A Journey to the Globe

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???????????????????????????????????????????????????A Journey to the Globe

My name’s Jack, 29, a farmer by legacy, yet a shoemaker by necessity.

Lost in the spectacular soothing rhythm of the Thames, My betrothed, Jane, and I are standing arm to arm on Southwark’s Bridge, inhaling the hypnotising odour of the waves and intoxicating fragrance of the lilies plucked for my love and replanted on her reviving bosom, and resembling my beloved’s shyness and innocence.

It is as if we were devouring the scenery, when, all of a sudden, a ship’s screech awakens us from the honey-sweet slumberous dream. We shall be late for the play! We have succumbed this Sunday afternoon to theatrical pleasure rather than divine rituals. We flutter towards the playhouse, her golden mane streaming down her as yet girlish shoulders.

Reaching the theatre triumphantly, I pay two pennies to get admission. Damn my lot! We are to watch Julius Caesar behind a great multitude that has thrived to make a presence earlier in the pit and occupy the front space facing the stage. But the romantic adventure is at fault! Poor Jane!?Her average height makes her crane her delicate neck to have a glimpse of the stage. A solution! I may hug her, lifting her so that she can have a sufficient view of the play.

I’m surrounded by folks to whom I most belong, the commoners. Whenever I take attendance here in the pit to watch a play, I feel a bond unshakable and melancholy solidarity. Penny-worth preys of the painstaking pang of an unjust society! I can feel the smell of the sweet labourly-sweat of my class; what holds us together, yet disjoins us from the occupants of the extravagant galleries: the nobilities, the gentries, and maybe the nouveau-riche. They are so seated that one assumes they were the only spectators, watching us as the bear-baits! The construction and structure well distinguish the upper from the lower class. Feeling secure in their heavenly galleries, some look down upon us haughtily, and some do so compassionately.

Everywhere can be heard the murmur of the avid crowd. I’m whispering in my beloved’s ear caressingly how dearly I adore her, her eyes flashing tenderly with love and expectation mirroring the passionate fire burning in the furnace of her honest heart. Her exquisite scent surpasses any fragrance and suffices for the whole play! The blowing of the trumpet inaugurates the play, and silence embraces and seals the lips of the whole house. The spectators are absorbed in the ups and downs of the piece, and their faces and gestures reflecting their shift of mood at every turn.

As Act III unfolds, I can feel the throbbing touch of Jane’s arm so tightly engrafted into mine. The conspirators stab Jupiter-glorious Caesar profusely, making him kneel down and descend dead on the Capitol’s floor. Even though the spectators expected such a tragic scene to befall, all are filled with awe and shock.

Bursting with rage and revenge for the conspirators and compassion and concern for Caesar, I would have shed tears, but for Jane’s sake. She is already so impressed by the cruel schemer’s bloodshed that she is weeping lowly, her sincere tears flowing from her pure glittering springs, enough fuel to spark and flame a thousand men’s hearts. The crowds’ faces are eyewitnesses to the agonies and pity blazing inside them.

Brutus’s speech follows. Some individuals’ facial expressions acknowledge their trust and assent in his speech. But I cannot be satisfied! Anthony’s subsequent address sways the plebeians’ opinion as well as the spectators’.

His humble oratory makes the strands of my body hair stand on their ends! “The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones” (3.2.76-7). “But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man” (3.2.88-9). Such an ingenious way to reproach and rouse the public! And how true Caesar stated that “The valiant never taste of death but once” (2.2.34).

To be continued…