"Oh this will make my mother die of grief."
"Oh this will make my mother die of grief."
The tears would then course one another down his cheek, and he would start up and hurry onwards again. He had no fixed route, but inquired his way from village to town, and from hamlet to city. His good constitution, and out-door habits, made it no hardship to him to pass the night upon the mossed bank in the open air. The cottage afforded him refreshment, and the thin drink of the shepherd from his bottle was oft-times offered in return for a few minutes' conversation upon the wold; the hawthorn bush the shade in which he rested; and thus he proceeded onwards in his flight, purposely deviating from the direct road, as well from inclination as that he felt it likely some search might be made after him either by friends or enemies.
The few coins he had in his pocket when he started were soon expended, and he experienced at times, during his progress, the pangs of hunger without the means of allaying it, and this perhaps was an ordeal Shakespeare was fated to go through. He was destined to feel the "uses of adversity" ere he rose, by his own mighty efforts, above the world. He was to see human nature in all its varieties. To experience the depressing weight of poverty, ere he surmounted his worldly cares, as the lion shakes the dew-drops from his mane. Adversity was to be the finishing school of his studies—nature the book presented. In this school he took his degree, and which all the learning of the ancients, all the pedants of the antique world would have failed in teaching him. Nor was his attention confined to the actions of men as he mingled amongst them. He was the exact surveyor of the inanimate world as he travelled through it, and his descriptions in after-life were grafted from the contemplation of things as they really existed.
To a solitary traveller on foot at this period there was considerable peril. The resolute ruffian, the "resolved villain," who lived by levying contributions on the road, was often to be met with. Nay, even strong parties of travellers were frequently attacked, and robbed, and murdered, 'twixt town and town. Still all unarmed, except the stout staff he carried in his hand, and the small dagger worn at his girdle, and which served to cut up the food he ate, Shakespeare held on his way. The lowly ruffian as he emerged from the thick cover which overhung the road occasionally scowled upon him as he passed, and then let him proceed unquestioned. There was something in the eye, which met his glance, which told the robber of hard blows and desperate resistance, whilst the unfurnished manner in which he travelled promised little in the shape of booty. Once or twice the wayfarer had joined a party of carriers, who, with other travellers in their company, were going the same route, but, as he frequently diverged from the road, he soon lost such companionship and made his way alone, through by-roads and foul ways, and across the dreary wastes and commons, at that period extending occasionally for many miles. It was on the fourth evening of his journey that, having made a long detour from the main road, he again came into it about five miles from Stoney Stratford. The day had been lovely, he had wandered far, and as he laid himself down beneath some huge trees and watched the bright track of the setting sun, he fell into a sound sleep.
'Twas "the middle summer's spring." The bank upon which he lay looked a perfect haunt of the elfin crew, but whether or not, onthisnight, Shakespeare dreamt adream of Midsummer, or whether he dreamt at all, we are unable to say. Whilst he slept, however, he was suddenly awakened by the sound of voices near.
As he opened his eyes, by the moon's light he observed three persons standing a few yards from him. The spot on which he reclined was so shadowed by the overhanging branches and thick with fern that he had himself been undiscovered, and a few moments' observation convinced him that the men he beheld were "squires of the night's booty." Their heavy boots, their soiled doublets, the rusted breast-plates they wore, their slouched hats, and untrimmed beards, altogether indeed convinced him they were thieves.
Whilst he regarded the ill-favoured trio they descended from the overhanging bank into the road, where they were joined by a fourth person, who stole from the covert on the other side, and for some minutes remained in conversation with them. The situation was not without its interest, albeit it was fraught with danger to Shakespeare. He had, indeed, unconsciously intruded himself into the trysting place of a band of robbers, and, as he rose to his feet and removed somewhat behind the tree, he watched them narrowly.
They were evidently laying in wait for passengers, as he more than once observed one of the party throw himself flat upon the road, with his ear to the ground, in order to listen for the tread of hoofs. To remain behind the oak (whose antique root peeped out upon the overhanging bank) would have been dangerous. Still, as he resolved closely to watch these men, he cautiously withdrew into the deeper cover of the trees. As he did so his head struck against some obstacle pendant from one of the boughs, and, as he raised his eyes, he beheld the dead body of a man suspended, a ghastly object thus seen in the gloom, and which sufficiently shewed the evil nature of the neighbourhood. He had, in fact, reached a spot called the "Crooked Wood," a part of the road at that period famous for robbery and murder, and the bodies of several malefactors were hungin terrorem.
Shuddering at the sight, he withdrew from the vicinity of this object, which swinging backwards and forwards looked yet more horrible in the deep gloom. The next moment he heard the distant sound of hoofs upon the rood, and at the same time observed the figures beneath drawing cautiously off on either hand, concealing themselves completely in the deep shadows, one only remaining prostrate in the very middle of the highway. Although the horsemen approached rapidly, it was some time ere they neared the spot; now the clatter of hoofs appearing close at hand, and then (as some turn in the road intervened) again for some moments totally lost to the ear.
At length they advanced down the hill which led immediately into this dark defile. Two horsemen he distinguished; the foremost immediately reined up his horse, and signed to his companion to do the same. The heart of Shakespeare beat quickly as he observed one of the travellers dismount and stoop down to render assistance to the prostrate form before him. As he did so the robber suddenly grasped the traveller by the throat and pulled him down, at the same moment his three companions darted like lightning from either side of the road; whilst two assailed the horseman, the third aided their comrade to despatch the traveller who had been entrapped.
The struggle was desperate: the mounted cavalier had in an instant unsheathed his long rapier, and manfully defended himself; and the woods around rang to the blows of the combatants. Meanwhile the prostrate traveller, whose horse had galloped off at the commencement of the fray, was also in an unpleasant plight. This latter, being a powerful man, had more than once heaved himself up by main force, and nearly cleared himself from his adversaries. But, with heavy blows and desperate exertions, they at length succeeded in pinning him down. In an instant, however, the fallen man succeeded in drawing a pistol from his belt, and discharged it into the body of one of his opponents.
All this happened in as short a time as it has taken the reader to peruse it. Life and death, in such deadly conflict, in taken and received by the combatants like the lightning's flash; and, albeit the travellers straggled manfully, yet a very few minutes sufficed to tell against the leaser party. The horseman was on the point of being dragged from his saddle, and his fellow-traveller was growing exhausted with the violence of action. At that moment, however, a heavy blow fractured the skull of the ruffian who hold the bridle-rein of the rearing steed, and as the new combatant afterwards opposed himself to the robber, who had by this time succeeded in bringing the rider to the ground, after a short and rapid combat, the latter turned and fled.
This turned the tide of battle instantaneously in favour of the travellers, and as in oft-times the case in such conflicts, it ended in the same rapid manner in which it had commenced. The travellers stood panting with their recent exertions, and whilst three bodies lay before them in the road, thou: deliverer, leaning upon his heavy quarter-staff, stood regarding one of them with curious eye.
Meantime, after the person, who seemed by his appearance the principal of the travellers, had somewhat recovered himself, he stepped up to the hero of the quarter-staff, and poured forth his thanks for the service rendered.
"We are indebted to you for no less than our lives," he said, "and would fain repay the obligation by something more acceptable than thanks."
The moon was at the moment hidden, but as Shakespeare caught a nearer view of the features of the speaker, he plucked his own hat over his brow, and withdrew still further into the shadow of the trees. At the same time he courteously refused all requital for the aid he had rendered.
"Can we do nothing to requite this favour?" said the taller Cavalier.
"You can," said Shakespeare, "since, if I guess aright, your name is Arderne, and you go towards Stratford-upon-Avon."
"Such is my name," said the traveller. "How can I serve you?"
"By giving this token," said Shakespeare, tearing a leaf from a small tablet he earned in his breast, and writing a few words on it.
"No more?" inquired the traveller, endeavouring to get a better view of the speaker.
"Tell those to whom you give the token," said Shakespeare, "that he who sends it is in life and health—no more."
"But will you not bear us company?" said Arderne. "This place seems dangerous, and alone you may be met by others of the gang."
"'Tis no matter," said Shakespeare; "I cannot consort with thee. Our paths to-night, as through life, lie in different directions. Farewell!" and hastily darting off, he was quickly lost in the gloom.
"Strange," said Walter Arderne, as he glanced closely at the small slip of paper in his hand, and which the moon's light now gave him an opportunity of reading. "Ah! this paper is directed to the wool-comber in Henley Street. Methought I knew the voice. 'Twas then William Shakespeare who so opportunely befriended us."
So much was Arderne surprised at this meeting, that he would fain have followed Shakespeare, but his companion dissuaded him.
"The man is gone suddenly as he came," said he, "and we are not wise to remain longer in this place. Come," he continued, as Walter remained looking in the direction his sometime friend had taken, "let us on, and endeavour to catch our horses. We may be met again in this dark pass, and, by my fay, it is not every night in the week a man meets with a—let me see—How called ye this friend in need?"
"Shakespeare," said Arderne, whilst he still lingered in the hope of catching another glimpse of his deliverer—"William Shakespeare."
"Ah, Shakespeare!" said the blunt Fluellyn, sheathing his rapier. "Truly so; but come on, a' God's name, I say; for 'tis not every wood at midnight that can produce a Shakespeare."
Our scene shifts now from the pleasant fields and sylvan retreats in which we have so long lingered, and changes to the great metropolis of England—London, in the olden time—a vastly different place, as our readers are doubtless well aware, both in size and aspect, from the same metropolis of the present day; since three parts of that which is now crowded with houses, intersected with streets and squares, and crammed with an overwhelming population, was then the haunt of the deer, the form of the hare, the park, the thicket, and the chace.
It is curious to imagine the appearance of this metropolis in Elizabeth's day. Its peculiar houses, with their sloping roofs and beetling stories, its narrow thoroughfares, and the variety of antique buildings, which still remained to tell the tale of former reigns, altogether producing a picturesque and beautiful effect, such as our readers have doubtless often dwelt on with pleasure in the old paintings of the time. Added also to the peculiar architectural beauty of that day, many of the better sort of edifices being detached, surrounded with tall trees, and standing within the rounding of their own gardens, presented a delicious and bowery appearance ere the very interior of the city was reached. The silver Thames, too, at this period, still flowed for the most part through green banks, until its tide passed the dark gates of the Tower, when for a small space the buildings were reared one upon another, as if they had apparently been thrust forward from the more crowded parts, and only hindered from toppling into the stream by the piles and heavy timbers of the crushed-up cabins underneath.
Thus the whole together, seen from the water, with their diamond-paned bay-windows encroaching over the stream, looked like the bulk-heads of innumerable vessels crammed and cast in confusion along the margin of the river.
After passing this crowded mass, however, and which, in Elizabeth's reign, stretched out for a short distance, the eye of the passenger was again relieved by edifices both of a noble appearance, and by no means stinted to space, the banks even at this part of the river occasionally displaying a verdant appearance, and such buildings standing in their own proper grounds. For instance, the very important hostel of the Three Cranes, with its porch, its huge chimneys, and its ample rooms, was reared upon the grassy bank, its deep bay-windows looking out upon the stream. The frowning towers and dark water-gate of Barnard's Castle next appeared. Then came the ominous-looking tower of Bridewell. A few strokes of the oar, and the pleasant gardens of the White Friars met the eye. Then came the Temple Gardens, and after them the pile of buildings, with battlement and strong tower, called the Sanoye; after that, amongst many other important edifices, were to be seen the castellated towers of Duresme Place, York Place, the Courts, the Starre Chamber, Westminster Hall, with a sort of pier running out from the open court in front, and the Parliament House; then came the huge Abbey of Westminster, not as now, choked up by encroaching squalor, but standing in its magnificence in the midst of verdant meadows; and lastly came the Queen's Bridge.
On the Surrey side, the aspect of the Thames and its banks would have yet more surprised a modern eye, since there the wind still sighed amongst the reeds and long grass of centuries. On Lambeth Marsh stood the palace and church, together with some two dozen straggling edifices. But the Oxen's low was heard along the whole of that over-crowded part, so well known to the Londoner of the present day, and now so teeming with a squalid and overwhelming population. All along the banks on this side, trees and gardens, with an occasional row of houses, a goodly edifice, or a countryfied hostel were to be seen until the passenger came to Winchester Place, St. Mary Over, and London Bridge, with the gate-houses, towers, and multitudinous buildings, built all along it. Nay, the spectator, standing upon the top of one of the towers of the bridge and looking beyond the great blackened wall of Old London, beheld a large tract called the Spital Fyelds, in which the sheep fed beneath the shade of tall trees. Bishopgate Street, too, with its one long straggling thoroughfare, seemed a trifling village. In Finsburie Fyeld stood the windmill, and the kennel for hounds. Clerkenwell seemed but a single church with its surrounding wall. Gray's Inn Lane appeared a remote thoroughfare, leading to the open country, and Broad St. Jiles was a trifling village; whilst in Convent Garden, then completely surrounded by a high and massive wall, stood a single edifice—the Convent, from which it took its name, and beyond it green meadows studded with trees.
Such, then, were the environs of London, at the period of which we write. Its interior we shall perhaps again have occasion to speak of during the progress of our story.
It was on the afternoon of the fifth day from his leaving Stratford-upon-Avon, that William Shakespeare, standing upon Hampstead Hill, looked upon London for the first time. The spot on which he stood (albeit it has now, like others we have mentioned, become one vast region of brick and mortar) was then studded with oaks, which had perhaps witnessed the gathering of the knightly and the noble for the Crusades. Immediately on his right, was the massive buttressed wall, inclosing the grounds of a half castellated and moated residence, a country seat of the Earl of Southampton.
As Shakespeare stood thus and gazed down upon the metropolis, he beheld many of those time-honoured edifices, yet remaining, which he had read of whilst studying the history of his native land.
Long did the future poet gaze upon the scene before him, and the setting sun was pouring down his softened glories, and bathing tower, and steeple, and wall, in a flood of molten gold, as he entered the suburbs. Suburbs which the traveller of the present day would have likened more to a row of hucksters' shops, or temporary buildings run up for a fair, than the outskirts of a great city.
Far as the eye could reach were to be seen those pent-house stalls, which, projecting into the highways, displayed the different articles of the different trades and occupations of the indwellers, and which being relieved by innumerable signs, tubs, long benches, stalls, smiths' 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 passed, 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 passage, arrested him.
These matters caused Shakespeare ever and anon to stop and consider curiously, and, as he gazed around, the continual passers 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, passed on towards the court-end of the town, talking loud, swearing gallantly, and even singing snatches 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 brushing 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 anticipation 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 Sussex 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 assassinate our good Queen Elizabeth, and set on foot, 'tis said, by L'Aubespine, the French Ambassador. 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 anauto-da-fé."
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 mass 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 mass constituting Old London Wall. Grazing up at the ramparts of this dark boundary, he made his way along the Old Bailey, passed through Lud's Gate, and found himself in the large open space 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 associations 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 noble 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 circumstance 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 passed, 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 titter from the rude gallant as he passed, 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 unobserved; 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 scraps 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. Passing 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 constituted 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 Pharmacopœia. 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 practitioner 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.
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 pass 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, God 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 shines 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 grassy bank upon the Thames at this part, we behold the stream rushing 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, buttress, 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 shore as we stand upon the bank, after passing 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 space 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 employés 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.
As they congregate about this rallying-point, they seem the very genii of idleness; and, in their listless indifference, above the doings and events of this work-a-day world.
Here a fellow, with his beaver cocked, and swaggering gait, throws out his arm, in order to display a cloak of three-piled velvet, whilst his toes are seen peeping from the foot of an ample russet boot. There a comrade, evidently "a horse of the same colour," an "affected fantastico," points a toe in attitude, twists a moustache with a grace, plays off a gauntlet with a flourish, and struts "like chanticleer i' the sun." These are the magnificoes of the walk. Then come a crowd of under-strappers, whose vocation is in their very look, who even play their parts hourly, andlivein character—either aping the grandee, the gallant, the swaggerer, or the lisping idiotic driveller; the clowns and jesters making up the file.
Each speaks with an accompanying gesture, and walks with a circumstance. Some have a sort of sad hilarity, and utter dull jokes with a grave brow, or laughin a sort. They even wear a ceremonious observance towards each other, and look upon the world in general in an inferior light. The free-masonry of bombast is rife amongst the fellowship. If one hands the tankard to his fellow, standing with mine host beneath the porch, he does so with a flourish, and receives it again cross-handed. In short, as they are seen congregated about their haunt, or place of call, they seem uninterested in the common-place events of the world as other men. Their ideas are inflated and dreamy; their world, their kingdom, is their theatre, and their lives felt to be but passed whilst they strut their hour before the admiring throng. "The best actors in the world, either for scene individable, or poem unlimited." "Seneca could not be too heavy, nor Plautus too light for them." Whilst these characters walk and talk, flourish and attitudinize, a trumpet sounds from the roof of the round building first described, at which some amongst them seem to start like the war-horse aroused; others pay their shot to mine host; others again wave a hand gracefully to the buxom landlady at the latticed window; and all take their way to the theatre. They are indeed summoned to prepare for the scenic hour, to rehearse their parts—such as those parts are.
Amongst these men there were, as we have hinted, some individuals of a superior stamp, men of high attainments, considering the period in which they lived, and who, finding no vent for the talents they were in possession of, passed their hours amongst the choice spirits of the Globe.
There was a romance in the lives of some of these latter, in keeping with their appearance; and one or two had attempted a higher flight, and endeavoured to improve the style of dramatic composition. Nor had they altogether failed, for many dramas had been written by them possessing real and absolute excellence.
Scarce half-an-hour had elapsed after the trumpet sounded from the Globe, when a man passed through the various portals upon London Bridge; and, as chance directed, turning to the left upon the Surrey side of the river, quickly took his way amongst the ancient buildings then lining the bank.
Wearied and faint from lack of food—for he had been all day wandering through the streets of London,—he stopped beside the Norman structure, built during the crusades by William Pont de l'Arche, and called St-Mary Ouer.
The curious in antiquities will, we fear, look in vain for any vestige of this remnant of the early English, which nevertheless, in Elizabeth's day, with its church and monastery, extended down to the very edge of the Thames.
Leaning upon his staff, undecided in which direction to turn his steps, Shakespeare stopped beside the dark walls of this ancient edifice; and, after gazing upon the building with interest for some moments, entered the porch of the old monastery.
Whilst he remained there, several cavaliers on horseback rode past—gay youths, tricked out in all the extravagance of that age of extravagant costume; their loud laughter, and joyous converse, as they careered along, shewing that their spirits were gay as their habits. They came from the bridge over which he himself had just crossed, and took their way along the massive wall then skirting the antique buildings of Winchester Place.
Whilst Shakespeare continued to remark the several parties occasionally passing, he also observed that boats, containing companies of ladies, also put into a small landing-place near at hand; and these latter parties took the same direction the horsemen had gone.
The beauty of the evening, the fresh air from the river, the monastic grandeur of the old buildings, and the cheerful appearance of the various companies he at the moment beheld, somewhat revived his drooping spirits. He felt it impossible to be quite unhappy, whilst all around was gay, and the scene so lovely.
Listlessly he continued to watch the various boats; and as the parties disembarked and passed on, in their thoughtless hilarity, he arose, and bent his steps in the same direction.
He passed through the open field along that strong buttressed wall, then inclosing Winchester Place; and a few paces brought him to the close vicinity of a building, around which several persons at that moment were congregated—the Globe Theatre. The place and scene altogether interested him, and again he stopped to observe the throng, and which, as it altogether presented a somewhat singular appearance, we shall ourselves stop with him to observe.
The entrance of the building was accommodated with benches on either side, on which were seated various of the hangers-on of the establishment, and one or two of the actors, waiting for their call. Amongst those, a couple of clowns or fools were conspicuous; and as they uttered their witticisms, and performed divers tricks, for the amusement of themselves and their companions, they collected an audience without, which frequently recruited those within—cracking their jokes, and familiarizing themselves with the various companies as they came up. These were, indeed, the all-licensed fools of the time, and without whose presence and aid no performance was considered perfect; they bore off, in some sort, the tedium of the long dialogue then in vogue.
Whilst Shakespeare stood to regard the scene before him, the flourish of drum and trumpet within the building recalled those motley-minded gentry and their companions to their various duties; and at the same moment a gay party of mounted cavaliers approached, dismounted, and entered.
Still that tired stranger, as he stood beside the portals of the theatre, continued to feel an interest in all that was going on there. The merry glance of the citizen's wife, as she passed in,—the answering look of the gallant as he followed,—the gay and flaunting party from the Court-end of the town,—the loud laugh, the sharp rebuke, the coarse jest, the retort courteous, and the counter-check quarrelsome,—all were there.
By-and-by a couple of cavaliers, splendidly mounted and magnificently apparelled, came galloping up. They dismounted at the door, and the one nearest Shakespeare threw the rein of his steed to him, and desired him to hold the horse, at the same moment thrusting a silver coin into the youth's hand. His companion meanwhile had confided his charger to the care of one of the employés of the theatre, and the next moment both these gallants were within the Globe. They had passed so quickly, that Shakespeare found himself in possession of the coin and the steed, ere he had time fully to observe the person of the cavalier who had favoured him with his custody.
As he looked at the money, a slight blush tinged his cheek, but he repressed the feeling of shame which at first intruded itself, as he reflected the money was honestly come by. He then looked more curiously upon the noble animal intrusted to his charge.
Passionately fond of a horse, like most men bred and born in the country, he examined its points with interest. It was in truth a noble animal, answering in every point the description he has himself given of a perfect courser:
"Round hoofed, short-pointed, fetlocks shag and long,Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,High chest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong,Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide.Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack."
"Round hoofed, short-pointed, fetlocks shag and long,Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,High chest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong,Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide.Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack."
Pulling the arched neck of the noble steed, he then led him towards the man holding its fellow.
"Know you the owner of this goodly horse?" he inquired.
The man was evidently a sort of character, a swaggerer who wished to pass for a gentleman and a soldier, albeit his elbows were ragged, and his whole dress patched and furbished up.
"Know I Master Edmund Spencer?" he said, looking contemptuously upon Shakespeare. "Where canst thou have lived, boy, to ask the question. Best inquire me next for the rider ofthisnag, Sir Walter Raleigh. Thou knowest not the choice spirits of the Court. Ergo, thou art strange to the town."
"I am, in sooth, a stranger to the town," said Shakespeare; "but a few hours old in it."
"And from whence?" inquired the other.
"From Warwickshire," returned Shakespeare.
"The county I know," returned the other; "my grandsire was of Warwick, eke also. Hast coin in pouch, camarado mine?"
"I have," said Shakespeare, producing the silver piece given him by Spenser the moment before.
"Ha!" said the other, "then will we adventure to yonder hostel in search of liquor and food wherewith to repair ourselves, for sooth to say thou lookest both pale and hungry. Come ye of the Ardens of Warwickshire?"
"One way I do," said Shakespeare. "But Arden is not my name. Call me William."
"'Tis no matter," said the other; "thou art a proper fellow of thy hands, and I have taken a fancy for thy companionship. Lead on thy steed good William; a cup of Canary and a toast will cheer thee."
And thus did Shakespeare make a friend and procure the refreshments he so much required, and with the poor player sitting beside him on the bench, whilst they held the horses beneath the tree, under the influence of "the good familiar creature, wine," he unbosomed himself to this new comrade.
"I will befriend thee in all I can," said the player, and who in truth, being but a sorry stick, was himself rarely employed, "I will myself advocate thy fortunes, good rustic," he continued. "I do spy in thy face and figure marvellous proper attributes for certain parts, for the which we are in want of actors. Ah, by Apollo! thou hast the limbs, and thews, and form, to captivate the fancy of ladies fair."
The general aspect of London in the reign of Elizabeth is so singular when contrasted with the same great metropolis of our own day, that we must again refer to it.
The houses in the heart of the city, like those in the suburbs, were still chiefly built of wood, or of wood and brick; the poverty of their appearance being the more apparent from their being, ever and anon, relieved by the stately and massive building of former days. The dark monastery, the massive wall, or the castellated edifice, were constantly to be seen amidst streets so crooked and narrow, and so dismal from the abutments overhead, that foreigners, as they threaded their way, and amidst damp and wind, are said to have likened London to the vale of death. In wet weather the streets were especially dismal, and so prevalent were consumption and pestilence that bonfires were oft-times kindled in order to purify the air and avert the plague. Nay, even kites and ravens were to be seen hopping about the various thoroughfares, being kept by many inhabitants for the purpose of devouring the filth.
Nothing, indeed, could well exceed the contrast during Elizabeth's reign between the splendid, though somewhat barbaresque, magnificence of the mansions of the nobles and gentry, and the houses of the commoner sort of people. Yet still, although the houses of the citizens were for the most part poor and ill-contrived, yet every now and then would be found amongst them, the dwelling of some richer trader which broke the uniformity of the general mass; such edifice having a quantity of gable ends at all heights and in all directions, with chimneys of fantastic shape and profuse ornament, and covered with decorations; the multitudinous frames in its windows completed the picture.
These were the dwellings of some of the merchant-princes of the town, whose strongly-barred and iron-studded doors showed that where wealth was to be found defence was necessary against the lawless spirits roaming through the dark thoroughfares at hand.
Another contrast to the filthy, unpaved, and uncared-for state of the streets and thoroughfares at this period, was the costly style in which many of the houses were ornamented on any occasion of rejoicing or pageantry. At such times every window and pent-house was garnished with banners and strips of tapestry, or hung with rich fragments of velvet, damask, or silk, whilst the city functionaries and the various companies "in robe and furred gown," and attended by a host of proper fellows, apparelled in silk and chain of gold, contributed to make up the show.
On the morning which followed the night Shakespeare made acquaintance with the poor player he awoke in a small, low roofed apartment in the upper floor of the hostel of the Globe. He felt himself considerably refreshed, and rising from his truckle bed he threw open the window and looked forth upon the well wooded hills of Surrey, It was a pleasant picture at that time, and the inn itself, being of considerable size, presented a stirring and bustling scene. Immediately beneath him was the ample stable-yard, with long rows of out-buildings and sheds appropriated to the varieties of cattle usually driven from the country on certain days of the week, the horses of the carriers being on one side, and the stabling for those of travellers of a better sort on the other. Then there were other buildings appropriate to the large quantities of poultry which it was customary at this period to rear, besides the ample dove-cot, which stood beyond the bowery garden, and which harboured such flights of pigeons that their rush through the air was heard at considerable distance as they wheeled and circled about.
"Tired nature's great restorer, balmy sleep," had laid so heavily upon the wanderer that it was somewhat late when he awoke, and the bustle in the inn-yard below proclaimed that the business of the day had commenced.
Returning from the window he sat himself down on the bed to consider his prospects. After awhile he took from an inside pocket of his doublet a small roll of paper. It was an unfinished poem, "the first heir of his invention," and which he had carefully preserved and brought with him, intending to finish and, if possible, get it into print at some future opportunity.
The composition seemed to please him, for his countenance brightened as he read it, and he quickly lost all thought of self in the thoughts conjured up. Taking out his tablets, for pen and ink were articles not so readily found at hand as in our own times, as he gazed upon the well-wooded hills in the distance "burnished with the morning sun," he added the following stanza to his poem—