"Sithee here again," continued Gerard, well launched upon his favourite topic, "this plant, which is called of some Skyrrits of Peru, is generally called of us, Potatus or Potatoes,"—and he waved his hand towards a bed of sweet potatoes. "Of these roots may be made conserves, toothsome, wholesome and dainty, and many comfortable and restorative sweetmeats. Other potatoes there be, which some do use with salt,—but of these I have no present apprehension."
Shakespeare was not paying attention to the potatoes. On his knees beside a strawberry bed, he looked up with a laughing face. "Methinks I would rather fresh fruit than conserves," said he, filling his mouth with much satisfaction.
"Then, of the Indian pot-herb, tobacco," the botanist proceeded, "give me joy that I have had good fortune in three kinds thereof,—the Henbane of Peru, the Trinidada Tobacco, and the pigmy or dwarfish sort. But, indeed, this same tobacco is by no means to be commended as a fume or smoking-medicine. The juice, boiled with sugar into a syrup, is a sovereign cure for many maladies. I pray you, good Master Shakespeare," said he, earnestly seizing the other's arm and punctuating his words with a gentle see-saw movement, "believe me, that any other herb of hot temperature will suffice for pipe-smoking—rosemary, thyme, winter savory, sweet marjoram and such-like."
"Faith, I am no great smoker," replied Shakespeare, as with a dexterous jerk he eluded his friend and dived down an alley of damask roses. "Here," said he, "I shall play the robber,—" He gathered a rose and set it behind his ear in the most approved Court fashion. "I would fain linger all day among these manifold sweetnesses," he added, "but alack! I have need to hasten now. I pray you, therefore, give me leave to depart." The herbalist, talking volubly, accompanied him to the door.
The playwright turned down towards Blackfriars: on his way he entered an apothecary's shop, and, heedless of Master Gerard's warnings, purchased a "rich smoke" at sixpence a pipeful—(equivalent to, perhaps, four shillings of our money). This was no cheap and adulterated mixture, such as the "groundlings" used, but the very best procurable: and, to emphasise its recherché quality, it was kept in a lily-pot, minced on a maple-block, served out with silver tongs, and lighted from a little fire of juniper shavings. Shakespeare, having thus filled his long clay pipe, proceeded to the Blackfriars shore, where he took a ferry-boat across to Bankside in Southwark and entered the Globe Theatre, of which he was part proprietor. It may here be explained that, every theatre having recently been banished from the City as the very quintessence of disreputability and root of all evil, the exiled players had taken refuge south of the river, in Bankside: which, being a quarter singularly ill-famed, was considered by all reputable citizens a most appropriate situation for them. The Globe, like other public playhouses of the period, was roofless: three stories high, with boxes all round in tiers, the ground tier paled with oaken boards and fenced with strong iron pikes. The stage, which had a "shadow" or cover over it, was some 40 ft. wide and extended to the middle of the yard or pit. At the back of the stage was a balcony, over the entrance from the "tiring-house" or dressing-rooms. It was lighted, if necessary, by branched candlesticks, while "cressets" (tarred ropes' ends in cages) were set in front of the boxes.
The Globe company of about ten actors, Burbage, Heminge, Condell, Field and the rest, were entering by ones and twos, with the boys who played women's parts: last of all, the orchestra of ten performers, the largest in London, dawdled in, and took up their instruments—chiefly drums and trumpets. The rehearsal commenced—the play of Hamlet, with Burbage in the title-rôle. Shakespeare, though necessarily present, paid but little attention to the business in hand. In studied and self-conscious acting he had no interest whatsoever. His theory was the same as Ben Jonson's, that a man should act "freely, carelessly, and capriciously, as if one's veins ran with quicksilver, and not utter a phrase but shall come forth in the very brine of conceit, and sparkle like salt in fire." But this was too high a criterion to impose upon his company. He therefore left them chiefly to their own devices, under the capable management of Burbage, and remained himself in the tiring-room, employed upon his usual morning's avocation, revising and revivifying old "stock" plays, and considering fresh MSS., which arrived in vast numbers—and accepting as much as he could. For he was incapable of jealousy: he "did his greatness easily," and was the kindest of friends, the most indulgent of critics, to would-be dramatic authors. His acquaintance with Ben Jonson had originated in "a remarkable piece of humanity and good-nature." Jonson, unknown and unaccredited, had offered a play to the theatre. "But the persons into whose hands it was put, after turning it carelessly and superficially over, were just upon returning it to him, with an ill-natured answer, that it would be of no service to their company, when Shakespeare luckily cast his eye upon it, and found something so well in it, as to encourage him to read it through, and afterwards to recommend Ben Jonson and his writings to the public." (Rowe) Similar experiences befell many a budding stage writer: Shakespeare's singular sweetness of disposition led him to be lavish of praise as of money. He was "always willing to touch up this man's play, or write in an act for that one." And of no other man did he utter a cruel or an injurious word. "A kinder gentleman treads not the earth," his intimates might have said of him, as he of Antonio.
"The young gallants were glad when the Play-scene was over."
Hamlet. He poisons him in the garden for his estate. His
name's Gonzago.
(Hamlet).
