ing them
himself. But he is fearful of how the rioting may end, and, if he
dared, he would turn Nash into the street. Tom is the only man there
whom the landlord--if that man had only been a Boswell--personally
dislikes; indeed, Nash is no great favorite even with his comrades. He
has a bitter tongue, and his heart is not to be mellowed by wine. The
table roars over his sallies, of which the landlord himself is dimly
conscious that he is the butt, and Kempe and Cowley wince under his
satire. Those excellent comedians fall out over a trifling difference
of opinion; and handsome Nash--he tells us himself that he was handsome,
so there can be no doubt about it--maintains that they should decide
the dispute by fist-cuffs without further loss of time. While Kempe and
Cowley threaten to break each other's heads--which, indeed, would be
no great matter if they did it quietly--Burbage is reciting vehemently,
with no one heeding him; and Marlowe insists on quarrelling with Armin
about the existence of a Deity. For when Kit is drunk he is an infidel.
Armin will not quarrel with anybody, and Marlowe is exasperated.

[Illustration]

But where is Shakespeare all this time? He has retired to a side table
with Alleyn, who has another historical play that requires altering.
Their conversation is of comparatively little importance; what we are
to note with bated breath is that Will is filling a pipe. His face is
placid, for he does not know that the tobacco Ned is handing him is the
Arcadia Mixture. I love Ned Alleyn, and like to think that Shakespeare
got the Arcadia from him.

For a moment let us turn from Shakespeare at this crisis in his life.
Alleyn has left him and is paying the score. Marlowe remains where he
fell. Nash has forgotten where he lodges, and so sets off with Peele to
an ale-house in Pye Corner, where George is only too well known. Kempe
and Cowley are sent home in baskets.

Again we turn to the figure in the corner, and there is such a light on
his face that we shade our eyes. He is smoking the Arcadia, and as he
smokes the tragedy of Hamlet takes form in his brain.

This is the picture that Scrymgeour will never dare to paint. I know
that there is no mention of tobacco in Shakespeare's plays, but those
who smoke the Arcadia tell their secret to none, and of other mixtures
they scorn to speak.

CHAPTER XIV.

MY BROTHER HENRY.

[Illustration]

Strictly speaking I never had a brother Henry, and yet