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 flung there 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.

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 am Ben Jonson still.

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 Cheape 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.

Or sit at his ease in the old Cross Keys

And drink to his heart's desire.

But I, as I walk by Red Rose Lane,

Tho’ it warmeth my heart to see

The Swan, The Golden Hynde, 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.

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 millstone, 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;

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,

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.

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 pinch, in yonder window-seat.”

“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,

Tho’ 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!

“But do n'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 measure 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!”

A great voice roared — “If thou love thy lord,

Tell John of Gaunt to go!”

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!”

“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 cobblestones. 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.

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 lawyer 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 do n'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

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 man,’ he read,‘ lies at death's door

Thro’ taking of tobacco. Yesterday

He voided a bushel of soot.’

‘ God 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.

‘ 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

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.”

“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, long-boned hands entwined

Behind his neck.

“She brought this to the gaol,”

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 of them,” said Dekker,

“Do n't look. She is weeping 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 know a sign of a 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.

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!”

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.

The Light may be where “two or three”

Drink Wine in The Mermaid Inn.