THE TAVERN REVEL.
The general aspect of London in the reign of Elizabeth is so singular when contrasted with the same great metropolis of our own day, that we must again refer to it.
The houses in the heart of the city, like those in the suburbs, were still chiefly built of wood, or of wood and brick; the poverty of their appearance being the more apparent from their being, ever and anon, relieved by the stately and massive building of former days. The dark monastery, the massive wall, or the castellated edifice, were constantly to be seen amidst streets so crooked and narrow, and so dismal from the abutments overhead, that foreigners, as they threaded their way, and amidst damp and wind, are said to have likened London to the vale of death. In wet weather the streets were especially dismal, and so prevalent were consumption and pestilence that bonfires were oft-times kindled in order to purify the air and avert the plague. Nay, even kites and ravens were to be seen hopping about the various thoroughfares, being kept by many inhabitants for the purpose of devouring the filth.
Nothing, indeed, could well exceed the contrast during Elizabeth's reign between the splendid, though somewhat barbaresque, magnificence of the mansions of the nobles and gentry, and the houses of the commoner sort of people. Yet still, although the houses of the citizens were for the most part poor and ill-contrived, yet every now and then would be found amongst them, the dwelling of some richer trader which broke the uniformity of the general mass; such edifice having a quantity of gable ends at all heights and in all directions, with chimneys of fantastic shape and profuse ornament, and covered with decorations; the multitudinous frames in its windows completed the picture.
These were the dwellings of some of the merchant-princes of the town, whose strongly-barred and iron-studded doors showed that where wealth was to be found defence was necessary against the lawless spirits roaming through the dark thoroughfares at hand.
Another contrast to the filthy, unpaved, and uncared-for state of the streets and thoroughfares at this period, was the costly style in which many of the houses were ornamented on any occasion of rejoicing or pageantry. At such times every window and pent-house was garnished with banners and strips of tapestry, or hung with rich fragments of velvet, damask, or silk, whilst the city functionaries and the various companies "in robe and furred gown," and attended by a host of proper fellows, apparelled in silk and chain of gold, contributed to make up the show.
On the morning which followed the night Shakespeare made acquaintance with the poor player he awoke in a small, low roofed apartment in the upper floor of the hostel of the Globe. He felt himself considerably refreshed, and rising from his truckle bed he threw open the window and looked forth upon the well wooded hills of Surrey, It was a pleasant picture at that time, and the inn itself, being of considerable size, presented a stirring and bustling scene. Immediately beneath him was the ample stable-yard, with long rows of out-buildings and sheds appropriated to the varieties of cattle usually driven from the country on certain days of the week, the horses of the carriers being on one side, and the stabling for those of travellers of a better sort on the other. Then there were other buildings appropriate to the large quantities of poultry which it was customary at this period to rear, besides the ample dove-cot, which stood beyond the bowery garden, and which harboured such flights of pigeons that their rush through the air was heard at considerable distance as they wheeled and circled about.
"Tired nature's great restorer, balmy sleep," had laid so heavily upon the wanderer that it was somewhat late when he awoke, and the bustle in the inn-yard below proclaimed that the business of the day had commenced.
Returning from the window he sat himself down on the bed to consider his prospects. After awhile he took from an inside pocket of his doublet a small roll of paper. It was an unfinished poem, "the first heir of his invention," and which he had carefully preserved and brought with him, intending to finish and, if possible, get it into print at some future opportunity.
The composition seemed to please him, for his countenance brightened as he read it, and he quickly lost all thought of self in the thoughts conjured up. Taking out his tablets, for pen and ink were articles not so readily found at hand as in our own times, as he gazed upon the well-wooded hills in the distance "burnished with the morning sun," he added the following stanza to his poem—
"Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high.
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun arises in his majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
That cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold."
Scarcely had he thus commenced when a slight tap at his door disturbed him, and his new friend the player entered.
"Ah! by St. Paul," said the player, "have we writers here? How, Sir traveller, inditest thou thus early? I aroused thee not—I called thee not—I disturbed thee not; for much toil maketh the limbs weary, and I would have thee, good rustic, freshened and refreshened. But lad, I find thee up and working with brain and pencil. Come—I have brought thee a chalice for thy morning draught. Indue thy habiliments—descend to the lower world—and I will take thee before Master Marlow, who will, peradventure, find thee apt, and capable of preferment."
Shakespeare thanked the player, whose bombast considerably amused him; and putting up his poem, accompanied him to the common apartment of the tavern, then filled with a motley assemblage. After procuring something by way of a breakfast, which the remaining portion of the money given him the night before enabled him to do, he accompanied his new acquaintance over to the Globe.
Early as was the hour, the business of the morning had commenced, and many of the actors engaged in rehearsing a new play.
The scene altogether was a new and striking one, and instantly engaged his attention.
As his eye took the whole interior in its glance, a forcible impression was made upon his mind. The stage—the rude half-circle of seats and benches, seen thus in the shadowy light admitted from several small openings—the various picturesque figures sitting and lounging about, some of them being on the centre of the stage, and rehearsing their parts—the melody of the tragic rhythm—all impressed him. He even, at the moment, conceived a visionary project of one day making the means and appliances he beheld around subservient to his own mighty conceptions. In an instant, the want of something long sought seemed found; and then again, as he looked round, and his mind grasped the possibility of his project he said to himself—
"But, can this cock-pit hold
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
Within this wooden O, the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?"
Whether it could or not, he was not then permitted further to consider. The possibility of such an event, time was to show; and in the meanwhile the player disturbing the current of his thoughts, tapped him on the shoulder, and invited him to follow to a small apartment, situated on one side of the building, and which constituted a sort of manager's room.
The proprietor of this apartment was at the moment engaged in the composition of a new piece; and as he wrote, he ever and anon rose from his seat, and with voice and gesture, recited a portion of his composition, though, perhaps, had he better known the man introduced into his presence, he would have been less verbose before him.
As it was, he continued to rehearse in a ranting tone, sawing the air with his hand, and strutting up and down to give effect to the lines.
During a pause of consideration, he observed the player and his companion, "Ah!" he said, "what wants that youth?"
"Pay and employment, good master mine," said the player.
"Hath he wit?—can he speak?—are his legs strong?—arms pliant?"
"He is young, strong, and of good parts," said the player—"I can avouch it."
"Then will we find him in employment," said the manager; "he shall have charge of the foot-lights, and snuff the lamps." And so Shakespeare became attached to the theatre.