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.