THE PLAYER IN HIS LODGING.
All that Shakespeare had lately seen and gone through made considerable
impression upon his mind. In the short period during which the national
convulsion we have described was taking place, it seemed to him that he
had lived whole years.
Those events, and the great men which the stirring times had produced,
seemed indeed to have passed before the poet, for the very purpose of
finishing and perfecting the great mind of the man.
He sat himself down on his return to London, and, as he thought over the
past experience of his life, such a chaos of bright thoughts and
wondrous images presented themselves before and seemed to overflow his
brain, that, at first, it seemed utterly impossible to turn them to
shape.
Already had his "muse of fire" given him employment at various times,
and even taken a dramatic shape; nay, the room he inhabited was filled
with fragments--unfinished beginnings; and one or two of the novels of
the period had been partially dramatized and then cast aside, after the
inspiration which called them forth had, in other pursuits, been
forgotten.
His avocations as a player had too frequently led him into scenes of
revelry. His way of life was still desultory. He knew not his own value.
And whilst his brilliant wit and companionable qualities had kept him
too much among the society of men in his own class, he had failed to
carry out any of his bright conceptions. His companions hunted him,
haunted him, took him from his own thoughts, and dragged him, even when
satiated with revelry, into more company; for what party was complete
amongst them that had not in it _that one_--that "foremost man of all
the world."
His poetry was beginning to be appreciated ere the national danger had
fully occupied men's minds, and so fully employed them that all else for
the time being was necessarily forgotten. He had written a poem
peculiarly suited to the taste of the age, and which was greatly the
fashion amongst the gay cavaliers of Elizabeth's Court. This he had
dedicated to Lord Southampton, a nobleman, whose acquaintance he had
made on the boards of the theatre. Added to this, some sonnets, which
had almost by accident found their way into circulation (for no man was
more careless or thoughtless of his own works than William Shakespeare)
were greatly admired. Nay, the Queen had been so much struck with one or
two of them, that she had shewn favour to the poet; and spoken words of
encouragement in his ear.
The starched and stately Tudor was indeed becoming extremely fond of
dramatic representations, tedious and ill-contrived as they, for the
most part, were; and now often frequented the theatre, in place of the
bear and bull-baiting arenas. Besides his stage companions, also
Shakespeare had, amongst his acquaintance, at this period of his life,
some of the most brilliant of the courtiers--Sydney and Raleigh, Essex
and Spenser, all were personally known to the gentle Willie. They sought
his society for his wit; and they respected him for his fine feelings,
his noble sentiments, and his universal knowledge. Nay, these great men
felt an internal conviction, whilst in the society of Shakespeare, that
great as they themselves were, this man, of almost unknown origin, was
immeasurably their superior; that, had his station in life been more
elevated and his opportunities greater, he might have risen to the
highest eminence in the State. They saw in him--
"The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword."
The war was now for the present over, and amidst the general excitement
around him, Shakespeare sat himself down to think upon all he had
beheld. The quick result of such confederation our readers will as
quickly imagine. The poet seized his pen,--
"Imagination bodied forth the form of things unknown."
His pen "turned them to shape, and gave to airy nothing a local
habitation and a name."
Scarce had the joyous shouts for the glorious victory over the
invincible Don subsided, ere the poet bad completed one of those
finished productions which left all competition behind. Yet stop we here
for a space in our narrative, even whilst the reader looks upon
Shakespeare thus engaged.
This is indeed a period in the man's life which most of us have sought
for with the mind's eye.
The living Shakespeare, still comparatively unknown, still
disregarded--for, however he might have been appreciated by the very few
who were acquainted with him at this time, the wide and universal
theatre had yet to discover the greatness of the man. The living
Shakespeare, employed in writing that language never equalled, never to
be equalled, deserves somewhat of a pause to look upon. The room, the
house, the chairs, the tables, each and all, require an especial
description. Like his own Iachimo, we must "note the chamber. Such and
such pictures. There the windows. Such the adornment of the bed. The
arras and figures. Why such and such."
Stay, then, gentle reader, if only for a brief space, and look upon the
man--the gentle Shakespeare, as he was denominated amongst his
familiars. He sits in a room, which to all appearance has belonged to a
building of some pretensions in the palmy days of such edifices. The
chamber is large, low in roof, and somewhat gloomy withal. A good-sized
bay window, heavy in mullion, and which looks out upon the silver Thames
beneath, affording a delicious view of the Surrey hills on the opposite
side, gives light to (at least) one-half of the apartment. The morning
sun streams through small diamond panes of many colours, which ornament
the upper part of the casement, and is reflected in fainter hues, like
a fading rainbow upon the oaken floor. The ceiling is richly carved. It
displays the cunning skill of the architects of old. And on the heavy
oaken beam, which traverses it, is cut from end to end the coats of arms
of some city functionary of Old London, for the house (albeit it is now
but partially inhabited by one or two of the actors of the Blackfriars
theatre, and some portion of it even suffered to run to decay) has, in
the preceding reign, belonged to one of the citizen princes--the
merchants of Blackfriars. "The chimney-piece, south of the chamber," is
elaborately carved, with gigantic figures, "exceedingly ugly;" and
tapestry, (albeit it is somewhat faded), displaying pictorial scenes
from scriptural and mythological history, hangs to the wall. One side
has King David dancing before the ark; the other, "Cytherea hid in
sedges."
A massive oaken table stands near the fire-place; a high-backed chair on
either hand, and two more in the embayment of the window; and an antique
cabinet occupies a place directly opposite the chimney.
The house, we have said, is situated on the river bank, and has once
been occupied by a rich merchant, but is now let out in compartments.
You ascend to the chamber which Shakespeare occupies, by a broad carved,
oaken staircase, and advance along a vast passage which has rooms on
either side.
The autumn wind sighs, and soughs, in this old dwelling, as it rushes
through the long passages from the water side. In such room our
Shakespeare sits and writes. Sometime he stops and considers for a
space--thinks, and thinks deeply. Then again his pen glides swiftly over
the paper before him, and he writes like the wind. The table at which he
is seated is but little removed from the embayment of the window, and
his eye, ever and anon, glances out upon the rushing tide, and wanders
over the opposite landscape, then consisting of green meadows and
stunted trees.
As he thus looks out upon the river, he sees boats filled with gay
parties, cloaked and ruffed, and rapiered, attended by other boats,
carrying musicians, who make the air resound with their melody--a gay
and gallant sight, for these are courtiers going to Greenwich, or
Mortlake, or Chelsea, such excursions being common in Elizabeth's day.
As the poet writes, there seems no effort in the composition. His
thoughts flow, for the most part, so easily, that it seems but the
careless noting down of whatever comes uppermost. He writes as his own
Falstaff speaks--as if almost without the trouble of thought. Anon, he
smiles and pauses; then he rises from his high-backed chair, takes a
turn through the room, and gives utterance to the conceit which has
suddenly struck him. The actor predominates over the author at such a
moment, and he recites aloud the recent thought, and which his "often
rumination" upon, the extravagance of action, amongst his associates,
has conjured up.