THE POOR PLAYER.
On the morning which followed the events narrated in the foregoing chapter, the traveller took leave of the exceedingly poor but kind old man who had so hospitably sheltered him. He thanked him for his goodness, and bestowed upon him a small ring, which he took from his finger, the only trifle of value in his possession. And that old host attended his guest to the door, and bestowed his blessing upon him, and followed him with his eyes as he wended his way along the narrow thoroughfare, and then still stood and looked in the direction he had gone long after he was out of sight. And then he turned with a sigh and re-entered his dwelling. "All, well-a-day," he said, "we may grub on in misery for years and years, and forget the goodly beings we have known in youth and happiness, outliving all that we loved and honoured in the world, and still amidst the contaminating filth of poverty and woe pass our weary lives, and then some superior specimen of goodness and grace as suddenly revives in our recollection of the beings we have seen in bygone times. What would I give, an I were amongst the crowned monarchs of the world, to have yonder youth to companion me? To hear his words, as I have this morning heard them? to see him as I have seen him but now, within this lowly hovel?" And then the old man took the platter from which his guest had eaten, and washed it and put it aside, and set back the three-legged stool on which Shakespeare had sat, and then he wept as he said to himself, "An if I look not upon him again, I will keep these as relics, never to be used by others, for, God forgive me, but I think, as I recollect his words, that yonder man was something more than mortal." And then the old man examined the gold ring his guest presented him with, and as he did so, he gradually approached the crucible upon the fire, and again he looked upon the gift, and, hesitating for a moment as his eye fell upon the crucible, he sighed and dropped the ring into it.
It is evening, and the sun shines upon the banks of the Thames on the Surrey side.
The scenic hour oft-times presents to our readers such a picture as we now invite them to look upon. The houses on this side the river are both irregularly placed and situated, as we have before described, namely, standing here and there apart, amidst trees and gardens, and occasionally neighboured by some edifice of a bygone time, and whose build speaks of monastic grandeur and castellated defence.
Looking from the grassy bank upon the Thames at this part, we behold the stream rushing impetuously through innumerable arches of a dark heavy-built bridge—a bridge which frowns with towers and turrets of curious form and ancient architecture, and which turrets and towers are graced and garnished with the ghastly heads of criminals and traitors lately executed.
As the red glare of the evening sun falls upon those buildings, it is reflected in the innumerable windows with which they are accommodated, at the same time it displays each "coign of vantage," each grated embrasure, each coping-stone, buttress, and battlement of the complicated structure in colours of gold.
The arch and flanking tower, and the iron portcullis and cresset, are all there as if in a heated furnace.
Turning again towards the shore as we stand upon the bank, after passing the ancient edifices called Winchester Place, we behold a long row of buildings near the water's edge, and somewhat removed in the open apace behind them, a curiously constructed and somewhat ugly building of a round form. On its top is a small and quaint-looking structure—a sort of "match-case to a common 'larum bell"—and the whole surmounted by a flag, on which is written "The Globe." A few shrubs and stunted trees are immediately around this building: and the space beyond that, for about half a bow-shot, is gravelled, and even, in some parts, strewed with fresh rushes recently cut from the river's bank.
Some fifty yards to the left of this is a rival structure, composed of stakes and high palings—a sort of stockade, round which flutter half-a-dozen little markers or flags; and over the gateway which admits into the arena, is written in large characters the words "The Bull Bayting."
A little removed from the former of these buildings, stands a hostel of the commoner sort, with its garden in rear, several goodly trees before its porch, and a bowling-green pleasantly shadowed. Benches are before this inn, and also under the trees, and the actors upon the scene are both many and rather uncommon in appearance.