that he left his property in the theatre to the management of his son Cuthbert, who, following the example of his father, became a partner in the building of the Globe on the Bankside; so that, first to last, the Burbadges were closely mixed up with the great age of the drama from its beginning to the very topmost pinnacle of its glory. But still more curious was it that Shakspeare, who did not appear upon the scene until Burbadge, the father, had done all the rough work, and prepared the temples for the high ceremonies of our stage literature, should become mixed up, in the long-run, with the very first playhouse, and should come to play and write under the shadow of its timbers. It happened in this way. Cuthbert Burbadge, finding that he could not obtain a renewal of his lease, in the expectation of which so prodigal an outlay had been incurred, determined not to leave the theatre behind him for the benefit of Goodman Allen; and, accordingly, collecting together some twenty friends, armed with swords, axes, daggers and other weapons and implements, he proceeded to take down the wood-work. Goodman Allen was by no means disposed to yield up the materials (for he professed to hold the play house, as a playhouse, in abhorrence) without a struggle; and he gathered his followers together to resist Burbadge and his men. A battle royal ensued. But Cuthbert won the day, and triumph antly transported to the Bankside the whole of the wood that composed the theatre in Shoreditch, and applied it to the enlargement of the Globe, where Shakspeare was writing plays and James Burbadge acting in them.
Thus came to a violent end the First Playhouse, after having run through a successful career of nearly a quarter of a century. The Curtain survived it, but gradually fell into disrepute; the current of popularity, as time advanced, setting in towards Southwark in the summer, and Blackfriars in the winter.
James Burbadge did not live to witness the demolition of “The Theatre.” He died before the lease was quite expired, and, like all the Burbadges, for three or four generations after, was buried in the populous churchyard of St. Leonard’s, near his merry friend and neighbour, Dick Tarlton, who had taken up a tenement in God’s Acre about eight years before. Dick, the prince of jesters, and the most illustrious of our historical clowns, lived, as they all did, in Holywell Street (known in after times as High Street), and was not only an actor of especial merit, but one of the Earl of Leicester’s servants. He was in close alliance with the Burbadges, and from him, in all probability, Richard, the actor, derived his name.
The attachment of this first playhouse family to the quarter in which they originally struck root is remarkable. Their growing fortunes never tempted them to wander from their early homestead; and even Cuthbert, whose material interest lay chiefly in the Borough, and Richard, whose celebrity might have excused a flight into more fashionable regions, continued to their deaths to reside in the old street in Shoreditch.
The widow of James Burbadge was no less steadfast than the rest. She outlived her husband seven years, and followed him to the same churchyard which already contained the ashes of some of her children, and in which the rest of them were afterwards deposited.
THE PALIMPSEST.
Love turn’d quite studious, grave, one day,
And left his play.
He folded close each azure wing,
And ceased to sing:
Casting from groves reverted looks,
Took to his books.
He chose a volume from his store,
And ’gan to pore
Upon a thickly-cover’d page,
Which youth or age
Had writ, and cross’d and so recross'd,
Meaning seem’d lost.
Yet Love still gazed, all open-eyed,
And almost sigh’d.
But tenderness was soon beguiled,
And so he smiled,
As vagrant Memory, hovering near,
Whisper’d his ear.
“This manuscript,” cried Love at last,
“Contains my past:
The tale of passion’s following waves,
Which found their graves,
Leaving a wrinkle on the shore,
And nothing more.
“First on the roll Aglae’s name,-——
My virgin flame!
O, how I loved thee! Offering flowers
At matin hours,
When birds fill’d all the sky with mirth,
And joy the earth;
“And should have loved for aye, I ween,
Had it not been
That Dora’s eyes, so nun-like, sweet,
My glance did meet,
And drew me, at each vesper bell,
To her green cell.
“I could have knelt for ever there,
But Sibyl fair
Ross, like a conquering star, and then
(We are but men)
Led me beside her chariot wheel
(Dear! what we feel!)
“Over her name I just can trace
Thine, sweetest Grace.
Thine was the advent of the day:
The rest were play.
Ah, why should passion’s perfect noon
Sink all so soon!
“Next there comes Zoe; then Lucrece
(I had no peace!)
And here’s a name I can‘t make out,—
Much loved, no doubt;
And here’s one I have clean forgot,
Or, ’tis a blot.
“Then Clarice, large-eyed like a fawn”
(Love ’gan to yawn),
“And thy full charms, dear Amoret,
I ne’er forget;
Nor Lettice, frank and debonnaire,
I do declare.”
