year 1603, but nothing so surprising and unexpected as St. Paul's
Cathedral. I had pictured a church narrow, long, somewhat low and dark.
I found, on the other hand, that it was in every respect a most noble
church, longer than any other cathedral I had ever seen, loftier, also,
and well lighted in every part, the style grand and simple. Consider,
therefore, my astonishment at finding the church desecrated and
abandoned like the common streets for the general uses of the people.
The choir alone, where the old screen still stood, was reserved for
purposes of worship, for there was a public thoroughfare through the
transepts and across the church. Men tramped through, carrying baskets
of meat or of bread, sacks of coal, bundles, bags, and parcels of all
kinds, walking as in the streets, turning neither to right nor left.
Hucksters and peddlers not only walked through, but lingered on their
way to sell their wares. Servants stood and sat about a certain pillar
to be hired; scriveners sat about another pillar writing letters for
those who required their services; clergymen in quest of a curacy or
vicarage gathered at another pillar. "Remember the verses," said Stow:
"'Who wants a churchman that can service say,
Read first and faire his monthlie homilie,
And wed and bury and make Christian soules?
Come to the left side alley of St. Paul's.'
"The poor clergymen," he went on, "have fallen upon evil times; there is
not preferment enough for all of them, and many of the country parishes
are too poor to keep a man, even though he live more hardly than a
yeoman.
"This," he added, "is an exchange where almost as much business is done
as at Sir Thomas Gresham's Burse, but of another kind. Here are houses
bought and sold; here is money lent on usury; here are conspiracies
hatched, villanies resolved upon; here is the honor of women bought and
sold; here, if a man wants a handful of desperadoes for the Spanish
Main, he may buy them cheap--look at those men standing by the tomb that
they call Duke Humphrey's."
They were three tall, lean fellows, each with a long rapier and a worn
doublet and a hungry face. Only to look upon them made one think of John
Oxenham and his companions.
"These men should be taking of Panama or Guayaquil," said Stow. "The
time grows too peaceful for such as those. But see, this is Paul's Walk;
this is the Mediterranean."
The long middle aisle was crowded with a throng of men walking to and
fro, some alone, some two or three together. Some of them were
merchants or retailers, some were countrymen looking about them and
crying out for the loftiness of the roof and grandeur of the church. But
many were young gallants, and those were evidently come to show the
splendor of their dress and to mark and follow the newest fashions,
which, like women, they learned from each other.
"These lads," said Stow, again echoing my thoughts, "were also better on
board a stout ship bound for the West Indies than at home spending their
fortunes on their backs, and their time in pranking before the other
gallants. Yet they are young. Folly sits well on the young. In youth we
love a brave show, if only to please the maidens. Let us not, like the
sour preacher, cry out upon a young man because he glorifies his body by
fine raiment. To such a jagg'd and embroidered sleeve is as bad as the
sound of pipe and tabor or the sight of a playhouse. Let them preach.
For all their preaching our gallants will still be fine. It is so long
since I was young that I have well-nigh forgotten the feeling of youth.
It is now their time. For them the fine fashions; for them the feasting;
for them the love-making; for us to look on and to remember. At the
mutability of the fashion we may laugh, for there is no sense in it, but
only folly. To-day the high Alman fashion; to-morrow the Spanish guise;
the day after, the French. See with what an air they walk; head thrown
back, hand on hip, leg advanced. Saw one ever gallants braver or more
splendid? No two alike, but each arrayed in his own fashion as seemeth
him best, though each would have the highest ruff and the longest
rapier. And look at their heads--as many fashions with their hair as
with their cloak and doublet. One is polled short; one has curls;
another, long locks down to his shoulders. And some shave their chins;
some have long beards, and some short beards. Some wear ear-rings, and
have love-locks. Why not, good sir? Bones a' me! Plenty of time to save
and hoard when we grow old. The world and the play of the world belong
to the young. Let them enjoy the good things while they can."
While we were talking in this manner the clock struck the hour of
eleven. Instantly there was a general movement towards the doors, and
before the last stroke had finished ringing and echoing in the roof the
church was empty, save for a few who still lingered and looked at each
other disconsolately.
"It is the dinner-hour," said Stow.
"Then," said I, "lead me to some tavern where we may dine at our ease."
"There are many such taverns close to Paul's," he replied. "The Three
Tuns in Newgate, the Boar's Head by London Stone, the Ship at the
Exchange, the Mermaid in Cornhill, or the Mitre of Chepe. But of late my
dinners have been small things, and I know not, what any town gallant
could tell you, where to go for the best burnt sack or for sound
Rhenish."
"The Mitre, then, on the chance."
This tavern, a gabled house, stood at the end of a passage leading from
Cheapside, near the corner of Bread Street. The long room spread for
dinner was two steps lower than the street, and not too well lighted. A
narrow table ran down the middle; upon it was spread a fair white cloth;
a clean napkin lay for every guest, and a knife. The table was already
filled. Loaves of bread were placed at intervals; they were of various
shapes, round and square; salt was also placed at regular intervals.
When we entered, the company stood up politely till we had found seats.
Then all sat down again.
We took our seats in a corner, whence we could observe the company. Stow
whispered in my ear that this was a shilling ordinary, and one of the
best in London, as was proved by the number of guests. "Your city
gallant," he said, "scents his dinner like a hound, and is never at
fault. We shall dine well."
We did dine well; the boys brought us first roast beef with peas and
buttered beans. "This," said the old man, "is well--everything in
season. At midsummer, beef and beans; at Michaelmas, fresh herrings; at
All Saints, pork and souse, sprats and spurlings; in Lent, parsnips and
leeks, to soften the saltness of the fish; at Easter, veal and bacon, or
at least gammon of bacon, and tansy cake with stained eggs; at
Martinmas, salt beef. Let old customs be still maintained. Methinks we
are back in the days of bluff King Hal. Well, London was ever a city of
plenty. Even the craftsman sits down to his brown-bread and bacon and
his ale. Harry, bring me a tankard of March beer--and another dish of
beef, tell the carver."
[Illustration: THE OLD BULL AND MOUTH INN, ST. MARTIN'S-LE-GRAND
(_Now pulled down_)]
After the beef, we were served with roast capons and ducks. The absence
of forks was partly made up by the use of bread, and no one scrupled to
take the bones and suck them or even crunch them. But there was so much
politeness and so many compliments passing from one to the other, that
those small points passed almost unnoticed, even by my unaccustomed
eyes. One quickly learns to think more of the people than of their ways
in little things. Apart from their bravery in dress and their habit of
compliment, I was struck with the cheerfulness and confidence, even the
extravagance, of their talk. Their manner was that of the soldier,
sanguine, confident, and rather loud. Some there were who looked ready
to ruffle and to swagger.
The capon was followed by a course of cakes and fruit. Especially, the
confection known as march-pane, in which the explorer lights upon
filberts, almonds, and pistachio nuts, buried in sugared cake, hath left
a pleasing memory in my mind.
Dinner over, the old man, my guide, offered no opposition to a flask of
wine, which was brought in a glass measure with sugar thrown in.
"For choice," he said, "give me malmsey full and fine, sweetened with
sugar. Your French wines are too thin for my old blood. Boy, bring a
clean pipe and tobacco."
By this time almost every man in the room was smoking, though some
contented themselves with their snuff-boxes. The tables were cleared,
the boys ran about setting before every man his cup of wine and taking
the reckoning.
Tobacco, the old man said, though introduced so recently, had already
spread over the whole country, so that most men and many women took
their pipe of tobacco every day with as much regularity as their cup of
wine or tankard of ale. So widespread was now the practice that many
hundreds made a livelihood in London alone by the retailing of this
herb.
"And now," he said, when his pipe was reduced to ashes, "let us across
the river and see the play at the Globe. The time serves; we shall be
in the house before the second flourish."
There was a theatre, he told me on the way, easier of access among the
ruins of the Dominicans', or Black Friars', Abbey, but that was closed
for the moment. "We shall learn," he added, "the piece that is to be
played from the posts of Queenhithe, where we take oars." In fact, we
found the posts at that port placarded with small bills, announcing the
performance of "Troilus and Cressida."
Bank Side consisted, I found, of a single row of houses, built on a
dike, or levee, higher both than the river at high tide and the ground
behind the bank. Before the building of the bank this must have been a
swamp covered with water at every tide; it was now laid out in fields,
meadows, and gardens. At one end of Bank Side stood the Clink Prison,
Winchester House, and St. Mary Overies Church. At the other end was the
Falcon Tavern, with its stairs, and behind it was the Paris Gardens.
The fields were planted with many noble trees, and in every one there
was a pond or stagnant ditch which showed the nature of the ground. A
little to the west of the Clink and behind the houses stood the Globe
Theatre, and close beside it the "Bull-baiting." The theatre, erected in
the year 1593, was hexagonal externally. It was open in the middle, but
the stage and the galleries within were covered over with a thatched
roof. Over the door was the sign of the house--Hercules supporting the
globe, with the legend, "_Totus mundus agit histrionem._"
[Illustration: GLOBE THEATRE]
The interior of the theatre was circular in shape. It contained three
galleries, one above the other; the lowest called the "rooms," for
seats in which we paid a shilling each, contained the better sorts. At
each side of the stage there were boxes, one of which contained the
music. The stage itself, a stout construction of timber, projected far
into the pit, or, as Stow called it, the "yarde." At the back was
another stage, supported on two columns, and giving the players a
gallery about ten or twelve feet high, the purpose of which we were very
soon to find out. On each side of the stage were seats for those who
paid an additional sixpence. Here were a dozen or twenty gallants,
either with pipes of tobacco, or playing cards or dice before the play
began. One of them would get up quickly with a pretence of impatience,
and push back his cloak so as to show the richness of his doublet below.
The young men, whether at the theatre, or in Paul's Walk, or in Chepe,
seemed all intent upon showing their bravery of attire; no girls of our
day could be more vain of their dress, or more critical of the dress
worn by others. Some of them, however, I perceived among the
groundlings--that is, the people in the "yarde"--gazing about the house
upon the women in the galleries. Here there were many dressed very
finely, like ladies of quality, in satin gowns, lawn aprons, taffeta
petticoats, and gold threads in their hair. They seemed to rejoice in
being thus observed and gazed upon. When a young man had found a girl to
his taste, he went into the gallery, sat beside her, and treated her to
pippins, nuts, or wine.
It was already one o'clock when we arrived. As we took our seats the
music played its first sounding or flourish. There was a great hubbub in
the place: hucksters went about with baskets crying pippins, nuts, and
ale; in the "rooms" book-sellers' boys hawked about new books; everybody
was talking together; everywhere the people were smoking tobacco,
playing cards, throwing dice, cheapening books, cracking nuts, and
calling for ale. The music played a second sounding. The hubbub
continued unabated. Then it played the third and last. Suddenly the
tumult ceased. The piece was about to begin.
The stage was decorated with blue hangings of silk between the columns,
showing that the piece was to be--in part, at least--a comedy. Across
the raised gallery at the back was stretched a painted canvas
representing a royal palace. When the scene was changed this canvas
became the wall of a city, and the actors would walk on the top of the
wall; or a street with houses; or a tavern with its red lattice and its
sign; or a tented field. When night was intended, the blue hangings were
drawn up and exchanged for black.
The hawkers retired and were quiet; the house settled down to listen,
and the Prologue began. Prologue appeared dressed in a long black velvet
cloak; he assumed a diffident and most respectful manner; he bowed to
the ground.
"In Troy there lies the scene. From isles of Greece,
The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf'd,
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships."
[Illustration: INSIDE OF THE RED BULL PLAYHOUSE]
In this way the mind of the audience was prepared for what was to
follow. We needed no play-bill. The palace before us could be no other
than Priam's Palace. If there was a field with tents, it must be the
battle-field and the camp of the Greeks; if there was a wall, it must be
the wall of Troy. And though the scenery was rough, it was enough. One
wants no more than the unmistakable suggestion; the poet and the actor
find the rest. Therefore, though the intrusive gallants lay on the
stage; though Troilus was dressed in the armor of Tudor-time, and
Pandarus wore just such a doublet as old Stow himself, we were actually
at Troy. The boy who played Cressida was a lovely maiden. The narrow
stage was large enough for the Council of Kings, the wooing of lovers,
and the battle-field of heroes. Women unfaithful and perjured, lovers
trustful, warriors fierce, the alarms of war, fighting and slaying, the
sweet whispers of love drowned by the blare of trumpets; the loss of
lover forgotten in the loss of a great captain; and among the warriors
and the kings and the lovers, the creeping creatures who live upon the
weaknesses and the sins of their betters, played their parts upon these
narrow boards before a silent and enraptured house. For three hours we
were kept out of our senses. There was no need, I say, of better
scenery; a quick shifting of the canvas showed a battle-field and turned
the stage into a vast plain covered with armies of Greeks and Romans.
Soldiers innumerable, as thick as motes in the sun, crossed the stage
fighting, shouting, challenging each other. While they fought, the
trumpets blew and the drums beat, the wounded fell, and the fight
continued over these prostrate bodies till they were carried off by
their friends. The chiefs rushed to the front, crossed swords, and
rushed off again. "Come, both you cogging Greeks!" said Troilus, while
our cheeks flushed and our lips parted. If the stage had been four
times as broad, if the number of men in action had been multiplied by
ten, we could not have felt more vividly the rage, the joy, the madness
of the battle.
When the play was finished, the ale, the apples, and the nuts were
passed round, and the noise began again. Then the clown came in and
began to sing, and the music played--but oh, how poor it seemed after
the great emotions of the play! The old man plucked me by the sleeve,
and we went out, and with us most of the better sort.
"The first plays," said the antiquary, "that ever I saw were those that
were played on stages put up in the court-yards of inns, where the
galleries afforded place for the audience, and the stage was made of
boards laid upon trestles. Tarleton used to play at the Bull Inn,
Bishopsgate, and at the Cross Keys, Grasse Street. He was reckoned a
famous player, yet, compared with those we have seen this day, a fustian
mouther, no doubt. Rude plays they were, and rude players; but I dare
say they moved the spectators as much as this fine theatre."
Not far from the Globe stood another building of circular form; a throng
of people pressed about the doors, and a great noise of barking and
shouting came from within. "It is the Bull-baiting," said my guide. "But
the place is full of rough men, whose wrath is easily moved, and then
out come knives and there is a tumult. I am too old for such things.
Nevertheless, it is a noble sport; and when you come to whipping the
blinded bear, who lately broke away and bit a piece out of a man's
thigh, it passes all." He lingered as if he would join in it once more
with a little encouragement. Finding none, he walked slowly away to the
river-bank.
"This place," said Stow, "hath an ill name, by reason of evil-doers, who
were long permitted to live here--a place notorious for three hundred
years as the common sink of the city. No reputable citizen would have
his country-house and garden on Bank Side. Why, there are private
gardens all round London as far north as Islington, and as far east as
Ratcliffe Cross, but none here. The air is fresh and wholesome coming up
the river, the ground fertile: see the trees and hedges how they
flourish; yet there is never a private garden in the place. For this
reason the bull-baiting was here, and Paris Gardens with its bears--an'
it were Sunday, I would show you the bears--old Harry Hunks and
Sackerson. For this reason was the Globe built here, without the city
precincts. Where are the theatres and the baitings, the musicians and
the shows, thither must gather together the poets, singers, mummers, and
all those who live by ministering to the merriment and pleasure of the
world. A company of keen wits they are, their tongues readier than most,
and their talk bolder. Sober merchants, who think more of the matter and
less of the manner, like not such company." Here the tinkling of a
guitar, followed by a burst of laughter, interrupted the discourse. "I
doubt not," said Stow, "that we have here--'tis the Falcon Tavern--a
company of wits and poets and players. Let us tarry but the drinking of
a single flask. It may be, unless their tongues are more free than is
seemly, that we shall be rewarded."
The Falcon Inn stood at the western end of Bank Side, at the head of the
Falcon stairs. In front a small garden stretched out towards the river.
Part of the garden was an arbor, formed by a vine raised on poles, so as
to form a roof of leaves. Here was a table placed, and round the table a
company of ten or a dozen. At the head of the table was a young
gentleman richly dressed. Behind him stood two servants. At his right
sat a man of about thirty, of large frame and already corpulent, his
brown hair short and curly, his beard cut short, his eyes singularly
bright.
[Illustration: SOUTH VIEW OF FALCON TAVERN, ON THE BANK SIDE, SOUTHWARK,
AS IT APPEARED IN 1805]
"'Tis Ben Jonson," whispered Stow. "Let us sit here, without the arbor,
so that we can drink and listen. Ben is but lately out of prison, where
he was cast for writing reflections on the Scottish nation. 'Twas said
that he would lose his ears and have his nose slit, but the King showed
mercy. He at the head of the table is some young nobleman, patron of
poets, but, alas! I live now so retired that I know not his name. On the
left of him is William Shakespeare, whom some think a better poet than
Ben--a quiet man who says little. I have seen him here before. 'Twas he
wrote the piece we have seen this day. He has a share in the theatre of
Blackfriars. Burbage, the actor, sits next to Shakespeare, and then
Alleyn and Hemying opposite, and Henslowe. And there is John Marston,
another poet."
Alleyn it was who held the guitar. At this time he was in the prime of
life, not yet forty, his face full of mobility and quickness. He ran his
fingers carelessly over the notes, and then began to sing in a clear,
high voice:
"'Twas I that paid for all things,
'Twas others drank the wine;
I cannot now recall things,
Live but a fool to pine.
'Twas I that beat the bush,
The bird to others flew!
For she, alas! for she, alas! hath left me.
Falero--lero--loo!
"If ever that Dame Nature
(For this false lover's sake)
Another pleasant creature
Like unto her would make,
Let her remember this,
To make the other twice!
For this, alas! for this, alas! hath left me.
Falero--lero--loo!
"No riches now can raise me,
No want make me despair;
No misery amaze me,
Nor yet for want I care.
I have lost a World itself;
My earthly Heaven, adieu!
Since she, alas! since she, alas! hath left me.
Falero--lero--loo!"
"Sir," said the young gentleman, "'tis an excellent song well sung. I
drink your health."
This he did rising, and very courteously.
Now, in the talk that followed I observed that, while the players amused
by relating anecdotes, Ben Jonson made laughter by what he said,
speaking in language which belongs to scholars and to books, and that
Shakespeare sat for the most part in silence, yet not in the silence of
a blockhead in the presence of wits, and when he spoke it was to the
purpose. Also I remarked that the guitar passed from hand to hand, and
that everybody could play and sing, and that the boldness of the talk
showed the freedom of their minds. Who can repeat the unrestrained
conversation of a tavern company? Nay, since some of them were more than
merry with the wine, it would be an ill turn to set down what they said.
We drank our cups and listened to the talk.
Presently Ben Jonson himself sang one of his own songs, in a rough but
not unmelodious voice:
"Follow a shadow, it still flies you;
Seem to fly it, it will pursue.
So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone--she will court you.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?
"At morn or even shades are longest,
At noon they are or short or none;
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they're not known.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of the men?"
We came away about sunset, or near half-past eight in the evening. Some
of the company were by this time merry with their wine, and as we rose
one began to bawl an old tavern ditty, drumming on the wood of the
guitar with his knuckles:
"There was a Ewe had three lambs,
And one of them was blacke;
There was a man had three sons--
Jeffrey, James, and Jack.
"The one was hanged, the other drown'd;
The third was lost and never found;
The old man he fell in a sound--
Come fill us a cup of Sacke."
It was nearly high tide on the river, which spread itself out full and
broad between the banks, reflecting the evening glow in the western sky.
Numberless swans floated about the stream. It was also covered with
boats. Some were state barges belonging to great people, with awnings
and curtains, painted and gilt, filled with ladies who sang as the boat
floated quietly with the current to the music of guitars. Others were
the cockle-shell of humble folk. Here was the prentice, taking his
sweetheart out upon the river for the freshness of the evening air; here
the citizen, with his wife and children in a wherry; here the tilt-boat,
with its load of passengers coming up from Greenwich to Westminster.
There were also the barges and lighters laden with hay, wool, and grain,
waiting for the tide to turn in order to unload at Queenhithe or
Billingsgate.