THE BOAR'S HEAD IN EAST CHEAP.
Whilst London, and indeed all England, was thus aroused by this sound of
deadly preparation, a gay and jovial party sat carousing in one of the
apartments of an antique tavern in East Cheap.
They sat around a huge table situated in the centre of the apartment,
and which was indifferently well furnished with savoury viands and
generous wines; and a single glance sufficed to proclaim them the choice
spirits of the tavern. Daring, reckless blades, companions who daffed
the world aside, men heeding nothing, caring for nothing, dreading
nothing, and to whom the spirit of the times was peculiarly delightful.
They loved action, those revellers. Their lives were made up of the
false fleeting excitement of some four hours' exhibition before the
flickey foot-lights of a theatre. They were indeed actors all, but their
vocation was over for the time amidst the excitement of the coming war.
And as they sat at supper at one of their old haunts, the Boar's Head in
East Cheap, they aroused the neighbourhood with their revelry. Amongst
them, however, was one whose voice in an instant caused attention. When
he spoke their clamour ceased, and whilst some envied, others wondered
at, and one or two even disliked (for amongst men of this sort there is
ever a something of jealousy) all listened to and sought to catch his
slightest remark. Nor was it at all surprising that such should be the
case, for this man, who had joined their company, and become an actor
about a couple of years before, had made an extraordinary impression
upon them all. He had come amongst them a stranger, a fugitive, and in
distress. He had taken the meanest, the most subordinate parts in the
dramatic representations then performing; but his words, appearance, and
manners had been instantly recognized as something uncommon.
Amongst those men, and whom he had accidentally, and as if by a sort of
fate, at once fallen in with, were some who read character deeply and
instantly, who caught peculiarities and appreciated talent at a glance.
Such then is the association in which we again, after a brief interval
look upon Shakespeare. The actor's of Elizabeth's day--a jovial racy
set--men who could play the parts assigned them in the inn yard, or with
the hawthorn-bush for a scene, and trust to their own good acting and
energy to keep their audience amused.
And these men had Shakespeare astonished by the genius and talents he
possessed, whilst his conversation displayed the wildest sallies of
fancy, the most brilliant wit, and the utmost depth of observation. In
fact, he had become their oracle, their adviser, their leader. He had
already altered and improved some of the rude scenes of their dramas,
shewn them how to put them effectively upon the stage, taught them to
suit the action to the word, and in short shewn a taste and genius for
the profession that at once astonished and delighted all.
To many it will doubtless appear strange and startling thus to mark
Shakespeare down to a period of our island history, which for stirring
import had never been exceeded, to find him thus, with his companions of
the theatre, on the eve of so terrific an encounter as was then about to
take place "between two mighty monarchies," to behold him a living,
breathing man, at a moment when all England was aroused to beat off the
invader from her shores, or fall and perish miserably beneath the yoke.
The feeling of the thousands then in arms was as of one man; not an
islander stood enranked with iron upon his breast, but owned a heart as
brave and true as the weapon by his side; nay, every right arm felt a
limb of steel, and each fist, as it grasped the rapier's hilt, was ready
to rain its storm of blows upon the crests of the overweening Spaniard,
and smite him dead upon the earth he came to invade. And such will it
always be in "this sceptered isle."
'Twas a picturesque-looking party that assemblage in the old room of the
tavern in East Cheap. The chimes, sounding from the tower of St. Paul's,
proclaimed the hour of midnight through an open casement which admitted
the fresh and balmy breeze of May. In different parts of the room were
to be seen portions of the arms and armour the wearers had cast aside
when they sat down to their carouse,--the heavy rapier, the cuirass, the
helmet, and the plumed hat are thrown carelessly into corners, whilst
the story, the biting jest, and the song is heard:--
"And let me the canakin, clink, clink, clink,
And let me the canakin clink,
A soldier's a man, and life's but a span,
Why then let a soldier drink."
We have said that Shakespeare had obtained an influence amongst the men
with whom he had become associated, and the present circumstance of this
tavern meeting shews it,--"that tiger's heart wrapped in a player's
hide, had stirred them up to join him in the present enterprise." The
players have turned soldiers, and are about to seek service amongst the
troops embarking with Drake, Hawkins, and Frobisher. With the dawn they
are to take boat, and drop down towards Tilbury Fort, where the Queen in
person is to inspect her troops; and this night they hold perhaps their
last revel in one of their old haunts, this night perhaps they drain
their last cup in old London.
Fast and furious grows the revel. The spirit of the time lends its charm
to men so easily excited, so "of imagination all compact." They drink
deep to the healths of the bold spirits of the day. To Lord Howard of
Effingham, who commands upon the seas; to the Earl Leicester, who
defends the capital at Tilbury; to Lord Seymour; to Lord Hunsdon; to the
Queen,--
"Cup her till the world go round."
And then that _one man's_ voice is heard, as he rises and drains his
glass, and his tongue gives utterance to words which still more fire the
hearts of his hearers. For he speaks of his native land:
"That England hedged in with the main,
That water-walled bulwark, still secure
And confident from foreign purposes.
England, that never did, nor ever shall
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
Unless she first doth help to wound herself."
And now, as the breaking dawn sheds a faint and pale light upon tower,
and church, and lofty roof, gradually redeeming the narrow and
overshadowed streets from the gloom of night, the sounds of bustle are
heard around. Then comes the rattle and roll of drum, the blast of horn,
and the quick tramp of armed men. Up Fish-street Hill, down St. Magnus
Corner, rattles and reverberates the rolling sheepskin; now it sounds
dead and dull beneath the caves and penthouses of St. Margarit's and
Pudding Lane; and now it beats loud and shrill as it emerges into Chepe,
whilst Aldgate, and Houndsditch, and Hog Lane, and Tower Street, and
Cornhill, and Budge Row, also are filled with replications of the
clamour.
As the tongue of war thus suddenly startles the ears of the revellers,
they start from their seats, and hastily resume the defensive armour. A
few minutes more and East Cheap seems filled with men, and all the
crafts of London to have turned out and put themselves in arms. Then
comes the short quick word of command, the halt and front, the trail of
the puissant pike, and the ringing noise of caliver upon the hard
ground.
Then, as the Golden Cheap, as it was called, displays its rich treasures
from each window, its cloth of gold and silver, and velvets of various
hue, its arras and rich carpetings and silk, and, more than all, its
comely wives and the handsome daughters of the wealthy burghers standing
at the casements they have thus adorned,--then on come the levies
destined for the defence of the coast, or about to embark in various
ships, lying in the Thames, and which, passing through the double rank
of the civic battalions, with quick pace and heavy tramp, turn towards
London Bridge.
As these sounds, we say, salute the ears of the revellers, they leave
their flagons, and, hastily selecting their various arms and defensive
armour, call lustily for something substantial else they join the
newly-raised levies. They go forth to the war as to another
revel,--those players. They vow to singe the whiskers of the overweening
Don. And Shakespeare halloos them on.
"Hostess, my breakfast, come,
O, I could wish this tavern were my drum."