I looked with curiosity at this historical edifice, which was smaller, as all historical things are, than one expected. It was made of timber, mounted upon steps of stone, and covered with lead. There was room in it for three or four persons; a low wall was built round it. A venerable man was preaching to a small congregation, who sat on wooden benches to listen.
"What things have not been heard," said Stow, "at Paul's Cross? Here were the folk motes of old, when the people were called by the great bell to attend their parliament, and take counsel together. No Common Council then, my masters, but every man his freedom of speech, and his vote. Paul's Cross it was which made the Reformation. Here have I heard Latimer, Ridley, Coverdale, Lever, and I know not whom besides. Here I saw with my own eyes the Bexley Rood shown, with all the tricks whereby it was made to open its eyes and lips and seem to speak. All the Reformation was accomplished from this Cross. For a king may set up a bishop, and proclaim a doctrine, but the people's hearts must be moved before their minds are changed. Think what a change was made in their minds in a few short years! Masses for the dead, purgatory, intercession of saints, good works, submission to the Church, all gone – all swept away. And to think that I survive, who was brought up in the ancient faith, and have witnessed this great revolution in the minds of men. For now they no longer even remember their ancient faith, save as the creed of those who lit the accursed flame of Smithfield, and still light the flames of Madrid. Let us go into the church," he said. "But first remember, when you look round, that in the old days the chapels in the aisles were always bright with the burning of wax candles – a superstition, because the burning of a candle is a fond thing to save a man's soul withal. Also, in every chapel, all day long, there was the saying of masses for the dead – another fond superstition – as if a man's soul is to be saved by the repetition of Latin prayers by another man. Yet, with these things the Church fulfilled its purpose. Now there are no more masses; and the chapels are empty and silent, their altars are removed, the paintings are defaced, and the Church is given over for worldly things. Come in."
We entered by the north transept.
There was much that astonished me in this walk through London of the year 1603, but nothing so surprising and unexpected as St. Paul's Cathedral. I had pictured a church narrow, long, somewhat low and dark. I found, on the other hand, that it was in every respect a most noble church, longer than any other cathedral I had ever seen, loftier, also, and well lighted in every part, the style grand and simple. Consider, therefore, my astonishment at finding the church desecrated and abandoned like the common streets for the general uses of the people. The choir alone, where the old screen still stood, was reserved for purposes of worship, for there was a public thoroughfare through the transepts and across the church. Men tramped through, carrying baskets of meat or of bread, sacks of coal, bundles, bags, and parcels of all kinds, walking as in the streets, turning neither to right nor left. Hucksters and peddlers not only walked through, but lingered on their way to sell their wares. Servants stood and sat about a certain pillar to be hired; scriveners sat about another pillar writing letters for those who required their services; clergymen in quest of a curacy or vicarage gathered at another pillar. "Remember the verses," said Stow:
"'Who wants a churchman that can service say,
Read first and faire his monthlie homilie,
And wed and bury and make Christian soules?
Come to the left side alley of St. Paul's.'
"The poor clergymen," he went on, "have fallen upon evil times; there is not preferment enough for all of them, and many of the country parishes are too poor to keep a man, even though he live more hardly than a yeoman.
"This," he added, "is an exchange where almost as much business is done as at Sir Thomas Gresham's Burse, but of another kind. Here are houses bought and sold; here is money lent on usury; here are conspiracies hatched, villanies resolved upon; here is the honor of women bought and sold; here, if a man wants a handful of desperadoes for the Spanish Main, he may buy them cheap – look at those men standing by the tomb that they call Duke Humphrey's."
They were three tall, lean fellows, each with a long rapier and a worn doublet and a hungry face. Only to look upon them made one think of John Oxenham and his companions.
"These men should be taking of Panama or Guayaquil," said Stow. "The time grows too peaceful for such as those. But see, this is Paul's Walk; this is the Mediterranean."
The long middle aisle was crowded with a throng of men walking to and fro, some alone, some two or three together. Some of them were merchants or retailers, some were countrymen looking about them and crying out for the loftiness of the roof and grandeur of the church. But many were young gallants, and those were evidently come to show the splendor of their dress and to mark and follow the newest fashions, which, like women, they learned from each other.
"These lads," said Stow, again echoing my thoughts, "were also better on board a stout ship bound for the West Indies than at home spending their fortunes on their backs, and their time in pranking before the other gallants. Yet they are young. Folly sits well on the young. In youth we love a brave show, if only to please the maidens. Let us not, like the sour preacher, cry out upon a young man because he glorifies his body by fine raiment. To such a jagg'd and embroidered sleeve is as bad as the sound of pipe and tabor or the sight of a playhouse. Let them preach. For all their preaching our gallants will still be fine. It is so long since I was young that I have well-nigh forgotten the feeling of youth. It is now their time. For them the fine fashions; for them the feasting; for them the love-making; for us to look on and to remember. At the mutability of the fashion we may laugh, for there is no sense in it, but only folly. To-day the high Alman fashion; to-morrow the Spanish guise; the day after, the French. See with what an air they walk; head thrown back, hand on hip, leg advanced. Saw one ever gallants braver or more splendid? No two alike, but each arrayed in his own fashion as seemeth him best, though each would have the highest ruff and the longest rapier. And look at their heads – as many fashions with their hair as with their cloak and doublet. One is polled short; one has curls; another, long locks down to his shoulders. And some shave their chins; some have long beards, and some short beards. Some wear ear-rings, and have love-locks. Why not, good sir? Bones a' me! Plenty of time to save and hoard when we grow old. The world and the play of the world belong to the young. Let them enjoy the good things while they can."
While we were talking in this manner the clock struck the hour of eleven. Instantly there was a general movement towards the doors, and before the last stroke had finished ringing and echoing in the roof the church was empty, save for a few who still lingered and looked at each other disconsolately.
"It is the dinner-hour," said Stow.
"Then," said I, "lead me to some tavern where we may dine at our ease."
"There are many such taverns close to Paul's," he replied. "The Three Tuns in Newgate, the Boar's Head by London Stone, the Ship at the Exchange, the Mermaid in Cornhill, or the Mitre of Chepe. But of late my dinners have been small things, and I know not, what any town gallant could tell you, where to go for the best burnt sack or for sound Rhenish."
"The Mitre, then, on the chance."
This tavern, a gabled house, stood at the end of a passage leading from Cheapside, near the corner of Bread Street. The long room spread for dinner was two steps lower than the street, and not too well lighted. A narrow table ran down the middle; upon it was spread a fair white cloth; a clean napkin lay for every guest, and a knife. The table was already filled. Loaves of bread were placed at intervals; they were of various shapes, round and square; salt was also placed at regular intervals. When we entered, the company stood up politely till we had found seats. Then all sat down again.
We took our seats in a corner, whence we could observe the company. Stow whispered in my ear that this was a shilling ordinary, and one of the best in London, as was proved by the number of guests. "Your city gallant," he said, "scents his dinner like a hound, and is never at fault. We shall dine well."
We did dine well; the boys brought us first roast beef with peas and buttered beans. "This," said the old man, "is well – everything in season. At midsummer, beef and beans; at Michaelmas, fresh herrings; at All Saints, pork and souse, sprats and spurlings; in Lent, parsnips and leeks, to soften the saltness of the fish; at Easter, veal and bacon, or at least gammon of bacon, and tansy cake with stained eggs; at Martinmas, salt beef. Let old customs be still maintained. Methinks we are back in the days of bluff King Hal. Well, London was ever a city of plenty. Even the craftsman sits down to his brown-bread and bacon and his ale. Harry, bring me a tankard of March beer – and another dish of beef, tell the carver."
After the beef, we were served with roast capons and ducks. The absence of forks was partly made up by the use of bread, and no one scrupled to take the bones and suck them or even crunch them. But there was so much politeness and so many compliments passing from one to the other, that those small points passed almost unnoticed, even by my unaccustomed eyes. One quickly learns to think more of the people than of their ways in little things. Apart from their bravery in dress and their habit of compliment, I was struck with the cheerfulness and confidence, even the extravagance, of their talk. Their manner was that of the soldier, sanguine, confident, and rather loud. Some there were who looked ready to ruffle and to swagger.
The capon was followed by a course of cakes and fruit. Especially, the confection known as march-pane, in which the explorer lights upon filberts, almonds, and pistachio nuts, buried in sugared cake, hath left a pleasing memory in my mind.
Dinner over, the old man, my guide, offered no opposition to a flask of wine, which was brought in a glass measure with sugar thrown in.
"For choice," he said, "give me malmsey full and fine, sweetened with sugar. Your French wines are too thin for my old blood. Boy, bring a clean pipe and tobacco."
By this time almost every man in the room was smoking, though some contented themselves with their snuff-boxes. The tables were cleared, the boys ran about setting before every man his cup of wine and taking the reckoning.
Tobacco, the old man said, though introduced so recently, had already spread over the whole country, so that most men and many women took their pipe of tobacco every day with as much regularity as their cup of wine or tankard of ale. So widespread was now the practice that many hundreds made a livelihood in London alone by the retailing of this herb.
"And now," he said, when his pipe was reduced to ashes, "let us across the river and see the play at the Globe. The time serves; we shall be in the house before the second flourish."
There was a theatre, he told me on the way, easier of access among the ruins of the Dominicans', or Black Friars', Abbey, but that was closed for the moment. "We shall learn," he added, "the piece that is to be played from the posts of Queenhithe, where we take oars." In fact, we found the posts at that port placarded with small bills, announcing the performance of "Troilus and Cressida."
Bank Side consisted, I found, of a single row of houses, built on a dike, or levee, higher both than the river at high tide and the ground behind the bank. Before the building of the bank this must have been a swamp covered with water at every tide; it was now laid out in fields, meadows, and gardens. At one end of Bank Side stood the Clink Prison, Winchester House, and St. Mary Overies Church. At the other end was the Falcon Tavern, with its stairs, and behind it was the Paris Gardens.
The fields were planted with many noble trees, and in every one there was a pond or stagnant ditch which showed the nature of the ground. A little to the west of the Clink and behind the houses stood the Globe Theatre, and close beside it the "Bull-baiting." The theatre, erected in the year 1593, was hexagonal externally. It was open in the middle, but the stage and the galleries within were covered over with a thatched roof. Over the door was the sign of the house – Hercules supporting the globe, with the legend, "Totus mundus agit histrionem."
The interior of the theatre was circular in shape. It contained three galleries, one above the other; the lowest called the "rooms," for seats in which we paid a shilling each, contained the better sorts. At each side of the stage there were boxes, one of which contained the music. The stage itself, a stout construction of timber, projected far into the pit, or, as Stow called it, the "yarde." At the back was another stage, supported on two columns, and giving the players a gallery about ten or twelve feet high, the purpose of which we were very soon to find out. On each side of the stage were seats for those who paid an additional sixpence. Here were a dozen or twenty gallants, either with pipes of tobacco, or playing cards or dice before the play began. One of them would get up quickly with a pretence of impatience, and push back his cloak so as to show the richness of his doublet below. The young men, whether at the theatre, or in Paul's Walk, or in Chepe, seemed all intent upon showing their bravery of attire; no girls of our day could be more vain of their dress, or more critical of the dress worn by others. Some of them, however, I perceived among the groundlings – that is, the people in the "yarde" – gazing about the house upon the women in the galleries. Here there were many dressed very finely, like ladies of quality, in satin gowns, lawn aprons, taffeta petticoats, and gold threads in their hair. They seemed to rejoice in being thus observed and gazed upon. When a young man had found a girl to his taste, he went into the gallery, sat beside her, and treated her to pippins, nuts, or wine.
It was already one o'clock when we arrived. As we took our seats the music played its first sounding or flourish. There was a great hubbub in the place: hucksters went about with baskets crying pippins, nuts, and ale; in the "rooms" book-sellers' boys hawked about new books; everybody was talking together; everywhere the people were smoking tobacco, playing cards, throwing dice, cheapening books, cracking nuts, and calling for ale. The music played a second sounding. The hubbub continued unabated. Then it played the third and last. Suddenly the tumult ceased. The piece was about to begin.
The stage was decorated with blue hangings of silk between the columns, showing that the piece was to be – in part, at least – a comedy. Across the raised gallery at the back was stretched a painted canvas representing a royal palace. When the scene was changed this canvas became the wall of a city, and the actors would walk on the top of the wall; or a street with houses; or a tavern with its red lattice and its sign; or a tented field. When night was intended, the blue hangings were drawn up and exchanged for black.
The hawkers retired and were quiet; the house settled down to listen, and the Prologue began. Prologue appeared dressed in a long black velvet cloak; he assumed a diffident and most respectful manner; he bowed to the ground.
"In Troy there lies the scene. From isles of Greece,
The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf'd,
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships."
In this way the mind of the audience was prepared for what was to follow. We needed no play-bill. The palace before us could be no other than Priam's Palace. If there was a field with tents, it must be the battle-field and the camp of the Greeks; if there was a wall, it must be the wall of Troy. And though the scenery was rough, it was enough. One wants no more than the unmistakable suggestion; the poet and the actor find the rest. Therefore, though the intrusive gallants lay on the stage; though Troilus was dressed in the armor of Tudor-time, and Pandarus wore just such a doublet as old Stow himself, we were actually at Troy. The boy who played Cressida was a lovely maiden. The narrow stage was large enough for the Council of Kings, the wooing of lovers, and the battle-field of heroes. Women unfaithful and perjured, lovers trustful, warriors fierce, the alarms of war, fighting and slaying, the sweet whispers of love drowned by the blare of trumpets; the loss of lover forgotten in the loss of a great captain; and among the warriors and the kings and the lovers, the creeping creatures who live upon the weaknesses and the sins of their betters, played their parts upon these narrow boards before a silent and enraptured house. For three hours we were kept out of our senses. There was no need, I say, of better scenery; a quick shifting of the canvas showed a battle-field and turned the stage into a vast plain covered with armies of Greeks and Romans. Soldiers innumerable, as thick as motes in the sun, crossed the stage fighting, shouting, challenging each other. While they fought, the trumpets blew and the drums beat, the wounded fell, and the fight continued over these prostrate bodies till they were carried off by their friends. The chiefs rushed to the front, crossed swords, and rushed off again. "Come, both you cogging Greeks!" said Troilus, while our cheeks flushed and our lips parted. If the stage had been four times as broad, if the number of men in action had been multiplied by ten, we could not have felt more vividly the rage, the joy, the madness of the battle.
When the play was finished, the ale, the apples, and the nuts were passed round, and the noise began again. Then the clown came in and began to sing, and the music played – but oh, how poor it seemed after the great emotions of the play! The old man plucked me by the sleeve, and we went out, and with us most of the better sort.
"The first plays," said the antiquary, "that ever I saw were those that were played on stages put up in the court-yards of inns, where the galleries afforded place for the audience, and the stage was made of boards laid upon trestles. Tarleton used to play at the Bull Inn, Bishopsgate, and at the Cross Keys, Grasse Street. He was reckoned a famous player, yet, compared with those we have seen this day, a fustian mouther, no doubt. Rude plays they were, and rude players; but I dare say they moved the spectators as much as this fine theatre."
Not far from the Globe stood another building of circular form; a throng of people pressed about the doors, and a great noise of barking and shouting came from within. "It is the Bull-baiting," said my guide. "But the place is full of rough men, whose wrath is easily moved, and then out come knives and there is a tumult. I am too old for such things. Nevertheless, it is a noble sport; and when you come to whipping the blinded bear, who lately broke away and bit a piece out of a man's thigh, it passes all." He lingered as if he would join in it once more with a little encouragement. Finding none, he walked slowly away to the river-bank.
"This place," said Stow, "hath an ill name, by reason of evil-doers, who were long permitted to live here – a place notorious for three hundred years as the common sink of the city. No reputable citizen would have his country-house and garden on Bank Side. Why, there are private gardens all round London as far north as Islington, and as far east as Ratcliffe Cross, but none here. The air is fresh and wholesome coming up the river, the ground fertile: see the trees and hedges how they flourish; yet there is never a private garden in the place. For this reason the bull-baiting was here, and Paris Gardens with its bears – an' it were Sunday, I would show you the bears – old Harry Hunks and Sackerson. For this reason was the Globe built here, without the city precincts. Where are the theatres and the baitings, the musicians and the shows, thither must gather together the poets, singers, mummers, and all those who live by ministering to the merriment and pleasure of the world. A company of keen wits they are, their tongues readier than most, and their talk bolder. Sober merchants, who think more of the matter and less of the manner, like not such company." Here the tinkling of a guitar, followed by a burst of laughter, interrupted the discourse. "I doubt not," said Stow, "that we have here – 'tis the Falcon Tavern – a company of wits and poets and players. Let us tarry but the drinking of a single flask. It may be, unless their tongues are more free than is seemly, that we shall be rewarded."
The Falcon Inn stood at the western end of Bank Side, at the head of the Falcon stairs. In front a small garden stretched out towards the river. Part of the garden was an arbor, formed by a vine raised on poles, so as to form a roof of leaves. Here was a table placed, and round the table a company of ten or a dozen. At the head of the table was a young gentleman richly dressed. Behind him stood two servants. At his right sat a man of about thirty, of large frame and already corpulent, his brown hair short and curly, his beard cut short, his eyes singularly bright.
"'Tis Ben Jonson," whispered Stow. "Let us sit here, without the arbor, so that we can drink and listen. Ben is but lately out of prison, where he was cast for writing reflections on the Scottish nation. 'Twas said that he would lose his ears and have his nose slit, but the King showed mercy. He at the head of the table is some young nobleman, patron of poets, but, alas! I live now so retired that I know not his name. On the left of him is William Shakespeare, whom some think a better poet than Ben – a quiet man who says little. I have seen him here before. 'Twas he wrote the piece we have seen this day. He has a share in the theatre of Blackfriars. Burbage, the actor, sits next to Shakespeare, and then Alleyn and Hemying opposite, and Henslowe. And there is John Marston, another poet."
Alleyn it was who held the guitar. At this time he was in the prime of life, not yet forty, his face full of mobility and quickness. He ran his fingers carelessly over the notes, and then began to sing in a clear, high voice:
"'Twas I that paid for all things,
'Twas others drank the wine;
I cannot now recall things,
Live but a fool to pine.
'Twas I that beat the bush,
The bird to others flew!
For she, alas! for she, alas! hath left me.
Falero – lero – loo!
"If ever that Dame Nature
(For this false lover's sake)
Another pleasant creature
Like unto her would make,
Let her remember this,
To make the other twice!
For this, alas! for this, alas! hath left me.
Falero – lero – loo!
"No riches now can raise me,
No want make me despair;
No misery amaze me,
Nor yet for want I care.
I have lost a World itself;
My earthly Heaven, adieu!
Since she, alas! since she, alas! hath left me.
Falero – lero – loo!"
"Sir," said the young gentleman, "'tis an excellent song well sung. I drink your health."
This he did rising, and very courteously.
Now, in the talk that followed I observed that, while the players amused by relating anecdotes, Ben Jonson made laughter by what he said, speaking in language which belongs to scholars and to books, and that Shakespeare sat for the most part in silence, yet not in the silence of a blockhead in the presence of wits, and when he spoke it was to the purpose. Also I remarked that the guitar passed from hand to hand, and that everybody could play and sing, and that the boldness of the talk showed the freedom of their minds. Who can repeat the unrestrained conversation of a tavern company? Nay, since some of them were more than merry with the wine, it would be an ill turn to set down what they said. We drank our cups and listened to the talk.
Presently Ben Jonson himself sang one of his own songs, in a rough but not unmelodious voice:
"Follow a shadow, it still flies you;
Seem to fly it, it will pursue.
So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone – she will court you.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?
"At morn or even shades are longest,
At noon they are or short or none;
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they're not known.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of the men?"
We came away about sunset, or near half-past eight in the evening. Some of the company were by this time merry with their wine, and as we rose one began to bawl an old tavern ditty, drumming on the wood of the guitar with his knuckles:
"There was a Ewe had three lambs,
And one of them was blacke;
There was a man had three sons —
Jeffrey, James, and Jack.
"The one was hanged, the other drown'd;
The third was lost and never found;
The old man he fell in a sound —
Come fill us a cup of Sacke."
It was nearly high tide on the river, which spread itself out full and broad between the banks, reflecting the evening glow in the western sky. Numberless swans floated about the stream. It was also covered with boats. Some were state barges belonging to great people, with awnings and curtains, painted and gilt, filled with ladies who sang as the boat floated quietly with the current to the music of guitars. Others were the cockle-shell of humble folk. Here was the prentice, taking his sweetheart out upon the river for the freshness of the evening air; here the citizen, with his wife and children in a wherry; here the tilt-boat, with its load of passengers coming up from Greenwich to Westminster. There were also the barges and lighters laden with hay, wool, and grain, waiting for the tide to turn in order to unload at Queenhithe or Billingsgate.
"This," said Stow, "is the best place of any for a prospect of the city. Here we can count the spires and the towers. I know them every one. Look how Paul's rises above the houses. His walls are a hundred feet high. His tower that you see is near three hundred feet high, and his spire, which has been burned down these forty years, was two hundred feet more. Alas, that goodly spire! It is only from this bank that you can see the great houses along the river. There the ruins of White Friars – there those of the Dominicans. Ruins were they not, but splendid buildings in the days of my youth. Baynard's Castle, the Steel Yard, Cold Harbor, the Bridge – there they stand. The famous city of Venice itself, I dare swear, cannot show so fair a prospect. See, now the sun lights up the windows of Nonesuch on the Bridge – see how the noble structure is reflected in the water below. Good sir," he turned to me with glowing face and eyes aflame with enthusiasm, "there is no other city in the whole world, believe me, which may compare with this noble City of London, of which – glory to God! – I have been permitted to become the humble historian."
We took boat at Falcon stairs – Stow told me there were two thousand boats and three thousand watermen on the river – and we returned to Queenhithe, the watermen shouting jokes and throwing strong words at each other, which seems to be their custom. By the time we landed the sun had gone down. Work for the day was over, and the streets were thronged with people. First, however, it was necessary to think of supper. My guide took me to an old inn in Dowgate; you entered it as at the Mitre by a long passage. This was the well-known Swan, where we found a goodly company assembled. They seemed to be merchants all; grave men, not given to idle mirth, so that the conversation was more dull (if more seemly) than at the Falcon. For supper they served us roast pullet with a salad of lettuce, very good, and a flask of right Canary. My ancient guide swore – "Bones a' me" – that it contained the very spirit and essence of the Canary grape. "Sir," he said, "can a man live in London for eighty years and fail to discern good wine from bad? Why, the city drinks up, I believe, all the good wine in the world. Amsterdam is built on piles set in the ooze and mud. London floats on puncheons, pipes, and hogsheads of the best and choicest. This is truly rare Canary. Alas! I am past eighty. I shall drink but little more."
So he drank and warmed his old heart and discussed further, but it would be idle to set down all he said, because most of it is in books, and my desire has been to record only what cannot be found, by the curious, already printed.
After supper we had more wine and tobacco. Some of the company fell to card-playing, some to dice. Then the door opened, and a man came in with two children, boys, who sang with him while he played the guitar. They sang madrigals very sweetly, each his own part truly and with justice. When they finished, the boys went around with a platter and collected farthings. And having paid our reckoning we went away.
In the streets outside, the women sat at their doors or stood about gossiping with each other. At every corner a bonfire was merrily burning. This was partly because it was the Vigil of St. John the Baptist, partly because in the city they always lit bonfires in the summer months to purify and cleanse the air. But because of the day every door was shadowed with green branches – birch, long fennel, St. John's wort, orpin, white lilies, and such like – garnished with garlands of beautiful flowers. They had also hung up lamps of colored glass, with oil to burn all the night, so that the streets looked gay and bright with the red light of the bonfires playing on the tall gabled fronts, and the red and green light of the lamps. From all the taverns, as we passed, came the sound of music, singing, and revelry, with the clink of glasses and the uplifting of voices thick with wine. There was the sound of music and singing from the private houses. Everywhere singing – everywhere joy and happiness. In the streets the very prentices and their sweethearts danced, to the pipe and tabor, those figures called the Brawl and the Canary, and better dancing, with greater spirit and more fidelity to the steps, had I never before seen.