William Shakespeare as he lived Part 46

forges, and quaint-looking inns or hostels, gave a most picturesque and diversified appearance to the whole.

It must have been a singular sight to behold that friendless young man, wending his way along the suburban streets of Old London. The dust of many miles upon his worn shoes, his spirits weary, and, like his own Touchstone, his legs weary too, and not a cross in his pocket. He was in London now, and the hard selfishness of the citizen he found somewhat different from the good-natured hospitality of the cottager. His last coin had been spent that morning, and he was weary and hungry withal.

Yet still the first sight of the streets of London, as he gradually got into the interior, so much interested him, that he forgot both hunger and weariness and kept wandering on.

To the right he turned, now stopping to admire some relics of the days of the Plantagenets; and then to the left, now looking up at some edifice whose beetling stories, projecting over the street above, so nearly met a corresponding edifice on the opposite side, that the inhabitants might almost have shaken hands out of the upper floor windows. The increasing bustle of the great town he was every step becoming more involved in, he at first disregarded, being wholly taken up with the buildings he pa.s.sed, and the curiosities every moment presented to his view. Occasionally, too, his attention was arrested by a group of cavaliers, dressed in all the magnificence of the period, as they rode gallantly through the streets. Then again, the furtive glance of the merry-eyed citizen's daughter, and which she threw at the exceeding handsome, though somewhat country-clad young man, as she tripped down some narrow pa.s.sage, arrested him.

These matters caused Shakespeare ever and anon to stop and consider curiously, and, as he gazed around, the continual pa.s.sers as constantly interrupted the current of his meditations.

Then he was rudely thrust from the causeway, as a swaggering party, ruffling and rustling in "unpaid-for-silks," and attended by a whole retinue of followers, pa.s.sed on towards the court-end of the town, talking loud, swearing gallantly, and even singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of songs as they progressed; elbowing the men from, and thrusting the females as unceremoniously to, the wall. Their huge trunks and short cloaks fluttering in the wind, their chains and various ornaments glittering in the sun, and the feathers in their high-crowned hats brus.h.i.+ng the overhanging stories of the houses as they walked.

All these varieties, so new to the pedestrian, continually excited his curiosity, more especially as, from the conversation of several citizens, he found that rumours of events of importance were filling men's minds with the antic.i.p.ation of events to come.

"Heard ye the news, neighbour," said one staid-looking burgher, "just brought in from Milford Haven? A Spanish fleet hath been sighted off those parts."

"Nay, neighbour," said another, "I heard not of the Spaniard. They do say, however, that the Duke of Guise hath landed in Suss.e.x with a strong army."

"And I heard," continued a third, "that the Scot hath made an irruption into England. Nay, 'tis even whispered that Queen Mary hath escaped, and that the northern countries, have, in sooth, commenced an insurrection."

"Aye, and harkee, neighbours all," said a fourth, "only let it go no further, I heard tell in Paul's to-day of a new conspiracy to a.s.sa.s.sinate our good Queen Elizabeth, and set on foot, 'tis said, by L'Aubespine, the French Amba.s.sador. Nay, I can tell thee that a mob hath beset the Frenchman's house, and he hath been ordered to quit the kingdom without delay. Aye, and 'tis said the Queen is much troubled with these things; that she keeps close, and much alone; that she muttereth much to herself, and seems in great tribulation."

"Not much wonder, either," said another, "'Tis certain she is in great terror and perplexity; and if she hesitate much longer to order the execution of the Queen of Scots, the kingdom will be burnt up in an _auto-da-fe_."

As Shakespeare listened to these rumours he still continued to wander on amidst the labyrinth of lanes, alleys, and buildings in which he found himself. Now he progressed through a dense ma.s.s of wooden tenements called Shoe Lane, the streets crooked and narrow, and overshadowed by a perpetual twilight, from the abutments overhead, rising, as we before said, story above story, until they almost closed upon each other. Then, again, he turned down another street, retraced his steps, wandered back through Crow Lane into Gifford Street, and was brought up by the huge black-looking ma.s.s const.i.tuting Old London Wall. Grazing up at the ramparts of this dark boundary, he made his way along the Old Bailey, pa.s.sed through Lud's Gate, and found himself in the large open s.p.a.ce in which stood the then gothic-looking structure of St. Paul's. Here he found a large concourse of people, men, women, and children, leaping, shouting, and holding a sort of revel around a huge bonfire kindled just at the part called Ave Maria, whilst a second rout were collecting in the vicinity of a sort of stage erected opposite the houses named Paternoster Row.

Leaning upon his staff, in the shade of the old gothic building, he gazed upon the scene before him as the chimes rung out from the tower.

He stood apart from that crowd alone, unknowing any, unknown to all, on a spot now covered by the vast building since reared upon those ancient foundations: and, as he stood, he looked upon a scene which called up a.s.sociations no longer likely to be engendered in such locality; for all is gone which could impress the mind with the times in which he himself lived, or with the deeds of a former age.

The edifice itself, at that period, told of monkish intolerance and monastic grandeur; when the knightly and the n.o.ble bowed their necks, and walked bare-headed on the flags beneath, and even kings did penance amongst the mean and miserable at its shrine.

He was amidst the mighty dead--the men of whom he had read in his home at Stratford! The Norman kings, in all the pomp and circ.u.mstance of their feudal pride, had walked upon that spot. Then, again, as he seated himself upon an ancient tomb, his thoughts turned upon his own welfare and prospects, and he began to ask himself, for the first time since his arrival in London, what course he was to pursue? Now that he had reached this aim and end of his journey, what was he in reality the better for it? He knew no one: he had neglected to make inquiries of his own friends as to persons to whom he might have got a recommendation; and money--the best friend of the traveller--he had none. But then, he was in London. "Truly so," he thought to himself. "The more fool for being there, when in the country he was in a better place." And then he thought of home, of wife, children, and other relations, and then his heart softened, and he wept. Yes! there, amidst the bustle of Old Paul's, whilst the Londoners recreated themselves before a sort of moveable stage, on which certain dramatic representations were exhibited to the gaping crowd on one side, and the bonfire raged on the other, and all was uproar and hilarity,--there did Shakespeare sit and weep, "in pure melancholy and troubled brain." At length, overcome with weariness, he leant back against an old tomb, and fell asleep amidst the hubbub.

And, as he slept, came swaggering by, the gay fop--the gallant of the city--the tavern-haunter--the ruffler--and the bully. Then paced by the more staid and sober citizens, "merchants our well-dealing countrymen;"

but they stopped not to glance upon the tired stranger. Then came flaunting along, tempted out by the beauty of the evening, the city madam with her gossip, the merry wives of Chepe; and, as they pa.s.sed, they stopped for a moment to glance upon the well-knit limbs and handsome face of the homeless Shakespeare. They marked his travelled look, his dusty shoes, and his worn doublet, and they felt inclined to arouse him, and ask the cause of that pallid cheek, and his sleeping in the open air at such an hour. But then, a t.i.tter from the rude gallant as he pa.s.sed, sent them forward amidst the throng. Then came the cut-purse, as the shadows deepened, and he stole a furtive glance around the dark old building. But the night was not far enough advanced for him safely to rifle the pockets of the sleeper, or slit his windpipe un.o.bserved; and so Shakespeare slept on amidst the throng. Quietly, sweetly did he slumber, until, as night approached, the crowd gradually dispersed, the stage disappeared, and all deepened down. Soundly, heavily, slept that wonderful man amidst scenes which he was ere long to render famous in all time. One touch of his pen was to picture Old Paul's and Lud's Town, as no other could picture them. He was to revel in these scenes amidst which he now unconsciously slumbered, so as no mortal ever revelled before. He was to call up those bright kings, and all the glittering host, and shew them in harness, as they had lived, and to render all that would else have been unknown in Old London--a dream of delight. Nay, those even who dwelt hard by in East Cheap, knew not East Cheap; and London itself was to have an interest lent to it, such as the dwellers in it at that moment little thought of. And so Shakespeare slept the sleep of weariness--of "weariness which snores upon the flint."

By-and-by, an old poor man, clad in sc.r.a.ps and tatters, "his whole apparel built upon pins," his ragged beard descending to his waist, and carrying a filthy wallet on his back, as he poked about, and picked up bones in the churchyard, came and looked upon him, and after a few moments' contemplation, stirred him with the end of his staff and awoke him. "Best not sleep here so late, young master," he said; "'tis unsafe."

Shakespeare rubbed his eyes, stared at the crooked object before him, and thanked him for the caution. "I have," he said, "no cause for fear, since I have nothing to lose. Nevertheless, I thank thee."

"Nothing to fear!" said the tatterdemalion, "nothing to lose! What call ye nothing? Have ye not life to lose? Have ye not clothes? By my troth!

there be those haunting Paul's at night, young man, that will take the one for the sake of the other, and so rob ye of both."

"Both are valueless, or at least worth little," said Shakespeare, smiling. "Hark, the chimes! how sweetly they sound."

"Sweeter to those who hear them in a good bed," said the man. "They are the midnight chimes! wherefore dost thou not seek thy home, young master?"

"I should seek that which I should hardly find," said Shakespeare. "I have no home, good friend, at least, not in London."

"Neither home nor coin?" said the aged man.

"Neither one nor the other," returned Shakespeare; "and but a few hours old in London."

"But you've friends here?" inquired the old man.

"Poor in that as in all else," returned Shakespeare.

"Wilt come with me?" said the old man; "I can find thee a roof for one night, perhaps food too."

"I almost die for food," said Shakespeare; "and thankfully follow thee."

And so the tatterdemalion led the way from St. Paul's, and Shakespeare followed him.

Through dark alleys and curious thoroughfares did that lean old man thread his way, ever and anon, as he trampled along and turned the corner of some fresh street, stopping for a moment to observe if his follower took the right turn, where so many closes, alleys, and courts existed; for as they made their way to the water-side, he occasionally came amongst houses so thickly and irregularly placed, that, by night, he himself could scarcely thread the labyrinth. Pa.s.sing through Dowe-gate, Bush-lane, and Pudynge-lane, he at last stopped before a house in Bylyngsgate. The tenement before which the old man stopped would have been termed in our own days but a shed, since, seen from the street, it apparently consisted but of one large bay window, thrust out from a square wooden building, a large brick chimney sprouting out in rear.

On opening the door, which was situated within a sort of blind alley on one side, the proprietor of the domicile signed to his guest to follow, and entered the one apartment, which indeed const.i.tuted the entire dwelling.

Not only was it the parlour, kitchen, and sleeping-apartment of the occupants, but, as the guest glanced around it, he observed, by the light of a lamp placed on a table near the window, that it was fitted up as a sort of laboratory; and its walls being accommodated with shelves, were crowded with vials, gallipots, and vessels of antique formation, containing precious unguents, filters, and compounds, perhaps in the present day no longer to be found in the Pharmacopoeia. In addition to this, there was also means for experimentalising in the deep science of alchemy,--all which was apparent from the crucibles, retorts, and other vessels scattered around the hearth. Such as the apartment was, the needy-looking hollow-eyed proprietor, and who, Shakespeare surmised was a medical pract.i.tioner of that squalid neighbourhood, welcomed his guest to his poor dwelling; and with an alacrity which was hardly to be expected from his appearance, placed wine and refreshment before him; and then opening an ample closet at the further end of the apartment, shewed him a mattress on which he could repose for the night.

"I have little to offer, young master," he said; "and seldom offer that little. But I saw that in your face which interested me as you slept.

You reminded me of a bright youth, my hope in better days, my only son, long since dead; and as I watched thy countenance, I read a bright fortune in store for thee."

And Shakespeare wrung the hand of that old man, so needy-looking and pinched, and slept without fear under his roof, in the then dangerous locality of Bylyngsgate, and where perhaps he might never again awake alive.

CHAPTER XL.

THE POOR PLAYER.

On the morning which followed the events narrated in the foregoing chapter, the traveller took leave of the exceedingly poor but kind old man who had so hospitably sheltered him. He thanked him for his goodness, and bestowed upon him a small ring, which he took from his finger, the only trifle of value in his possession. And that old host attended his guest to the door, and bestowed his blessing upon him, and followed him with his eyes as he wended his way along the narrow thoroughfare, and then still stood and looked in the direction he had gone long after he was out of sight. And then he turned with a sigh and re-entered his dwelling. "All, well-a-day," he said, "we may grub on in misery for years and years, and forget the goodly beings we have known in youth and happiness, outliving all that we loved and honoured in the world, and still amidst the contaminating filth of poverty and woe pa.s.s our weary lives, and then some superior specimen of goodness and grace as suddenly revives in our recollection of the beings we have seen in bygone times. What would I give, an I were amongst the crowned monarchs of the world, to have yonder youth to companion me? To hear his words, as I have this morning heard them? to see him as I have seen him but now, within this lowly hovel?" And then the old man took the platter from which his guest had eaten, and washed it and put it aside, and set back the three-legged stool on which Shakespeare had sat, and then he wept as he said to himself, "An if I look not upon him again, I will keep these as relics, never to be used by others, for, G.o.d forgive me, but I think, as I recollect his words, that yonder man was something more than mortal." And then the old man examined the gold ring his guest presented him with, and as he did so, he gradually approached the crucible upon the fire, and again he looked upon the gift, and, hesitating for a moment as his eye fell upon the crucible, he sighed and dropped the ring into it.

It is evening, and the sun s.h.i.+nes upon the banks of the Thames on the Surrey side.

The scenic hour oft-times presents to our readers such a picture as we now invite them to look upon. The houses on this side the river are both irregularly placed and situated, as we have before described, namely, standing here and there apart, amidst trees and gardens, and occasionally neighboured by some edifice of a bygone time, and whose build speaks of monastic grandeur and castellated defence.

Looking from the gra.s.sy bank upon the Thames at this part, we behold the stream rus.h.i.+ng impetuously through innumerable arches of a dark heavy-built bridge--a bridge which frowns with towers and turrets of curious form and ancient architecture, and which turrets and towers are graced and garnished with the ghastly heads of criminals and traitors lately executed.

As the red glare of the evening sun falls upon those buildings, it is reflected in the innumerable windows with which they are accommodated, at the same time it displays each "coign of vantage," each grated embrasure, each coping-stone, b.u.t.tress, and battlement of the complicated structure in colours of gold.

The arch and flanking tower, and the iron portcullis and cresset, are all there as if in a heated furnace.

Turning again towards the sh.o.r.e as we stand upon the bank, after pa.s.sing the ancient edifices called Winchester Place, we behold a long row of buildings near the water's edge, and somewhat removed in the open apace behind them, a curiously constructed and somewhat ugly building of a round form. On its top is a small and quaint-looking structure--a sort of "_match-case to a common 'larum bell_"--and the whole surmounted by a flag, on which is written "_The Globe_." A few shrubs and stunted trees are immediately around this building: and the s.p.a.ce beyond that, for about half a bow-shot, is gravelled, and even, in some parts, strewed with fresh rushes recently cut from the river's bank.

Some fifty yards to the left of this is a rival structure, composed of stakes and high palings--a sort of stockade, round which flutter half-a-dozen little markers or flags; and over the gateway which admits into the arena, is written in large characters the words "_The Bull Bayting_."

A little removed from the former of these buildings, stands a hostel of the commoner sort, with its garden in rear, several goodly trees before its porch, and a bowling-green pleasantly shadowed. Benches are before this inn, and also under the trees, and the actors upon the scene are both many and rather uncommon in appearance.

The inn is indeed the haunt of those persons who find employment in the two houses of entertainment we have described. The hangers-on of the Globe Theatre, and the employes of the Bull and Bear-bayting, men of a character and disposition somewhat peculiar. They are indeed, many of them, _sui generis_, something in style and demeanour between the magnifico and the mountebank, and yet amongst them are men of appearance and talent worthy of a better station.