William Shakespeare as He Lived: An Historical Tale

by Henry Curling

The inn is indeed the haunt of those persons who find employment in the two houses of entertainment we have described. The hangers-on of the Globe Theatre, and the employés of the Bull and Bear-bayting, men of a character and disposition somewhat peculiar. They are indeed, many of them, sui generis, something in style and demeanour between the magnifico and the mountebank, and yet amongst them are men of appearance and talent worthy of a better station.

As they congregate about this rallying-point, they seem the very genii of idleness; and, in their listless indifference, above the doings and events of this work-a-day world.

Here a fellow, with his beaver cocked, and swaggering gait, throws out his arm, in order to display a cloak of three-piled velvet, whilst his toes are seen peeping from the foot of an ample russet boot. There a comrade, evidently "a horse of the same colour," an "affected fantastico," points a toe in attitude, twists a moustache with a grace, plays off a gauntlet with a flourish, and struts "like chanticleer i' the sun." These are the magnificoes of the walk. Then come a crowd of under-strappers, whose vocation is in their very look, who even play their parts hourly, and live in character—either aping the grandee, the gallant, the swaggerer, or the lisping idiotic driveller; the clowns and jesters making up the file.

Each speaks with an accompanying gesture, and walks with a circumstance. Some have a sort of sad hilarity, and utter dull jokes with a grave brow, or laugh in a sort. They even wear a ceremonious observance towards each other, and look upon the world in general in an inferior light. The free-masonry of bombast is rife amongst the fellowship. If one hands the tankard to his fellow, standing with mine host beneath the porch, he does so with a flourish, and receives it again cross-handed. In short, as they are seen congregated about their haunt, or place of call, they seem uninterested in the common-place events of the world as other men. Their ideas are inflated and dreamy; their world, their kingdom, is their theatre, and their lives felt to be but passed whilst they strut their hour before the admiring throng. "The best actors in the world, either for scene individable, or poem unlimited." "Seneca could not be too heavy, nor Plautus too light for them." Whilst these characters walk and talk, flourish and attitudinize, a trumpet sounds from the roof of the round building first described, at which some amongst them seem to start like the war-horse aroused; others pay their shot to mine host; others again wave a hand gracefully to the buxom landlady at the latticed window; and all take their way to the theatre. They are indeed summoned to prepare for the scenic hour, to rehearse their parts—such as those parts are.

Amongst these men there were, as we have hinted, some individuals of a superior stamp, men of high attainments, considering the period in which they lived, and who, finding no vent for the talents they were in possession of, passed their hours amongst the choice spirits of the Globe.

There was a romance in the lives of some of these latter, in keeping with their appearance; and one or two had attempted a higher flight, and endeavoured to improve the style of dramatic composition. Nor had they altogether failed, for many dramas had been written by them possessing real and absolute excellence.

Scarce half-an-hour had elapsed after the trumpet sounded from the Globe, when a man passed through the various portals upon London Bridge; and, as chance directed, turning to the left upon the Surrey side of the river, quickly took his way amongst the ancient buildings then lining the bank.

Wearied and faint from lack of food—for he had been all day wandering through the streets of London,—he stopped beside the Norman structure, built during the crusades by William Pont de l'Arche, and called St-Mary Ouer.

The curious in antiquities will, we fear, look in vain for any vestige of this remnant of the early English, which nevertheless, in Elizabeth's day, with its church and monastery, extended down to the very edge of the Thames.

Leaning upon his staff, undecided in which direction to turn his steps, Shakespeare stopped beside the dark walls of this ancient edifice; and, after gazing upon the building with interest for some moments, entered the porch of the old monastery.