OLD LONDON.
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 an auto-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.