Shakespeare and Mine Host of the Mermaid

I

IN the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington is casketed a mass of treasure. But among its many thousands of books, manuscripts, and objects which bring Shakespeare to mind there is one document of peculiar and unique interest. Unique, because it is the sole personal relic of the poet in the Western Hemisphere, the only object that we know belonged to Shakespeare, that he held in his own hands.

At first glance this captain jewel looks prosaic enough. A parchment indenture which records the fact that Shakespeare bought a house in Blackfriars, a couple of hundred yards from the theatre where he trod the stage and where so many of his plays were acted. The owner of the property was one Henry Walker, minstrel, of London. After the scrivener had engrossed the deed of sale in duplicate, Shakespeare signed one copy and gave it to Walker. Walker signed the counterpart and handed it to Shakespeare, who stuffed it into his wallet. They sealed the bargain with a cup of sack, and the bit of business was dispatched. The Folger document is the parchment that Shakespeare took away and kept.

Plain, even bald, it seems. Shakespeare bought a house as an investment, as thousands of lesser men have done before and since; what more is to be said ? Yet if we examine the parchment more closely we descry a brace of interesting mysteries. In the first place, four men are named as purchasers: ‘William Shakespeare, of Stratford Vpon Avon in the countie of Warwick, gentleman, William Johnson, citizein and Vintener of London, John Jackson, and John Hemmyng of London, gentlemen.’ A subsequent clause, however, shows that the real purchaser was Shakespeare, and that the three others were trustees whom he named to act in his interest. John Hemmyng of London, gentleman, is no other than Shakespeare’s friend and fellow, the actor John Heminge who edited the Folio of 1623. But who are the two remaining friends of the poet? Nothing is known of John Jackson, gentleman, or of William Johnson, vintner. No doubt the commonness of their names has discouraged any who might offer at an identification.

Here, then, are two trusted friends of Shakespeare’s who for us are no more than names. Securely they sit there in the document and scoff: ‘Do you pass us by in ignorance, yet long to hear the story of his life? Much!’

This may not be borne. I will undertake you, though I break my shins in the process. Draw, if you be men as well as mysteries! Gentlemen first. . . . John Jackson, gentleman, wins his bout. With his bafflingly common name he parries every attempt, and retires smiling, his mystery still untouched.

II

A breathing while — then William Johnson, vintner, steps forward. At first he too has the best of it, with a name as utterly undistinguished as his friend’s. But soft! not too fast! Vintner . . . vintner. Q. What conceivable connection could there be between a London vintner and Shakespeare? A. Well, vintners might dispense rich Canary to thirsty actors and convivial poets. Q. Where? A. In licensed taverns and inns. Q. What tavern did Shakespeare frequent? A. (fortissimo) The Mermaid! Nobody doubts that he often made one with Ben Jonson, John Donne, Christopher Brooke, and other ‘right generous, jovial, and mercurial Sireniacks,’ as Tom Coryat styled them, on the first Friday of every month at the famous Mermaid Tavern in Bread Street, Cheapside. Mind you, there is no proof of this. Never once is Shakespeare’s name mentioned by any contemporary in connection with the Mermaid. Posterity has, however, taken the matter to heart. King Shakespeare not one of the bards of passion and of mirth who threw inimitable wit within the four walls of the Mermaid? A question not to be asked.

Hold, Master Johnson, enough for this once. But I have an eye of you, and will discuss the matter further when time shall serve.

Once more in the twentieth century, I am off hotfoot to see what can be made of this Mermaid notion. First, to find contemporary references to the famous tavern. Professor Sugden has collected them in his admirable Topographical Dictionary to the Works of Shakespeare and His Fellow Dramatists. Under ‘ Mermaid ’ I find a cluster of fascinating passages. Ben Jonson, for example, confesses in his Epigrams, —

And further on he describes the extraordinary voyage of two knights, who

— from Bridewell Dock up Fleet Ditch. But what is this? ‘The host in 1603 was one Johnson, as appears from the will of Albian Butler, of Clifford’s Inn, who owed him 17 shillings.’ A Johnson, host of the Mermaid! Could it be possible that mine host Johnson of the Mermaid and Shakespeare’s friend the vintner are one and the same? The mere suggestion is exciting.

Somewhere there must be evidence to resolve this intolerable doubt. Why not a comparison of signatures? Autographs of the vintner are available. Together with Shakespeare and Jackson, he signed not only the purchase deed held by the vendor, Walker, but also, on the following day, a mortgage on the house for payment of the residue of the purchase price. The first of these documents is in the Guildhall Library, London, the other in the British Museum, and one can procure facsimiles.

Facsimiles arrive. Examining them, one notes the curious fact that on March 10, 1613, the vintner signed ‘Wm Johnsonn,’ but on the following day, dropping the second n, ‘Wm Johnson’; and that Jackson followed suit with ‘Jacksonn’ and ‘Jackson.’ Yet, with these samples of his signature before me, I am still far from being able to identify Shakespeare’s friend with mine host of the Mermaid. Where can one find the signature that will either clinch the identification or dissolve the theory into thin air?

III

When in doubt, I turn inevitably to that never-failing reservoir, the Public Record Office in Chancery Lane. Surely there must be an undiscovered record of the Mermaid Tavern preserved here. One may make a beginning with an attack on the Chancery suits indexed in the reigns of Elizabeth and James, delimiting the field to those cases which deal with property in London. Before long I am rewarded by running on one which mentions the Mermaid. But what do I find? It tells me that about the turn of the seventeenth century the tavern was owned by a certain William Williamson. To discover a Williamson when I long for a Johnson is not cheering. Can the note quoted by Sugden, asserting that one Johnson was the host in 1603, be a mare’s-nest?

Plus ultra is the watchword; and before relinquishing hope we can take this name, William Williamson, and launch one more drive. For variety, let us choose the index of Star Chamber: an enormous heap of Elizabethan names in the records of the court where men are had up for all sorts of lively offenses, such as riots, poachings, slanders, and witchcraft. Unfortunately, since this index gives no indications of place, delimitation is not easy; we may as well begin at the beginning and plod along systematically through all the names, defendants as well as plaintiffs.

The new name works like a charm. No sooner are we well into letter A of the index, when behold a suit brought by the Queen’s Attorney-General, Coke, against a certain Sir Edmond Bainham, and, among others, William Williamson. A glance through the Attorney-General’s bill — or ‘information,’ as it is called — finds Coke beginning the charge by declaring that on Tuesday night, March 18, 1600, the defendants did ‘riotously and vnlawfully assemble themselves together at the house of one William Williamson of London, vintner, being a Comon Taverne Called the Mermayde, scituate in a street Called Bredstreet.’ This assembly, it appears, was the starting point for a glorious Elizabethan midnight row in the streets of London, which landed several badly battered roisterers in jail, and finally brought them penitent before the lords of the Council sitting in Star Chamber.

But can we abandon the search to plunge into this exhilarating fracas before looking about further? The date here is 1600, and William Williamson is unquestionably host of the Mermaid. Perhaps some witnesses were examined in this case? Yes, here are depositions of several substantial friends of the tavern keeper — two Bread Street salters, Robert Payne and Edward Prescott; a pewterer, Robert Sheppard; a constable, John Weston; and at last, Williamson’s servant, William Johnson, aged twenty-five.

This is good hunting. But the signature, on which so much depends— ‘per me William Johnsonn.’ Now for a comparison. Though the first name is written out, unlike the ‘Wm’ of thirteen years later, the ‘ohnsonn of the last name is exactly similar, in the forming of the letters, to the signature on Shakespeare’s deed, down to the break between the o and h, the doubled n, and the final paraph or flourish. True, the W of ‘William’ has an initial stroke which appears greatly reduced in the later signature, and the upper loop of the J comes to a sharp point, while that on Shakespeare’s deed is rounded. Some allowance must be made for changes wrought by thirteen years, and I am persuaded that we are dealing here with the hand of one man: that William Johnson, servant in 1600 to mine host Williamson, became a member of the Vintners’ Company, and stepped into Williamson’s shoes as master of the Mermaid.

Yet conviction must be made absolute. Patience and a further search into the Chancery records at length yield a suit dated 1616 which gives us this: ‘the Meeremayd’ in Bread Street ‘in the tenure of William Johnson, vintner.’ That settles one point beyond cavil. To clinch the matter we must have a signature of about this date, and we turn to the vast collection of Town Depositions in Chancery. This splendid series stands our friend, and places the keystone of the arch: a deposition dated October 25, 1614, of William Johnson, of St. Mildred’s, Bread Street, vintner, aged forty, and signed ‘Wm Johnson.’ We put the three signatures together. In the last, the ’Wm’ is exactly like that on Shakespeare’s deed of 1613; the ‘Johnson’ is the same, and the loop of the J is rounded. For the searcher, this is journey’s end: Shakespeare’s trusted friend is no other than mine host of the Mermaid Tavern.

The instinct of posterity is shown to be sound. The Stratford poet was more than an occasional patron of the celebrated tavern. For if Shakespeare’s friend Ben Jonson felt sufficiently at home in the Mermaid to write affectionate verses about it, Shakespeare himself was so intimate with its host that he found it natural to ask him to act as his trustee in a purchase involving some $5000 to $7000 in our values. We have added a new and fascinating figure to the circle of Shakespeare’s known familiar acquaintances.

IV

What manner of man was William Johnson, other than a vintner recognizable by his rat-colored stockings and shining shoes? Speculation is free. Was he a genial original, like mine host of the Garter at Windsor in the Merry Wives, with his ‘said I well, bully Hector’? That mad wag who by a trick prevented the deadly encounter between the doughty Welsh parson and the fire-eating French doctor, thus: —

‘Peace, I say! hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? Am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? no; he gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? no; he gives me the proverbs and the noverbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so; — give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong places; your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow.’

We could wish Shakespeare no more jovial friend. But to leave fancy, and come to the facts we can muster about mine host Johnson, let us look at his Chancery deposition of 1614. He pictures himself here, in professional fashion, as down in the cellar of the rival tavern of his neighbor Benson, the Mitre in Bread Street, tasting wines to be taken for a debt owed to the estate of Williamson, late master of the Mermaid. Johnson deposes ‘that hee knoweth not what quantety of the wynes . . . having the marck of the defendant Jo: Dade upon them came to the handes, custody, or possession of the complainant [Widow Anne Williamson] after the death of Wm Williamson, her late husband; for that this deponent did not take any notice of the said defendant Dade his marck, or of any other man’s marcke, but only tasted of the wynes lately the defendant Benson’s, and extended upon for debt due unto him the said Wm Williamson by the said Benson; and such wynes the complainant had in the Sellar of the said Benson at his howse called the Mytre in Breadstreet.’

Now that Johnson commands our keenest attention, we find a special importance in the following record that comes to light in the rolls of the King’s Bench. An informer, one William Allen, charges that William Johnson, of St. Mildred’s in Bread Street Ward, ‘a comon Vintener,’ on and after [Friday] March 19, 1613, sold meat on Fridays, being ‘Fish dayes or fasting dayes.’ Johnson should be fined £150, — £5 for each offense, — of which the informer claims a third.

This is interesting from more than one point of view. Obviously the indictment is based on the statute of 27 Elizabeth, which ordered ‘ that no innholder, vintner, alehouse-keeper, common victualler, common cook, or common table-keeper shall utter or put to sale upon any Friday, Saturday, or other days appointed to be Fish Days, or any day in time of Lent, any kind of flesh victuals; upon pain of forfeiture of £5; and shall suffer ten days’ imprisonment without bail, mainprize, or remove, for every time so offending.’

Friday, March 19, 1613, — the date of Johnson’s first alleged offense, — is eight days after he signed Shakespeare’s mortgage. Further, it is in that period of fasting and penitence known as Lent. Moreover, the size of the fine charges him with repeating the offense on twenty-nine succeeding and additional Fridays. Finally, we recall the club of wits, ‘ the worshipful Fraternity of Sireniacal gentlemen that meet the 1st Friday of every month at the sign of the Mermaid in Bread Street in London.’

Law or no law, we cannot down a sense of satisfaction on learning that mine host Johnson took his chances with the enforcement agents of Meat Prohibition, and saw to it, when Will Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Frank Beaumont, and other lads of life gathered at his Mermaid for a supper of wit and mirth, that their Parnassian palates, warmed with Canary, were not insulted with fish. They were none of your ‘demure boys,’ scorned by Jack Falstaff, who make so ‘many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male greensickness.’ And happily it does not appear that Shakespeare’s friend was fined and jailed for his refusal, in Mercutio’s phrase, to fishify the flesh of his immortal guests. There is no record that the case ever came to trial. William Allen the informer did not get his £50. Possibly he got something less agreeable; for in those turbulent days talebearing must have been a risky business.

We recall that Falstaff makes a show of terrifying Hostess Quickly with a similar charge, representing it as a deadly sin as well as a crime; but she answers him stoutly: —

Fal. Marry, there is another indictment upon thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law; for the which I think thou wilt howl [in hell].

Quick. All victuallers do so: what’s a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent?

The Record Office’s imposing way of making one feel that it is all-sufficient has tricked us into neglecting an inviting source of possible further information for Johnson — the records of the Worshipful Company of Vintners, preserved at Vintners’ Hall, London. An application to the Clerk of the Company finds him most kind in permitting a search of the registers.

Aware that Johnson was born about 1575, we open the book at the late 1580’s. Hunting carefully through the subsequent years brings us the entry we had hoped for. Under date of 11 April 1591 we read: ‘for presenting of William Johnson apprenticed to William Williamson . . . xijd.’ Continuing our search, we find that our future host served a long apprenticeship, — nine years, — being admitted a freeman of the Company in the summer of 1600: ‘for making free of William Johnson, late apprenticed to Williamson . . . xxxd.’

Though hereby given the right to set up in trade for himself, Johnson, it seems, had to wait almost another three years before Williamson was ready to resign control of the Mermaid to him. Learning from the register that Johnson enrolled his first two apprentices in May 1603, we may conclude with some confidence that his career as master of the Mermaid dates from this year. Furthermore, we discover from a new document in the Record Office that two years later, in February 1605, Johnson bound himself to pay Williamson the very large sum of £1848 within five weeks. This makes it look as though by now he had built up sufficient savings to undertake the purchase of the tavern. In the course of the two decades that followed, we find the names of twenty-five additional apprentices enrolled by Johnson. Clearly his undertaking was successful: there was no lack of custom and attendance at the Mermaid.

V

What have we learned about this newly discovered friend of Shakespeare?

Ten or eleven years younger than the poet he was. Apprenticed to Master Williamson, he spent his youth from the age of sixteen at the Mermaid, learning the mysteries of sack, Alicant, claret, muscadine, Rhenish, and charneco, making the acquaintance of the clientele, and being trained in the diplomatic and multifarious art of tavern keeping. Though Williamson lived on till 1613, by 1603, ten years before he died, he had handed over the reins of management to the twentyeight-year-old Johnson. Two years later we see the young man paying over to Williamson a very substantial sum, presumably the purchase price of the tavern. We may judge that Johnson was a credit to his training; for in his hands the Mermaid prospered mightily, and as one of the prime taverns of London could command a distinguished and discriminating patronage. As for his character, if Shakespeare put confidence in his discretion and integrity, we can do no less.

What would we give for a chance to slip into his rat-colored stockings and shining shoes, oversee the serving of one of his famous Friday suppers to the Mermaid Club, and overhear the Olympian play of wit of which Frank Beaumont wrote to Ben Jonson: —

As he wrote this, Beaumont lay far from London, and dreamed of ‘your full Mermaid wine’ — of the sherrissack whose operation Jack Falstaff anatomized thus: ‘It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes; which, deliver’d o’er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit.’

For poets and wits it will do this, if rightly taken; but let a coarse earthbound clod be drowned with sack, and he grows quarrelsome and pot-valiant. And this last, unfortunately, is what happened on a night in 1600, when a crew of roaring boys, after leaving the Mermaid, — and how glad were mine host Williamson and his servant Johnson to see their backs! — raised a tumult in the sleeping streets of London. But this is another story, which demands a chapter all to itself.

(Next month, a second paper by Mr. Hotson, ’Roaring Boys at the Mermaid’)