THE PLAY-SCENE IN HAMLET.
Painting by W. G. Simmonds.
Yet it might almost be averred that William Shakespeare found himself a dramatist by accident. He accepted from the first the conditions of a life despised and contemned, the life of the actor classed with rogues and vagabonds, banished with contumely into ignominious neighbourhoods. "He looked upon the half-art of acting with disdain and disgust": he saw his worst plays performed much more frequently than his best. By nature a poet pur et simple, of a delicate, fastidious, bookish temperament, one who continually corrected his best verses with endless pains and critical scrupulosity—he had been thrown into the rowdy pot-house company of second-rate actors, and was accused by jealous rivals of being "an upstart crow," swelled out with inordinate vanity—or gibed at, by those who professed themselves his friends, as a slovenly and careless writer—or openly contemned by the very lackeys and menials, should he receive a call to Court. And this was only one of the darker sides to the life of this gentle-natured, cheerful, seemingly successful man. The others, as we shall presently perceive, were, in some sense, infinitely more tragic.
The rehearsal over, and the hungry actors pouring forth to obtain their dinner at the nearest taverns or cookshops, Shakespeare (who had, as we know, already broken fast) re-crossed the river and paced quietly up towards St. Paul's Churchyard, to visit the booksellers' shops. The Signs of the White Greyhound, the Angel, the Spread Eagle, the Green Dragon, the Flower de Luce, and so on, were the recognised rendezvous for men of letters, and Shakespeare's own earlier works, such as Venus and Adonis, Lucrece, Henry IV, and Richard II, were issued at several of these shops. Here he could foregather with learned and literary friends; here he could sit and study the latest books; here, in short, he was no longer the actor, but the author. And it may be noted in passing, that Shakespeare's literary confrères respected him, not as the permanent dramatist of the Globe, the transmuter of old lead into gold of Ophir—but as a lyrical poet, an authentic "maker" of beautiful verse. "The Muses would speak Shakespeare's fine filed phrase if they could speak English," so ran the encomium of his admirers. His "sugared sonnets," they declared, were of surpassing excellence and charm. "His facetious (pleasant) grace in writing," as they termed it, "which approves (proves) his art," was that of the sonneteer, not the playwright. That state and majesty, that knowledge of human nature, which distinguish his dramatic work, seemed, to his contemporaries, quite foreign to the man they knew, the witty, gracious, graceful poet.
After a short look-in at his favourite bookshops, Shakespeare proceeded to another popular rendezvous—the middle aisle of St. Paul's. This was no sequestered haunt of studious folk, but a busy promenade where all sorts and conditions of men met freely, by appointment or otherwise: here one might encounter the down-at-heels adventurer, the "masterless man or penniless companion," side by side with the rubicund citizen, the opulent merchant, and the country gentleman whose talk was of hawks and hounds. Every condition of character, every variety of type, was here for Shakespeare's sharp eyes to scan: every fragment of conversation that fell upon his keen ears was noted down almost automatically. Friends and acquaintances many were here to be encountered: the popular writer received salutations on every hand, and those who might benefit by his well-known laxity of purse were not slow to avail themselves of it. Money frequently changed hands before Shakespeare passed out of the Cathedral. He had the customary careless generosity of stage-folk, and the fact that he was reputed to spend as much as he earned was doubtless largely due to his lavish freehandedness. Nobody could look into that kindly face and expect a No to any asking.
But now it was striking twelve on every clock in the City, and he turned into Cheapside to the Mermaid, which stood between Friday Street and Bread Street. In those days, few except the upper classes dined at home. The "restaurant habit" of the twentieth century prevailed among middle-class townsfolk—especially those who were only lodgers, or visitors in London: and the cook-shops, ordinaries, and taverns laid themselves out to provide such hearty dinners as were necessary to people who had only two meals a day.
Upon the table to which Shakespeare sat down there were a stewed rabbit, a roast capon, a salmon stuck with cloves, and a piece of boiled beef; a jug of ale, a flagon of white wine (sack or canary) and a quart of claret. Honey was poured over the meat, and the wine-cups were half full of sugar. For the Elizabethans loved "sugar and spice and all things nice." Every dish was highly seasoned, highly sweetened, and spiced to what we should call a nauseating point. Cooked vegetables were but little used: these strong meat-eaters disdained them; potatoes were not yet indispensable articles of diet. Herbs, fruits, and roots, in fact, played a very secondary part in town fare, though poor folk in country places must needs make shift with these. The plates were of bread, the dishes of wood, and the wine was poured into small green clay pots.
"The whimsical, delightful, happy-go-lucky humour which he has put into the mouths of so many merry folk."
Clown. Well, God give them wisdom, that have it; and
those that are fools, let them use their talents.
(Twelfth Night).
