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.