“’Tis a fine thing,” said the man at the head of the table, “and you may lay to that. His genius ripens every day. There is nothing in my opinion beyond the compass of Will’s invention.” “He lacks but one thing,” said a large, ugly and pock-marked fellow who came slowly into the room. “And what is that, Ben?” was the question that was promptly fired at the newcomer. “A little learning, my friends, to temper the heat of his mind. A little of the classic severity of Athens to mellow the over-sharpness of his wit, to trim and clip the excess of his redundancy, to confine the natural incontinence of his humors.” But the words of Ben were drowned in good-natured laughter. All knew the foibles of this heavy and slow-moving man. He was a surly dog fond of his growl. He must ever run contrary to received opinion. He had an exaggerated regard for the classic tongues. But there was no stouter fellow, no stauncher friend, and there was not a grain of smallness in his nature. “Sit down, you dog,” said the time-worn warrior at the table-head, “and bury your mask in a flagon. Hi, drawer, a cup of Muscadel for Master Jonson. Ben, my son, with all your learning, aye, and with all your genius, too, you will never be quite man enough to don the mantle of William the Peerless.” “Did I ever say I would?” said Ben roughly. “Is there any man alive that ever heard me speak so windily? There is no man living or dead who is the peer of our incomparable William and I care not who hears me say it.” The great rude fellow brought down his bricklayer’s fist with such a resounding thud upon the table that the dishes rattled and the wine slopped over in a dozen cups. But this rough diamond, who as yet did but stand at the threshold of renown, was freely forgiven all the inconvenience he caused for the sake of that honest enthusiasm whereby he did himself honor in the eyes of all. The motley crew who sat night after night at that table were without exception men of parts and understanding. Whether their ruffles were ink-stained, whether their hands were lily-white, whether they wore silk and fine linen or plain bombazine, whether they lived by the sword or by the pen, or whether they had no need to live by either, there was no appeal from their judgments upon poetry and the drama, and posterity has not found occasion to reverse their verdicts. It was the great age indeed. These were men of rare mental power, of large and liberal intercourse. They knew the highest when they met it and knew how to pay it homage. For example, this rude fellow Ben Jonson, this clumsy, loud-voiced, opinionative Scotsman, a pock-marked, ugly creature who had lived rough and who had the brand of a felon on his thumb was the coming man. He would go far, said the quidnuncs. He was heavy metal of the royal currency; one who under Providence was destined to be second only to Will himself.