On June 29, 1613, the Globe Theatre burned down to the ground. In existence for a mere ten years and the home to some of the greatest works of English literature the world would ever see, the theatre’s flames licked ferociously at the London summer sky. Reputed to have been set ablaze by a cannon misfiring during a performance, this was the story that was widely accepted. I’m here today to tell the “true” story of that fateful night.
On the morning of June 26, 1613, William Shakespeare sat quietly looking out his kitchen window at his rather sumptuous home at Stratford-upon-Avon. His mood was both contemplative and foul. He had grown tired of the act of writing. How could this be? His fuel, his passion for decades had been to place his thoughts upon paper, his creation brought to life for the multitudes who had witnessed his works. Now, that fire seemed cold, as though doused with a frigid and unexpected rain. His last few works had been a mildly successful collaboration with John Fletcher and, financially, he was secure. At age forty-nine, he was still in reasonably good health. History, its many varied players, their triumphs and tragedies, had consumed much of his thought and a great bulk of his writing. But it was always “someone else’s” history, not his.
Of course, there had been the prolonged battle in removing the stain of dishonor from his father’s, and by relation, his, name. The obtaining of the coat of arms had been an arduous affair and had taxed the limits of his patience. Yet, it had been accomplished. No, upon waking this morning, he had been besieged by visions which he might only conject were remnants of a previous night’s unsavory dreams. He now merely saw shadows moving amongst the trees. Specters of characters he himself had invented: Othello, King Lear, Hamlet. Poor tortured Hamlet. Could a man write so eloquently about the suffering of another human being and not be affected by it? Yet, he already knew the answer. The weight of murder, mayhem and madness lay as if stone pressed upon his person.
Can man mix poison with ink well and quill
Then step into sunlight … nary a care?
Do dreams come calling in nights deadly still?
Is madness reflection of love so fair?
I live in a world of my own choosing
Fleshed out my fantasies for all to see
Why do I so often feel I’m losing?
They see my creations … never see me
Immortality waits in roaring fire
All that is e’er known, shall go up in flame
My papers, my books, a trail lost in pyre
‘Tis I shall play final card in this game
All it shall take is one well-placed match
I’ll seal the enigma upon dried thatch
So William Shakespeare bade farewell to daughter, Susanna, and made his way to London. He was nearly half a century old in an age of quickened breaths and great uncertainty. He had many secrets locked into cabinets at the Globe; secrets which, if revealed, might, in the eyes of some, tarnish his reputation or, perchance, enhance it. He would leave no ambiguity to the matter. Personal letters of correspondence might indeed place his family at risk, for he had, God forgive his soul, written seditiously concerning the Queen and many of her court. Many of these “parchments of power” had never been sent yet still resided amongst his personal affairs at the Globe. This had been foolish, but in the declining age of chivalry, when men did so dare to question even a King or Queen, how could he, who had penned such courage, be such a coward as to not even use quill as his broadsword? He was well aware and vaingloriously proud, that through the machinizations of his work, he had exposed the hypocrisy of tyranny many times. But how much had been understood? Always forced to conceal his barbed comments in layers of cryptic clothing, he now was unsure how much had actually gotten through to the ale crowds who oft received them. Marlowe had taken the ultimate gamble and paid with his life. How often had he envied Marlowe and his death for that which he believed. Now, he, William Shakespeare, would join his literary pantheon of characters who performed noble deeds to save those that they loved.
He arrived, in heavy disguise, on the afternoon of June 29. He sat with his horse high upon a hill overlooking his beloved London. The Globe Theatre, of which he and the Burbages and fellow players of the Chamberlain’s Men had so been enamored, rested gloriously in the misty, stagnant air. The building was being readied for a performance and players and workers could be seen scurrying to and fro. He would wait until nightfall when the crowds had departed and then perform his act.
Consumed by fire … baptismal conflagration
Plays, poems, sonnets and most crucial … letters
Shame shan’t befall the next generation
Flames so searing my ink blotted fetters
As darkness fell upon old London Town
A man on horseback … alone unobserved
Rode most stealthily on much sodden ground
Eyes were now wet with the task now at hand
He recalled first days … much joy and sorrow
The first time they’d walked all planning the land
Match sword alit … the Globe, no tomorrow
As embers sparked high into starry night
A “Quill Warrior” rode tall … victory flight
Shakespeare’s legacy is secure today.
We have his sonnets, poems and plays.
Perhaps in his tomb, protected by curse
Lies the final chapter, the long sought-after verse.
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