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 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 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.
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, and _live_ in 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 laugh _in 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 employes 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."
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 of _this_ nag, 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."