London

The court pageants may be understood by reading the masques of Ben Jonson. Everything costly, splendid, and precious was lavished upon these shows. Everything that machinery could contrive was devised for them. Ben Jonson himself, speaking of the performance of his "Hymenæa," says: "Such was the exquisite performance, as, besides the pomp, splendor, or what we may call apparelling of such presentments, that alone, had all else been absent, was of power to surprise with delight, and steal away the spectators from themselves. Nor was there wanting whatsoever might give to the furniture or complement, either in riches, or strangeness of the habits, delicacy of dances, magnificence of the scene, or divine rapture of musick. Only the envy was that it lasted not still."

It was not until 1570 that the first theatre was built. The popularity of the play had already begun to grow with amazing rapidity. In twenty years there were five theatres, with performances every day. The Queen had four companies of children trained to perform, viz., the children of St. Paul's, the children of the chapel, the children of Westminster, and the children of Windsor. The public actors, too, were often called upon to perform before the Queen.

These companies were: Lord Leicester's company, Sir Robert Lane's, Lord Clinton's, Lord Warwick's, the Lord Chamberlain's, the Earl of Sussex's, Lord Howard's, the Earl of Essex's, Lord Strange's, the Earl of Derby's, the Lord Admiral's, the Earl of Hertford's, and Lord Pembroke's. It is not supposed that all these companies existed at the same time; but the list shows how company after company was begun and maintained on the credit of some great lord.

The theatres at the end of the sixteenth century were seven in number – the Globe, at Bankside; the Red Bull, in St. John Street; the Curtain, in Shoreditch; the Fortune, in Whitecross Street. These four were public theatres. The other three were called private houses – the Blackfriars, the Whitefriars, and the Cockpit or Phœnix Theatre. In the next chapter we shall assist at a matinee of one of Shakespeare's plays.

But the people lost no opportunity of "making up," acting, and dancing. The pageant became more and more a play. There were pageants of more or less splendor – we all know the great pageants of Kenilworth – held in every great man's house, in every company's hall, and in private persons' houses, to mark every possible occasion. Thus, in the year 1562, on July 20, took place the marriage of one Coke, citizen (but of what company I know not) – was he a cousin of Edward Coke, afterwards Speaker? – with the daughter of Mr. Nicolls, master of London Bridge. My Lord Mayor and all the Aldermen, with many ladies and other worshipful men and women, were present at the wedding. Mr. Bacon, an eminent divine, preached the wedding sermon. After the discourse the company went home to the Bridge House to dinner, where was as good cheer as ever was known – Stow says so, and he knew very well – with all manner of music and dancing, and at night a masque till midnight. But this was only half the feast, for next day the wedding was again kept at the Bridge House with great cheer. After supper more mumming, after that more masques. One was in cloth of gold, the next consisted of friars, and the third of nuns. First the friars and the nuns danced separately, one company after the other, and then they danced together. Considering that it was only two years since the friars and the nuns had been finally suppressed, there must have been a certain piquancy in this dance. It is always, at such times, put on the stage. One of the first things, for instance, done in Madrid when Spain got her short-lived republic was that in every café chantant they put a friar and a nun on the stage to dance and sing together.

They still kept the saint's day of their company; in fact, when the old faith was suppressed the people willingly endured a change of doctrine so long as they were not called upon to give up their feasting, which was exactly what had happened in Italy and elsewhere when the people were induced or forced to become Christians. They made no objection to doctrine, provided their practice was not interfered with. Therefore the Protestant citizens kept up their Whitsun ales, their wakes, their Easter and Christmas feastings. All the saints' days which brought something better than ordinary to eat, with morris dances, May-poles, bonfires, music, and Feasts of Misrule were religiously conserved. As to the Feast of Misrule, hear the testimony of the contemporary moralist:

"Thus all things set in order, then have they their hobby-horses, their dragons, and other antiques, together with their pipers and thundering drummers, to strike up the Devil's Dance. Thus march this merry company towards the church and church-yard, their pipers piping, their drummers thundering, their stumpes dancing, their bells jingling, their handkerchiefs fluttering about their heads like madmen, their hobby-horses and other monsters skirmishing among the throng, and in this sort they go to the church like devils incarnate, with such a confused noise that no man can hear his own voice. Then the foolish people – they look, they stare, they laugh, they cheer, they mount upon forms and pews to see the goodly pageants solemnized in this sort. Then, after this, about the church they go again and again, and so forth into the church-yard, where they have commonly their summer halls, their bowers, arbors, and banqueting-houses set up, wherein they feast, banquet, and dance all that day, and, peradventure, all that night too."

To keep a troop of servants has always been a mark of state. Ladies used to beat their servants – following the example of the Queen, who sometimes boxed the ears of her courtiers. Everybody of position travelled, and nearly everybody went to Italy, with results disastrous to religion and to morals. One of the worst figures in the Elizabethan gallery is the Englishman Italianized. Of course on his return the traveller gave himself strange airs. How they travelled and what they saw may be read in that most charming book, the Epistolæ Hoellianæ.

Card-playing and gaming were the commonest form of amusement. The games were primero, which Falstaff foreswore, trump, gleek, gresco, new cut, knave out-of-doors, ruff, noddy, post and pace – all of these games corresponding, no doubt, to those still played.

Another favorite amusement was dancing in all its various forms, from the stately court dance to the merry circle on the village green. The principal dances were the solemn pavane, the brawl, the Passamezzo galliard, the Canary dance, the coranto, the lavolta, the jig, the galliard, the fancy, and the hey.

Gentlemen were followed in the streets by their servants, who carried their master's sword. Their dress was blue, with the master's badge in silver on the left arm.

The pages of Stow, Harrison, Hall, Greene, and Nash contain not only glimpses, but also set pictures of the time, from which extracts by the hundred might be made. There are the awful examples, for instance, of Sir John Champneys, Alderman and Lord Mayor, and Richard Wethell, citizen and tailor. Both these persons built high towers to their houses to show their pride and to look down upon their neighbors – one is reminded of the huge leaning towers in Bologna. What happened? The first went blind, so that though he might climb his tower he could see nothing. The second was afflicted with gout in hands and feet, so that he could not walk, much less climb his tower. Stubbes has other instances of judgments, particularly the terrible fate of the girl who invoked the devil to help her with her ruff.

Here is a curious little story. It happened in the reign of King James. One day, in Bishopsgate Ward, a poor man, named Richard Atkinson, going to remove a heap of sea-coal ashes in his wheelbarrow, discovered lying in the ashes the body of a newly-born child. It was still breathing, and he carried it to his wife, who washed and fed it and restored it to life. The child was a goodly and well-formed boy, strong and well-featured, without blemish or harm upon it. They christened the child at St. Helen's Church, by a name which should cause him to remember, all through his life, his very remarkable origin. They called him, in fact, Job Cinere Extractus. A noble name, for the sake of which alone he should have lived. What an ancestor to have had! How delightful to be a Cinere Extractus! Who would not wish to belong to such a family, and to point to the ash-heap as the origin of the first Cinere Extractus? Nothing like it in history since the creation of Adam himself. What a coat of arms! A shield azure, an ash-heap proper, with supporters of two dustmen with shovels; crest a sieve; motto, like that of the Courtenays, "from what heights descended?" But alas! poor little Job Cinere Extractus died three days afterwards, and now lies buried in St. Helen's church-yard, without even a monument.

Another baby story – but this belongs to Charles I.'s time – it happened, in fact, in the last month of that melancholy reign. It was seven o'clock in the evening. A certain ship-chandler became suddenly so foolish as to busy himself over a barrel of gunpowder with a candle. Naturally a spark fell into the barrel, and he was not even left time enough to express his regrets. Fifty houses were wrecked. How many were killed no one could tell, but at the next house but one, the Rose Tavern, there was a great company holding the parish dinner, and they all perished. Next morning, however, there was found on the leads of All Hallows Barking a young child in a cradle as newly laid in bed, neither child nor cradle having sustained the least harm. It was never known who the child was, but she was adopted by a gentleman of the parish, and lived certainly to the age of seventeen, when the historian saw her going to call her master, who was drinking at a tavern. It is two hundred and fifty years ago. That young woman may have at this moment over a thousand descendants at least. Who would not like to boast that she was his great-grandmother?

A reform of vast importance, though at first it seems a small thing, was introduced in this reign. It was the restoration of vegetables and roots as part of daily diet. Harrison is my authority. He says that in old days – as in the time of the First Edward – herbs, fruits, and roots were much used, but that from Henry IV. to Henry VIII. the use of them decayed and was forgotten. "Now," he says, "in my time their use is not only resumed among the poore commons – I mean of melons, pompines, gourds, cucumbers, radishes, skirrets, parsneps, carrots, marrowes, turnips, and all kinds of salad herbes – but they are also looked upon as deintie dishes at the tables of delicate merchants, gentlemen, and the nobilitie, who make their provision yearly for new seeds out of strange countries from whence they have them abundantly."

Perhaps the cause of the disuse of roots and vegetables was the enormous rise in wages after the Black Death, when the working-classes, becoming suddenly rich, naturally associated roots with scarcity of beef, and governed themselves accordingly.

The use of tobacco spread as rapidly, when once it was introduced, as that of coffee later on. King James speaks of those who spend as much as £300 a year upon this noxious weed. Those who took tobacco attributed to it all the virtues possible for any plant to possess, and more.

It was the custom of the better sort of citizens to have gardens outside the City, each with its own garden-house, in some cases a mere arbor, but in others a house for residence in the summer months. Moorfields had many of these gardens, but Bethnal Green, Hoxton (Hoggesden), and Mile End were favorite spots for these retreats. Of course, the city madams were accused of using these gardens as convenient places for intrigue.

The education of girls was never so thorough as at this time. Perhaps Lucy Hutchinson and Lady Jane Grey – well-known cases – ought not to be taken as average examples. The former, for instance, could read at four, and at seven was under eight tutors, who taught her languages, music, dancing, writing, and needle-work. She also became a proficient in the art of preparing simples and medicines. Of her husband she says that he was a masterly player on the viol; that he was a good marksman with gun and bow; and that he was a collector of paintings and engravings. Perhaps there was never a time when body and mind were equally trained and developed as they were in the sixteenth century. Think with what contempt Sidney and Raleigh would regard an age like the present, when the young men are trained to foot-ball, running, and cricket, but, for the most part, cannot ride, cannot shoot, cannot fence, cannot box, cannot wrestle, cannot sing, cannot play any instrument, cannot dance, and cannot make verses!

In the matter of rogues, vagabonds, and common cheats, the age of Elizabeth shows no falling off, but quite the reverse. We have little precise information on English ribauderie before this time, but now, thanks to John Awdely, Thomas Harman, Parson Hybesdrine, Thomas Dekker, Robert Greene, and others, we learn the whole art and mystery of coney-catching as practised under the Tudor dynasty. The rogues had their own language. No doubt they always had their language, as they have it now; and it varied from year to year as it varies now, but the groundwork remained the same, and, indeed, remains the same to this day. The rogues and thieves, the beggars and the impostors, are still with us. They are still accompanied by their autem morts, their walking morts, their Kynchen morts, their doxies, and their dolls, only some of those cheats are changed with the changes of the time. Under Queen Gloriana they abound in every town and in every street, they tramp along all the roads, they haunt the farm-houses, they rob the market-women and the old men. They have their ranks and their precedency. The Upright man is a captain among them; the Curtall has authority over them; the Patriarch Co-marries them until death do them part – that is to say, until they pass a carcass of any creature, when, if they choose, they shake hands and go separate ways. They are well known by profession and name at every fair throughout the country. They are Great John Gray and Little John Gray; John Stradling with the shaking head; Lawrence with the great leg; Henry Smyth, who drawls when he speaks; that fine old gentleman, Richard Horwood, who is eighty years of age and can still bite a sixpenny nail asunder with his teeth, and a notable toper still; Will Pellet, who carries the Kynchen mort at his back; John Browne, the stammerer; and the rest of them. They are all known; their backs and shoulders are scored with the nine-tailed cat; not a headborough or a constable but knows them every one. Yet they forget their prison and their whipping as soon as they are free. Those things are the little drawbacks of the profession, against which must be set freedom, no work, no masters, and no duties. Who would not go upon the budge, even though at the end there stands the three trees, up which we shall have to climb by the ladder?

 
The Budge it is a delicate trade,
And a delicate trade of fame;
For when that we have bit the bloe,
We carry away the game.
 
 
But when that we come to Tyburn
For going upon the Budge,
There stands Jack Catch the hangman,
That owes us all a grudge.
 
 
And when that he hath noosed us,
And our friends tip him no cole;
O then he throws us into the cart,
And tumbles us in the hole.
 

In the streets of London they separate and practise each in the quarter most likely to catch the gull. For instance, observe this well-dressed young gentleman, with the simple manner and the honest face, strolling along the middle-walk of Paul's. Simple as he looks, his eye glances here and there among the throng. Presently he sees a young countryman, whom he knows by the unfailing signs; he approaches the countryman; he speaks to him; in a few minutes they leave the Cathedral together and betake them to a tavern, where they dine, each paying for himself, in amity and friendship, though strangers but an hour since. Then comes into the tavern an ancient person, somewhat decayed in appearance, who sits down and calls for a stoup of ale. "Now," says the first young man, "you shall see a jest, sir." Whereupon he accosts the old gentleman, and presently proposes to throw the dice for another pot. The old man accepts, being a very simple and childlike old man, and loses – both his money and his temper. Then the countryman joins in… After the young countryman gets home, he learns that the old man was a "fingerer" by profession, and that the young man was his confidant.

The courtesy man works where the sailors and sea-captains congregate; he accosts one who looks credulous and new; he tells him that he is one of a company, tall, proper men, all like himself – he is well-mannered; they are disbanded soldiers, masterless and moneyless; for himself he would not beg, but for his dear comrades he would do anything. When he receives a shilling he puts it up with an air of contempt, but accepts the donor's good-will, and thanks him for so much. A plausible villain, this.

Outside Aldgate, where the Essex farmers are found, the "ring faller" loves to practise his artless game. Have we not still with us the man who picks up the ring which he is willing to let us have for the tenth of its value? The Elizabethan mariner, who has been shipwrecked and lost his all, has vanished. The Tudor disbanded soldier has vanished, but the army reserve man sells his matches in the street when he cannot find the work he looks for so earnestly; the counterfeit cranker who stood at the corner of the street covered with mud, and his face besmeared with blood, as one who has just had an attack of the falling sickness, is gone, because that kind of sickness is known no longer; the "frater" who carried a forged license to beg for a hospital, is also gone; the abraham man, who pretended to be mad, is gone; the "palliard" or "clapper dodger;" the angler, who stuck a hook in a long pole and helped himself out of the open shops; the "prigger of prancers," a horse thief; the ruffler, the swigman and prigman, are also gone, but their descendants remain with us, zealous in the pursuit of kindred callings, and watched over paternally by a force 38,000 strong – about one policeman for every habitual criminal – so that, since every policeman costs £100 a year, and every criminal steals, eats, or destroys property to the same amount at least, every criminal costs the country, first, the things which he steals – say £100 a year; next, his policeman, another £100; thirdly, the loss of his own industry; and fourthly, the loss of the policeman's industry – making in all about £500 a year. It would be cheaper to lock him up.

In the matter of punishments, we have entered upon a time of greater cruelty than prevailed under the Plantagenets. Men are boiled, and women are burned for poisoning; heretics are still burned – in 1585 one thus suffered for denying the divinity of Christ; ears are nailed to the pillory and sliced off for defamation and seditious words; long and cruel whippings are inflicted – in one case through Westminster and London for forgery; an immense number are hanged every year; the chronicler Macheyn continually sets down such a fact as that on this day twelve were hanged at Tyburn, seven men and five women; mariners were hanged at low water at Wapping, for offences committed at sea; the good old custom of pillory was maintained with zeal; and the parading of backsliders in carts or on horseback was kept up. Thus, one woman for selling fry of fish, unlawful, rode triumphantly through the town with garlands of fish decorating her head and shoulders and the tail of the horse, while one went before beating a brass basin. Another woman was carried round, a distaff in her hand and a blue hood on her head, for a common scold. A man was similarly honored for selling measly pork; and another, riding with his head to the animal's tail, for doing something sinful connected with lamb and veal.

The cruelty of punishments only shows that the administration of the law was weak. In fact, the machinery for enforcing law and repressing crime was growing more and more unequal to the task, as the City grew in numbers and in population. The magistrates sought to deter by the spectacle of suffering. This is a deterrent which only acts beneficially when punishment is certain, or nearly certain. The knowledge that nine criminals will escape for one who is whipped all the way from Charing Cross to Newgate encourages the whole ten to continue. Men are like children: if they are to be kept in the paths of virtue, it is better to watch and prevent them continually than to leave them free and to punish them if they fall. But this great law was not as yet understood.