may pop amongst us at last, as the wolf did, sure enough, upon him, the noisy rogue, who so long had been crying _wolf_! and _wolf_!’”

SIR THOMAS.

“Well spoken, for two thieves; albeit I miss the meaning of the most part. Did they prevail with the scapegrace and stop him?”

JOSEPH CARNABY.

“The last who had spoken did slap him on the shoulder, saying, ‘Jump into the punt, lad, and across.’ Thereupon did Will Shakspeare jump into said punt, and begin to sing a song about a mermaid.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“Sir! is this credible? I will be sworn I never saw one; and verily do believe that scarcely one in a hundred years doth venture so far up the Avon.”

SIR THOMAS.

“There is something in this. Thou mayest have sung about one, nevertheless. Young poets take great liberties with all female kind; not that mermaids are such very unlawful game for them, and there be songs even about worse and staler fish. Mind ye that! Thou hast written songs, and hast sung them, and lewd enough they be, God wot!”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“Pardon me, your worship! they were not mine then. Peradventure the song about the mermaid may have been that ancient one which every boy in most parishes has been singing for many years, and, perhaps, his father before him; and somebody was singing it then, mayhap, to keep up his courage in the night.”

SIR THOMAS.

“I never heard it.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“Nobody would dare to sing in the presence of your worship, unless commanded,—not even the mermaid herself.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Canst thou sing it?”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“Verily, I can sing nothing.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Canst thou repeat it from memory?”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“It is so long since I have thought about it, that I may fail in the attempt.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Try, however.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“‘The mermaid sat upon the rocks All day long, Admiring her beauty and combing her locks, And singing a mermaid song.’”

SIR THOMAS.

“What was it? what was it? I thought as much. There thou standest, like a woodpecker, chattering and chattering, breaking the bark with thy beak, and leaving the grub where it was. This is enough to put a saint out of patience.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“The wishes of your worship possess a mysterious influence,—I now remember all.

“‘And hear the mermaid’s song you may, As sure as sure can be, If you will but follow the sun all day, And souse with him into the sea.’”

SIR THOMAS.

“It must be an idle fellow who would take that trouble; besides, unless he nicked the time he might miss the monster. There be many who are slow to believe that the mermaid singeth.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“Ah sir! not only the mermaid singeth, but the merman sweareth, as another old song will convince you.”

SIR THOMAS.

“I would fain be convinced of God’s wonders in the great deeps, and would lean upon the weakest reed like unto thee to manifest his glory. Thou mayest convince me.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

1.

“‘A wonderful story, my lasses and lads, Peradventure you’ve heard from your grannams or dads, Of a merman that came every night to woo The spinster of spinsters, our Catherine Crewe.

2.

“‘But Catherine Crewe Is now seventy-two, And avers she hath half forgotten The truth of the tale, when you ask her about it, And says, as if fain to deny it or flout it, “_Pooh_! _the merman is dead and rotten_.”

3.

“‘The merman came up as the mermen are wont, To the top of the water, and then swam upon ’t; And Catherine saw him with both her two eyes, A lusty young merman full six feet in size.

4.

“‘And Catherine was frighten’d, Her scalp-skin it tighten’d, And her head it swam strangely, although on dry land; And the merman made bold Eftsoons to lay hold (_This_ Catherine well recollects) of her hand.

5.

“‘But how could a merman, if ever so good, Or if ever so clever, be well understood By a simple young creature of our flesh and blood?

6.

“‘Some tell us the merman Can only speak German, In a voice between grunting and snoring; But Catherine says he had learned in the wars The language, persuasions, and oaths of our tars, And that even his voice was not foreign.

7.

“‘Yet when she was asked how he managed to hide The green fishy tail, coming out of the tide For night after night above twenty, “You troublesome creatures!” old Catherine replied, “_In his pocket_; won’t that now content ye?”’”

SIR THOMAS.

“I have my doubts yet. I should have said unto her, seriously, ‘Kate! Kate! I am not convinced.’ There may be witchcraft or sortilege in it. I would have made it a star-chamber matter.”

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

“It was one, sir.”

SIR THOMAS.

“And now I am reminded by this silly, childish song,—which, after all, is not the true mermaid’s,—thou didst tell me, Silas, that the papers found in the lad’s pocket were intended for poetry.”

SIR SILAS.

“I wish he had missed his aim, sir, in your park, as he hath missed it in his poetry. The papers are not worth reading; they do not go against him in the point at issue.”

SIR THOMAS.

“We must see that,—they being taken upon his person when apprehended.”

SIR SILAS.

“Let Ephraim read them, then; it behooveth not me, a Master of Arts, to con a whelp’s whining.”

SIR THOMAS.

“Do thou read them aloud unto us, good Master Ephraim.”

Whereupon I took the papers which young Willy had not bestowed much pains on; and they posed and puzzled me grievously, for they were blotted and scrawled in many places, as if somebody had put him out. These likewise I thought fit, after long consideration, to write better, and preserve, great as the loss of time is when men of business take in hand such unseemly matters. However, they are decenter than most, and not without their moral; for example:—

“TO THE OWLET.

“Who, O thou sapient, saintly bird! Thy shouted warnings ever heard Unbleached by fear? The blue-faced blubbering imp, who steals Yon turnips, thinks thee at his heels, Afar or near.

“The brawnier churl, who brags at times To front and top the rankest crimes,— To paunch a deer, Quarter a priest, or squeeze a wench,— Scuds from thee, clammy as a tench, He knows not where.

“For this the righteous Lord of all Consigns to thee the castle-wall, When, many a year, Closed in the chancel-vaults, are eyes Rainy or sunny at the sighs Of knight or peer.”

Sir Thomas, when I had ended, said unto me,

“No harm herein; but are they over?”

I replied, “Yea, sir!”

“I miss the _posy_,” quoth he; “there is usually a lump of sugar, or a smack thereof at the bottom of the glass. They who are inexperienced in poetry do write it as boys do their copies in the copy-book, without a flourish at the finis. It is only the master who can do this befittingly.”