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.