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."