"For sports, for pagentrie and plays,Thou hast thy eves and holy days.Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast:Thy May-pole, too, with garlands vast.Thy morrice dance, thy Whitsun ale,Thy shearing feasts which never fail;Thy harvest home, thy wassaile bowleThat's tost up after fox-i'th-hole;Thy mummeries, thy twelfe-tide kings,And queens; thy Christmas revellings."
"For sports, for pagentrie and plays,Thou hast thy eves and holy days.Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast:Thy May-pole, too, with garlands vast.Thy morrice dance, thy Whitsun ale,Thy shearing feasts which never fail;Thy harvest home, thy wassaile bowleThat's tost up after fox-i'th-hole;Thy mummeries, thy twelfe-tide kings,And queens; thy Christmas revellings."
When Master Dismal reached Shottery, he found a goodly assemblage collected together enjoying themselves in various ways upon the green. A whole sheep, which had been given to the inhabitants of the hamlet by Sir Thomas Lucy, who possessed property there, was roasting before a huge fire. A company of morris-dancers, dressed in a sort of eastern or Moorish costume, and covered with bells, were capering away, toeing and heeling, and keeping time, their truncheons also bedecked with hawks' bells, and making a tremendous jingling.
Then the May-pole, decked with evergreens and berries, and surmounted with misletoe, had its joyous party dancing, and running, and threading, and laughing, till the green rang again. The lads were all in holiday trim, their short becoming jackets belted tightly round the waist, their trunks and well-fitting hose forming part of their picturesque costume. The lasses were also dressed for the most part in one style—the neat made boddice and the short stuff petticoat, so becoming to the female figure, and in which they looked handsomer even than if bedizened with lace and silk, and tricked out with jewellery. The glow of exercise was in their cheeks, and the forms of many there, as they sported in all the unchecked freedom of innocent enjoyment, would have been worthy studies for the artist's pencil.
The children of the village, who are seldom behindhand when diversions are in full force, had also their part in the performance. Tricked out in all sorts of scraps of frippery, and costumed for the nonce, they revived, in their own way, the Christmas-day pastimes, and bringing out the hobby-horse, the green dragon, and all the paraphernalia which had done service on the former occasion, they renewed (in small) the sports they had then and there beheld. The dragon flapped his wings, the knight engaged him, the merryman and the old pantaloon took equal numbers of adherents, and "fought on part and part." The snow-balls flew fast and furious, and loud and dire were the shouts and hallooing of the combatants. Then came the feast in the open air, for in those days men and women shrank not from the winter blast during their holiday sports, and after that the cup went round, the dance was renewed, and the twelfth-tide kings and queens were introduced in all their grandeur.
The village of Shottery was a lovely specimen of a rural hamlet in the days of Elizabeth. It consisted then but of some half-a-dozen houses or hamlets, which, sequestered amongst the deep woodlands, and each with its little orchard in rear, and its pretty flower-garden, formed a delicious picture.
Except, indeed, that the homesteads were of a more recent build, (having superseded the ruder sort of huts, one or two of which, however, yet remained,) Shottery seemed as sequestered and out of the way of the busy world as when, many hundred years back, Offa, King of the Mercians, granted its meadow to the church of Worcester.
Besides the actors in the different games, there were also many spectators, who stood about and occasionally mingled amongst the lads and lasses of the village; and amongst these visitors were several foresters or keepers belonging to the domains of the gentry around.
These men, as was generally the case when they met together at the different wakes, fairs, and country diversions, got up a shooting-match at the edge of the green. Warwickshire was always famous for its bow-men, and the caliver had not so entirely superseded the cloth-yard shaft but that it was yet a dear diversion amongst the peasantry. The cross-bow, it is true, was mostly in use, but the longbow was still much practised. The remembrance of its destructive powers, and the battles it had won in the "vasty fields of France," was yet ripe in the mouths and memories of the old host, when he told his winter tale; nay, even yet we shall find in this delightful province some remnant of the longbow in almost every hamlet: there are indeed more archery meetings in Warwickshire alone than in all the other counties of England put together.
Amongst the many specimens of rural beauty enjoying themselves in the dance, there was one female who especially attracted the gaze of all assembled.
Pouncet Grasp (who had wandered over with Master Dismal and others to enjoy the scene, and, at the same time, see a client he had in the hamlet) seemed especially struck with her. Nay, even Master Dismal pronounced her of exceeding good proportions, and most comely features. He had never seen a fairer form, he affirmed, chiselled upon a tomb. "What a lovely corpse she would make!" he said, with professional enthusiasm; "an it please Heaven to take her early, and before age withered up her rounded limbs, and whitened her glossy black hair."
"Out upon it," said Master Doubletongue; "thy voice is like a screech owl's! Yonder lass will live to make wild work with the hearts of some of the village swains before she dies, for all her cherubim looks. I shall make shrewd inquiry about her. I'll wager a flagon there's some scandal to be heard. I never knew a well-favoured maiden yet, but her neighbours said something of her;" and here Master Doubletongue whispered in Grasp's ear, at which the lawyer laughed and winked his eye, as much as to say, "Ah, Master Doubletongue, you're a wag, but you're not far out either."
"An I might get yonder sweet-faced lass for a partner," said Grasp, who was a trifle roguish when out of his office; "methinks I could like to shake a toe amongst the circle."
"Nay," said Doubletongue, "I'm clearly with you there, neighbour; what a trim ancle she hath! By the mass, the keen wind which blows me into an ague here, shews her figure off to advantage. Accost her, Grasp, accost her! Methinks I should like to hear the voice which issues from so pretty a mouth."
"Go to," said Grasp, "I am somewhat diffident at speaking to a young lass where so many of her companions are around her. Do thou accost her, Master Doubletongue, and I'll be near to back you. See, the dance is finished, and she comes this way."
"You trip it featly, fair Mistress," said Doubletongue, as the damsel, whose appearance had so struck them, approached with two other maidens. "Will you join hands with me? Methinks I should like to join issue in the dance, and tread a measure with so fair a partner."
"Thanks, gentle sir," said the maid, laughing; "but I do not use to dance with any save those I know."
"Right," said a tall athletic-looking forester. "What do lawyers want dancing with village girls—Eh? Go to, Master Grasp, mate with your own degree. Fair mistress Anne," said he to the maiden, "you must be mine for the next dance."
The maiden shrank back with a look of dislike at the tall forester, which Grasp observing, interpreted it as a preference for himself as a partner.
"Thou art but a rude companion," said he; "and I would fain have the maiden's answer without thy counsel; she'll have none of thy partnership any how, I trow."
"No," said Doubletongue; "she wisheth not to have the scandal of such a partner. Go, fellow—go."
"Pshaw!" said the forester, "what a brace of old crones thou art—go, get thee down to the hostel yonder, and warm thee with a cup of wine, or an extra flannel shirt! Dance, quotha, and with such a lass as Anne Hathaway—Ha! Ha! Why, there's not a caper left in the pair of ye. Go, ye gray beards, go, or by my faith I'll make ye both dance to some other tune."
"Come, neighbour," said Doubletongue, who liked not the athletic make and savage look of the forester, "let us budge and exchange no more words with this scurvy companion. For, look ye there, the girl and he understand each other, depend on't. They are well matched. I know the fellow. He's a keeper of Sir Thomas Lucy's, and one of the greatest ruffians in the country."
But the village maiden evidently did not relish the companionship of the tall forester. She turned and would have tripped off with her two female companions without more controversy. The forester, however, who seemed somewhat flushed with good liquor, seized her by the hand, and insisted upon her being his partner.
"If I must dance with thee, Diccon, why I must," she said, as she was led by the rude keeper to another party; "but it is ungentle of thee to force me to do so against my free inclination."
"Thou art ever thus coy with me, Anne," said the forester, "and ever avoidest my company. Why dost use me thus, when I have sworn an hundred times I would die to serve thee?"
"I like thee not, and would have no further words with thee," said the maiden. "Thy presence poisons my delight. I have told thee so I know not how oft. I pr'ythee prove the love thou dost profess, by leaving me."
"Beware I shew thee not how love can turn to hate," said the dark forester, bitterly. "Thou shalt not spurn me thus for nothing. Come, thou shalt dance," and forthwith the forester led the maiden out to join the dancers.
Gazing upon the revellers, and at no great distance from the spot where the forester and his unwilling partner danced, stood a youth, apparently about seventeen years of age. He leaned upon a stout staff, and regarded the dancers with a countenance so melancholy, that it was evident (although he listened to the pipe and tabor, and watched the glee of the revellers) he had no part in their enjoyment. It was young Shakespeare: he had been absent some time from his native town—no one knew where he had sojourned, or what part of the world he had visited during this sequestration of himself from a neighbourhood recent events had rendered so full of melancholy associations. He had occasionally given his parents intimation by a few lines, or some message, of his welfare, and had but a few days before returned to Stratford.
It is not to be supposed, that one so full of observation would fail in remarking the very handsome female we have described. "The prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the green sward."
With a melancholy mind he had bent his steps that day towards Shottery. Such revels as the present he had before oft-times taken part in, and now (albeit he was in no mood for joviality), with the feeling and desire to observe the happiness of others, he had remained to look upon the sports.
His thoughts, indeed, were sad enough. He had lost his good friends from Clopton, after the terrible affliction of their house. He had been left alone after having tasted the sweets of their society, and this too in the midst of misery and disease. 'Tis true, that owing to the good management of his parents, and their being of more careful habits than the generality of the neighbours in their condition of life, they had kept the disease from their hearth, and for that he had reason to be thankful. But, added to the feeling of melancholy which the events we have before narrated had caused, was the knowledge that his father's circumstances were daily growing worse, and he felt too that he himself, although he had reached a time of life when he ought to be doing something, was without purse, profession, or prospect.
These thoughts, however, gradually gave place to interest in the surrounding scene. His was a mind and disposition which could scarcely witness the happiness of others without partaking of their joy, and gradually he became more and more interested. As he continued to observe the beautiful villager (for she was in the full blossom of her charms), he noticed that she seemed uneasy with her partner, and averse to his rough attentions. Watching more closely, he observed the overbearing style of the forester, and the increasing timidity of the maiden. That was enough for him. He moved nearer to them, and as the dance finished, he stepped up and accosted her.
"Your hand, fair maiden," he said, gently taking her hand in his. "But that I think you have fatigued yourself, I would dance with you."
There was so much sweetness in his voice and expression, as he said this, and his action was so gentle, that the maid resigned her hand, and, as she gazed at his handsome face, she unconsciously put her arm in his, and adopted him as her protector. In such cases the parties understood each other in a moment.
If there is one thing more likely than another to excite a desperate quarrel amongst men, it is rivalry in the affairs of love and gallantry. The veriest cur upon four legs can hardly brook being cut out unceremoniously before the eyes of his favourite, and to the tall forester, with the forbidding countenance, the fact of being thus outbraved by a stripling, was matter, at first, of astonishment more than anger. The fellow was a sort of champion too, one hired and kept by the knight of Charlecote as a sort of terror to evil-doers in his parks and preserves; an impudent, reckless, and quarrelsome companion; one whom most of the youths present would fain have avoided fastening a quarrel upon, inasmuch as he had kept the ring on Kenilworth Green for a whole Christmas, against all comers, a few years before.
Slightly bowing her head in courtesy, Anne Hathaway would have tripped off with her new friend and protector, but the keeper was not the man likely to put up with so unceremonious a parting. He stepped on a few paces, and presently overtook them.
"How now, young Master," he said to Shakespeare, "methinks you carry this matter as bravely as rudely? A word with you ere you walk off so quietly with my partner there."
As Anne, in some alarm, had rather urged her protector on, the forester unconsciously laid his hand upon his arm to detain him.
The youth snatched his arm quickly away. "Lay no fist of thine on me, sirrah," said he, "as many words as you like, but touch not my doublet."
Th« forester looked surprised at the eye of fire with which Shakespeare regarded him.
"And wherefore not?" he said.
"Simply," reiterated Shakespeare, "because your putting affront upon me will oblige me to wipe off such rudeness by a blow of my staff."
"Thou art a bold young springald as ever it was my lot to fall in with," said the forester, stepping a pace back and regarding his rival with a scowling look; "and by my fay, for your inches, as likely a young fellow as ere I looked upon, well limbed and clean made as a good bred colt. But I must take this sauciness out of thee. I cannot sing small before so young a champion; come," he continued, "unhand the lass, lest I pluck her from thee, or rather thee from her."
"The maiden seeks her home for a space," said Shakespeare, "and I attend her; after that I will hold converse with thee. Fear not," he whispered to his fair companion, as she shrank back in alarm at the threatening aspect of the forester, "this is but a drunken dissolute fellow, and I shall be able to protect you from his violence, depend on it. Those who threaten loudly are oftentimes but weak in action."
The pair were again about to move off. But the evident aversion of the maiden to the rude forester was indeed gall and wormwood to him, and roused him to stop her progress homeward.
"Nay, Mistress Anne," he said, "you carry it not thus with your gallant; come, I will bring you to your cot myself," and as he said this, he stretched forth his hand, and would have rudely seized her by the arm, but Shakespeare, who had anticipated something of the sort, dealt him so severe a blow over the knuckles with the staff he carried, that the hand fell powerless, and the forester, with a cry of pain, started back for the moment unable to return the blow.
"Make amongst your companions," said the youth, "I must bide this act now, for good or ill. I have struck the first blow."
The controversy had, indeed, already collected several spectators; "A ring, a ring!" they cried. "Here's Black Dick challenged to a bout at quarter-staff by a boy."
"Ha," said Grasp, who had come up amongst others, and now pushed into the circle, "assault and battery here, eh? Keep back, my masters all; keep out of range, lest we get a flout from their cudgels. There'll be smashing work anon, for look you, yonder's my wild slip of a sometime-clerk, John Shakespeare's unthrift son. He's going to catch it this time, and right glad am I therefore. Stand back, Master Dismal, stand back. Ah, there they go at it right merrily."
"I see evident chance of a broken skull in this business," said Dismal. "That fellow with the green frock seldom amuses himself by a set-to in the ring but he either maims or lames his adversary for life."
The parties indeed had quickly engaged, for as speedily as the forester could shake the numbness from his fingers, he dealt a most uncompromising blow at his adversary, which had it taken effect would certainly have knocked out his brains. But the youth received it on his staff with great coolness, and shifting his right hand, returned it as swiftly. The forester in an instant lost his temper; he rushed upon his opponent with the intention of seizing him in his powerful grip, and throwing him to the earth; but he received so severe a check full in the teeth as he did so, that he stopped short, and shook his head with rage and pain.
"Well struck," cried the villagers, "Black Dick has met his match!"
Coolness and self-possession will always tell in a combat of this sort.
The temper once lost, the conflict within tells more against the combatant than the blows of his adversary. Every available function is over-exerted and blind rage baffles the skill.
Thus it was with the bulky forester. Strong drink and violent anger rendered him tremulous as he fought. He dealt his blows thick as hail, most maliciously, and without any regard to the rules of such a combat. He would have killed his opponent if he could, and so young Shakespeare found, and dealt with him accordingly, quite aware that the slightest mistake on his own part would result in his either being killed or lamed for life. The youth, who in reality possessed greater strength than his appearance seemed to warrant, kept well away from the shower of blows, till his antagonist was completely out of breath. He then stood more up to him, returned his blows with interest, and at length dealt him so severe a stroke on the head, that the forester reeled under the shock and almost fell.
Nothing but his own consummate skill could, however, have saved young Shakespeare up to this time from the fury of his antagonist. Nothing now but his own chivalrous feeling could have saved his antagonist from a severer lesson than he actually received at his hands.
The blow he gave the forester, and which struck him on the head, for the moment placed him at his mercy. The strong ruffian reeled and nearly fell, and as he still endeavoured to smite furiously with his weapon, it flew out of his hand, and he was at the mercy of his antagonist, who immediately dropped the end of his staff upon the ground, and waited for him to recover it.
At this moment several of the forester's comrades, who had been shooting at a target at the edge of the Green, attracted by the sound of the fray, came up. They were enraged at beholding the discomfiture of their companion, whose opponent they seemed inclined to handle roughly; and the villagers immediately taking part with Shakespeare, a general fight ensued, and with the true English bull-dog resolution, blows with fist and stick resounded on all sides. Master Grasp was overturned and trod under foot, swearing action and imprisonment against all and sundry the combatants. Master Dismal was fain to betake himself to flight, and Doubletongue said, as he made off also, that such a scene was a scandal to the whole country; whilst the village maidens, in a state of alarm, stood looking on at a distance, and calling to their lovers, cousins, and brothers, to desist for the love of heaven and their own sweet sakes.
In short, such was the rage of the combatants,—the keepers being for the most part Gloucestershire men, and objects of dislike to the Shottery lads,—that it seemed more than probable lives would be lost ere the matter ended.
In the midst of the fray, however, a stately-looking man, mounted upon a large grey horse, accompanied by a couple of cavaliers, and attended by half-a-dozen serving-men, or falconers, rode up to the scene of action. The badge worn upon the arms of the attendants bore the same device as that upon the coats of several of the foresters engaged, being three white lucies, or pike-fish, and the spectators immediately recognised Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote.
No sooner did the knight observe the nature of the business in hand, and his own people engaged, than he clapped spurs to his horse, and dashing into the midst of the fray, called, in a voice of thunder, to the combatants to desist, overturning at the same time, with the shoulder of his horse, the two first persons he came in contact with.
"Give me the names, Huntsman," he said, turning to the man who seemed his own particular attendant, "of all in my service engaged in this disgraceful riot. Now, I will not only discharge, but punish them severely!"
"May so please your honour," said one of the foresters, "we are not altogether so much in fault as you may imagine. One of our comrades hath been assailed and beaten, and we did but take his part here, when all set upon us."
"And what do you here at all, caitiffs?" said Sir Thomas, "when ye should be in your walk in Fulbrook Park. Whilst such fellows as you dance and fight at wakes and fairs, my park is broken, and my game killed and carried off."
"We came but in to-day to drink your honour's health, hearing you had given a sheep for the revels," said the chop-fallen keeper.
"You shall drink the health of another employer henceforth," said the knight; "and who is the person you say hath beaten your fellow?"
"A youth, who hath more than once done the like," said the keeper; "one whom I myself have oft-times caught in our Woods and warrens, and as continually warned off."
"His name?" said Sir Thomas. "Let me know his name, and I will take sharp measures with him an I catch him."
"Shakespeare," said the keeper; "he hath beaten me myself some time back."
"Shakespeare!" said Sir Thomas, "'tis well. I will remember. Hath the fellow no Christian name?"
"William, your honour," said the forester; "the elder son of John Shakespeare, of Stratford."
"William Shakespeare!" said Sir Thomas, with emphasis. "'Tis well. Now point this William Shakespeare out to me, if he be present on the Green."
"If your honour looks but amongst the knot of men yonder," said the forester, "you cannot fail but see him."
"What, is it that fellow there with the broad shoulders and long back? By my fay, a strong and able caitiff."
"Not so," said the keeper, "'tis the youth standing next him, in the gray doublet."
"Fetch him hither," said Sir Thomas; "I would speak with him."
As young Shakespeare approached Sir Thomas, the knight regarded him with a scrutinizing and searching eye.
"A goodly stripling," he said, turning to Sir Jacob Astley, of Hill Morton, one of the gentlemen with him, "a goodly stripling, and a bold looking withal."
"It hath been notified to me, sirrah," said Sir Thomas, addressing Shakespeare with infinite stateliness and hauteur, "that you are much given to evil ways, inasmuch as you are wont to make frequent trespass upon my parks and woods hereabouts; and that, too, to the detriment of my property and the disturbance of my deer."
"I am sorry such rumours have reached you," said Shakespeare coolly, "since there is, I fear me, some sort of foundation for them. Ihavetrespassed in your woods. Albeit, I have never intentionally molested the deer."
"I am glad you have the grace to confess so much," said Sir Thomas; "but sith you have not disturbed my deer, you have, at least, beaten my foresters during your trespass, and again to-day have you repeated the offence."
"Your foresters rated me in ungentle terms," said Shakespeare; "railed at, and bestowed vile epithets upon me. Nay, even laid hands on me."
"They are hired by me so to do," said Sir Thomas. "Their roughness is their virtue; andbysuch roughness are they told to deter all trespassers and poachers from my parks and warrens."
"I am no poacher, to be so railed at and roughly treated," said Shakespeare coolly.
"Well, henceforth come no more into my woods," said Sir Thomas, preparing to ride off, "lest I give directions to have thee used in a more rough fashion than heretofore."
"I cannot promise that," said Shakespeare, "since I am much given to wandering; and, truth to say, I know not exactly which are, and which are not, your grounds. I would not willingly anger Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote,butan he keeps men for the preservation of the game, and the amusement of himself, methinks such men have small right to domineer and tyrannize over those of poorer sort, who seek but the free air and the wild woodlands."
"Thou art over bold and insolent for thy years," said Sir Thomas; "I will have thee whipped and imprisoned the next time my men take thee. So come not in Charlecote woods an ye be wise." And Sir Thomas, who found his choler getting high, put spurs to his palfrey, and, after ordering his keeper to quit the Green, rode off with his company.
It would be difficult to describe the expression of mingled acorn, contempt, and ridicule which was expressed upon the countenance of Shakespeare, as he regarded the departing figure of the knight of Charlecote.
He stood for some moments leaning upon his staff, looking upon the party as they rode off the Green and disappeared in the woods. He then turned his glance contemptuously upon the keeper, and laughing to himself as he repeated the words, "whipped and imprisoned," turned and was about to leave the spot.
"We shall meet again," said the keeper, in a deriding tone. "I know we shall."
"Not if I can avoid it," said Shakespeare.
"An we do," said the keeper, "you hear what is in store for you."
"He you serve can hardly tell what is in store for himself, much more for another," said Shakespeare, "an he could have done so, he had prophesied thy likely reward both here and elsewhere."
"What would that be?" inquired the keeper, coming close to the youth.
"Present beating, if again insolent," said Shakespeare, "and the gallows in reversion."
The keeper drew back; he remembered his comrade's discomfiture, and the skill the youth had displayed.
"Well, fare thee well," he said, "we shall cry quits anon. An Sir Thomas keep word with thee we shall lay thee by the heels yet."
"And, an he keep word with thee, he will have one knave the less in his service. Adieu, I waste time and speech upon thee." So saying, Shakespeare turned his back upon the forester, who, joining his companions, after exchanging a few angry words with their late opponents, they left the Green, and the sports were resumed.
The rudeness of the keepers and their overbearing style towards the villagers, was by no means an uncommon occurrence. Backed up by their employers to display as much roughness towards all trespassers as they chose, the foresters were usually a coarse and brutal set. They were mostly chosen too, at this period, for courage, strength, and skill with their weapons; consequently when they came into collision with the peasantry, the latter frequently had the worst of it, and the conflict seldom ended without serious consequences.
On the present occasion, several of the village lads assembled vowed war to the knife against the men they had fought with. They had so often experienced theiroutrécuidanceand overbearing rudeness, that they swore to annoy them in every possible way they could.
"Sir Thomas Lucy," said Ralph Coulter, "doth ever take part against us, let his men use us vilely as they may; nay, we shall soon have no leave to step either to the right or to the left from the beaten road. For look ye, an we steal but into the meadows to whisper a word into a fair lass's ear, we are warned off, and ordered to keep the path; an we take a dog to hunt the ducks in the stream, we are threatened with imprisonment for poaching."
"As well do the thing at once as be blamed for it," said another peasant; "who'll go down with me to-night, and shoot a buck in Fulbrook?"
"Have with you for one, say I," said Ralph Coulter, "an we miss the buck and hit the keeper, so much the better shot."
"Nay, this is but folly," said a third, "and may bring all into trouble, so to speak before strangers; you do but jest, I trow! Look ye, we are overheard too."
"An ye mean this lad who hath so well cudgelled Black Dick," said Coulter, "I dare be sworn he is not a sneak to turn informer upon us." "Wilt take a part and bring in a buck some night? Me thinks it would be rare sport," he continued, addressing Shakespeare.
"Marry will I," said Shakespeare, whose daring disposition was instantly aroused at the idea of the exploit. "Any night you like I should dearly love to do some despite towards those overweening knaves."
"Well," said Coulter, "we shall talk further of it anon; meantime see the dancing is over, and the indoors diversions are beginning. I am for old Hathaway's orchard and the cider revel."
"And I am for goodman Thorne's," said another; and so the party separated.
The shadows of a January's evening were now beginning to descend over the surrounding scene, and the several parties to retire to their different homesteads, there to continue their twelfth-tide diversions, and to partake of such fare as the good wives had prepared for the swains accompanying their daughters home.
Young Shakespeare, who had made acquaintance with Ralph Coulter, accordingly accompanied him to the cottage of Master Hathaway, where he again met with the handsome Anne, and renewed his acquaintance with her.
The maiden indeed seemed nothing loth to receive his attention, for his handsome figure and gallant conduct had already made some impression upon her.
According to an ancient custom in this and other counties of "Merrie England," Master Hathaway assembled his guests in the principal apartment of his domicile, a good-sized and comfortable-looking room, and which (as was usual in those days) served the jolly yeoman for "parlour, and kitchen, and hall." There was the huge gaping chimney, with its comfortable bench on either hand, together with those stout timbered rafters and oaken beams at the roof, from which hung such store of bacon and other good things appertaining. There was the diamond-paned-window and its seat beneath, with the stout timbered doors, the high-backed chairs, and the one massive and cumbrous oaken table, and which seemed from its thick supporters to be fixed into the floor, or growing out of it; and there sat the grandsire in his old accustomed seat under the chimney, "sans eyes, sans taste, sans teeth, sans everything," yet looking with some sort of recognition upon the sports he had witnessed, man and boy, for near a century in that very room. In short, it was a perfect picture of rural comfort and old world contentment that kitchen and its appurtenances, filled as it was with those happy, smiling, and rosy maidens, and their stout-limbed ruddy village swains.
As soon as Master Hathaway had assembled his guests and family, he filled a huge pitcher with cider, and the whole party, young and old, male and female, filed out into the orchard in rear of the cottage. Here they immediately took hands around one of the best apple trees, and dancing round it, the whole company hailed the veteran in the following doggrel, in the gladsome feeling of their light hearts, flinging and capering, shouting and hallooing, like so many bacchanals.
"All hail to thee, thou old apple-tree,Whence thou may'st bud, and whence thou may'st blow,And whence thou may'st bear apples enow.Bonnets-full! caps-full!Bushel-bushel-sacks-full,And our pockets-full eke also;Here's for thee, thou old apple-tree, huzza! huzza!"
"All hail to thee, thou old apple-tree,Whence thou may'st bud, and whence thou may'st blow,And whence thou may'st bear apples enow.Bonnets-full! caps-full!Bushel-bushel-sacks-full,And our pockets-full eke also;Here's for thee, thou old apple-tree, huzza! huzza!"
Whilst this was being sung, the females of the party, seizing the opportunity of the jug passing round, made their escape within doors; and then the joint intended for supper being clapped upon the spit, the doors were all immediately made fast. Meantime Master Hathaway, having finished his "all hail" to the patriarch of the apple family, bestowed a libation on its mossed stem from the remains of the cider, and then, at the head of his party, made the tour of his orchard, singing the same exquisite piece of doggrel over again.
This done, as the sharp and biting blast of a January night began to be apparent, and the snow to fall, the whole of the men assembled filed off to the house. Here (according to the custom of the time and the sport toward) the doors were found to have been secured by the female portions of the revellers; and they were put through the ceremony of a formal demand for admittance, and as formal a denial.
Exposed to the pitiless pelting of the snow-storm, whilst the damsels jeered them at advantage from the casement, they were told that no lock could be turned, no bolt withdrawn, until one amongst their party (himself a guest and a bachelor) could guess the name of the joint roasting upon the spit.
"And what guerdon," inquired Shakespeare, "to him who guesseth the same?"
"The best portion of the joint," said Dame Hathaway, "the first draught from the cider with the toast and hissing crab in it, and a kiss from the comeliest lass in the company."
"The latter reward, then, at least, I claim," said Shakespeare; "for an you have not spitted the chine to-night, I would I might never see a porker again."
The scream of laughter with which this was received, (the withdrawal of the bolts, and the rush of the lasses to hide themselves from the penalty incurred), proclaimed that the guesser had made a lucky hit; and Shakespeare, in right of his guess, entered first to claim and obtain the reward.
Our readers need scarcely be informed that the handsome daughter of the host was the maiden sought for and selected; and that Anne Hathaway received on this night the first kiss from William Shakespeare.
In the games which were to follow this ceremony, the more mirth displayed was superstitiously imagined to give greater promise of a full apple season that year, and accordingly, fast and furious grew the fun.
If we were to say that young Shakespeare entered into these revels with feelings of unmingled enjoyment, we should indeed belie him.
As he looked upon the joyous faces around him, he felt delighted at the scene; and as his eye occasionally met that of the handsome Anne, he certainly at each glance felt more and more struck with her beauty; yet, still the remembrance of Charlotte Clopton, and the dear friends he had lost, over and anon "stopped the career of laughter with a sigh," and he, at such moments, felt almost unfitted for the scene.
There was, however, a charm to one of his disposition in these old wild rites and superstitions; and, as after midnight the revellers sat round the hearth, and each one was called upon for the tale of grammarie, the ghost story, or the fairy tale, he at length gave himself up to the enjoyment of the hour and season.
The peasantry of our times have scarce an idea of the enjoyment consequent upon the old creeds and superstitions of their forefathers. Their dispositions are soured, their lives squalid, their style brutal, and in comparison to the good old English peasant, the jovial hearty yeoman of Elizabeth's day, they are a miserable race. The innocence of the old age is fled, and 'tis now all driving harshness, and hard selfish utilitarianism.
Our fairy creed, amongst other things of more moment, and which was wont to be so cherished amongst the superstitions of the peasantry, is gone from their memories.
Not a sprite is left to skim the cream from the bowl,—not a silver piece is now ever lent to thefavouredmaiden,without the rate of interest, and found by her at early dawn.
Puck and Robin Goodfellow, and all their elfin throng,have fled everfrom the scene. At the period of our story, however, these imaginary beings held a prominent place in the minds of our rural populations. Nay, so firmly was the existence of theseelfins of powerbelieved in, and so much influence were they supposed to have over mortalsfor good or ill, that many an old crone spoke with bated breath when she named the merry or mischievous pranks of Robin Goodfellow. Many a bold youth glanced with eye of fear at the acknowledged haunt of the fay in the forest glade, and many a maiden held the household sprite in religious awe, as she swept her kitchen at early dawn.
That such feelings and superstitions were idle and ridiculous (amongst the bold peasantry of England in a former age) is true. Still, they gave a charm to each shadowy grove and unfrequented wood, and caused an interest in the different wild scenes of beauty where the elfin crew, "those merry wanderers of the night," were wont to hold their moonlight revels, and dance their ringlets to the whistling wind, which to our own times is unknown.
The more noisy sports of the night had finished. The party, nothing loth, for even pleasure is fatiguing, were now seated round the blazing hearth. To noise and loud laughter succeeded the cough of the crone—the saw of the old man's tale—the tale "of woeful ages long ago betide," and the chirp of the cricket; whilst the ruddy glow of the fire was reflected upon the faces and forms of tho listeners sitting around. The maidens, too, crept more closely to their admiring swains, as they glanced fearfully behind during the progress of the tale; more than one kiss was taken on the sly, by way of assurance against the spectre. The last pipkin of good liquor simmered upon the hearth, and, in short, it was now the very "sweet o' the night."
To Shakespeare this was a delightful moment. His mind seized upon the secret feelings of the assemblage. He saw them in their ignorance and superstition: and though conscious of his own superiority over the rude throng, "sitting 'mongst men like a descended god,"—nay, in after days, remembering these meetings and the feelings they had engendered, he founded an elfin world of his own on the traditions of the peasantry, and clothed them in the ever-living flowers of his own exuberant fancy. Yes, he who was to astonish the universal world, sat in that cottage like one lost in a dream—a dream which these simple superstitions had conjured up. The snow-storm still rattled on the casement, the fire grew dim on the hearth, the room darkened down, the wind whistled without, and sounded drear amongst the mossed trees in old Hathaway's orchard, as he listened, and, as his arm stole round the waist of the sweet Anne, he forgot his recent troubles, and already felt himself half in love, whilst the tale and the song still went on.
That gentle and unassuming mortal was the last person to presume upon his own feelings and knowledge; he felt pleased and delighted with the company he was thrown amongst, and extracted amusement and instruction from the veriest clod-pate there. Perhaps the enjoyment of the circle was the more perfect, too, from the growing storm, which as it rattled sharply against the casements, added to the comfort within, by the apparent discomfort without.
Remembrance lingers o'er such scenes, and the lapse of time gives them an interest which at the period they scarcely seemed to possess. Yes, time hallows in after days the scene and hour, and softens the remembrance of it even as age softens the touches of a picture.
"Ugh-ugh," coughed the old grandsire, when called upon for his story. "There have been many tales told of Robin Goodfellow in my young days, an I could but remember them. Nay, I can recollect myself sad pranks he used to play. Both him and Hobgoblin, as we used to call t'other sprite. In those days the witches were more plentiful than now, though their evil deeds are rife enow at all times—God 'ild us; but even the witches themselves were no more terrible than was Robin and his rout. Mass, I wish I could remember one half of the merry jests, mad pranks, and mischiefs he used to do."
"Nay, grandsire," said Anne Hathaway, "but this Robin doth no harm now, except it to be to knaves and queans, as he is Oberon's own son, so his royal father hath enjoined him not to harm the good and thrifty."
"Of a verity," said the elder Hathaway, "such is the case in some sort. Nevertheless, Anne, in my time, sad pranks have been played in the night season by Robin."
"Aye, and as many good turns done too by him in mine," said old dame Hathaway. "What, hath not the elf oft-times ground the malt, swept clean the house, and washed all the children's faces in the night?"
"Aye," said the other, "and pinched the maids black and blue for laziness; and even carried them out fast asleep into the green meadows in the night, and led poor wayfarers out of the way to perish in some deep wash."[5]
"Well, well," said Master Hathaway, "cleanliness and thrift, and a good hunk of bread in one's pouch, will do much; not only to keep off the elf, but to keep one from hungering in the quagmire, for what saith the rhyme."[6]
"Thy fairy elves who thee mislead with storiesInto the mire, then at thy folly smile,Yea, clap their hands for joy. Were I used so;I should shake hands with them, and turn their foe.Old country folks, who pixie leading fear,Bear bread about them to prevent that harm!"
"Thy fairy elves who thee mislead with storiesInto the mire, then at thy folly smile,Yea, clap their hands for joy. Were I used so;I should shake hands with them, and turn their foe.Old country folks, who pixie leading fear,Bear bread about them to prevent that harm!"
"Come, tell us, grandsire," said Anne, "how you met the fairies coming one night from Monkspath."
"Gad-a-mercy, lass, I had almost forgotten all about it," said the old host, who indeed had most likely dreamt the adventure one night in his cups, and then related it till he himself believed it was a fact. "Why, you see, when I was a yonker, there were terrible deeds done in England. We didn't live then so peaceable-like, as we do now, under our blessed Queen Elizabeth. A man's life in those days warn't thought o' so much value as in ourn; by the same token, stabbing, smashing, hanging, and heading, and all sorts of wild work, were the order of the day,—more the pity. We hadn't then either such goodly dwellings, at least so many on 'em. Men were men then, and hadn't such luxuries as now. Ugh-ugh, Gad-a-mercy! I have seen the time when we used to sleep o' nights in the open fields as comfortably as under a roof. Nay, we hadn't such beds either then. A shake-down of the fern, or a clean bed of straw, with a log of wood for the head, was enow for most folks. I struck a good strike for Harry at Bosworth Field what time old Shakespeare——"
"Well, well," interrupted John Hathaway, "Bosworth bye and bye. The fairy story now, father."
"Nay, I war only going to say that yonder lad's grandfather (old Shakespeare of Stratford) could have borne me out, had he been alive, since he war at the battle of Bosworth too. Both he and I were together, jammed in amongst the spearmen, when King Richard pressed up on his white horse, and nearly struck young Richmond down. Mass, he were a fierce devil that day, and raged like a fiend. Richmond, I remember, bore back, as well as he might, an Richard had not been beaten off by the good knights around, the hot king had fairly brained him. Two I saw him fell with my own eyes ere he was forced away. Ah, he were a goodly sight to look on that day; and if deeds of daring and good soldiership could ha gotten the day, Richard had had it. He wore his crown upon his helmet, I remember, and (albins men liked him not) by my fay, he looked a king. No man that lived and beheld him but saw that."
"But the fairies, grandsire, the fairies?" said Anne.
"Well, well; bide a bit. Where war I? Ah, I see. I had a mad horse in Shottery—what time I came back from Leicestershire—and I would fain have sold him; so I e'en rode him along with some other youngsters to Kenilworth Green, where there war a wake holden underneath the abbey walls. Folks spoke darkly of old Kenilworth then. Now I'm told there be rare new buildings reared up there."
"There are," said Ralph Coulter. "A fine new castle hath been built by the Earl, glorious to look on, and called Leicester's Buildings, and ornamented, that it would do you good to look on 'em."
"Ah," said the elder Hathaway, "times are changed hugely. At the time I speak of old Clinton's Tower was ornamented and hung with the bodies of caitiffs, traitors, and outlaws; for the whole country round was full of disturbance, famine, and war. Howbeit, as I was saying, I went to Kenilworth to sell my sorrel nag; but I couldn't do so. So after I had taken a draught at the Leicester Arms there, I rode away to a relation I had at Monkspath. Travelling was very unsafe then, as you may believe—worse than now-a-days—and I hastened on to get through the woods before nightfall; and when I had got within about a mile of Monkspath, I saw a man, just as it began to grow twilight, coming towards me. He was dressed in a bright green doublet, and either my eyes deceived me, or the good liquor of the hostel made me see double, but he had a sort offamiliarflitting at his back. He was very small in make and height, and wore a bright golden bugle at his waist. My horse stopped of himself as the little man came up, and seemed all of a tremble, and wouldn't pass him nohow; so I dismounted, and tried to lead him past. But it wur all one; the horse wur fixed as firm as one of the old oaks beside us. 'Will you sell that brute?' said the little hunter. ''Tis what I wish,' I answered. 'It is very ugly: is it a cow or a horse?' said the little man. 'He was a horse a minute ago,' I answered; 'but now he seems turned to stone: I can't make him go, no wise.' 'My people have got him fast,' said the little man; 'he can't go. What do you ask for him?' inquired the little wretch. 'Fifteen pieces,' I said. 'There's thirty,' said the little man. 'Now stand aside whilst I mount.' So saying, the little gentleman gave me the thirty pieces, and got upon the horse. No sooner had he done so than the beast went mad outright, I thought. He flew about, capered, and kicked out his heels, as if a flame of fire had lighted on his crupper. I ran to get out of the way, for fear of being struck, and when I turned, lo, horse and man were clean gone—sink into the earth as it were, and vanished, leaving me in the greatest of terror and confusion; whilst a wild and beautiful strain—a sort of hollow winding note of a bugle—seemed to pass through the air."
"Strange," said several of the listeners. "Was it not?"
"As soon as I had a little recovered myself," continued the quaint old man, "I hastened on to Monkspath, and sought my relation. He took me to an old monk belonging to the abbey beside the castle, to whom I told the story, and asked his advice about the money, and whether I might use it. The monk gave me leave to use one-half the money, provided I gave him t' other half; 'for,' said he, 'as you in no way circumvented or endeavoured to cheat the buyer, be he witch, devil, or fairy, you are fully entitled to what you asked. The other fifteen pieces,' said he, 'I will lay up in store for the use of our abbey.' On this assurance I was well satisfied, so I hastened to get out the purse the little gentleman had given me; but the worst of it all was that no purse could I find; my pocket was empty, my purse gone, and the monk rated at me for a knave, whilst my relation laughed at me for a fool."
"He, he, he—ugh—O dear—O dear!"
"And the horse," said Anne—"the horse? you forgot the horse, grandfather."
"The horse—oh, ah, true enough—the horse. Why I found him, on my return home here, grazing quietly in the orchard, with his saddle turned under his belly, and covered with mud and mire, as if he had been drawn through all the mosses and sloughs between this and Coventry."
"And you was not at all flustered that night?" said Shakespeare. "Pardon the question, But I thought the little man in green might have treated you to an extra cup."
"Body o' me,—what I drunk! Not a whit. I had had just enough to make me all right. I'd a drunk about as much that night as I have to-night, or perhaps a quart more."
"And who do you then suppose the buyer was?" inquired Shakespeare.
"Who?" said the old host, "why, who but Robin Goodfellow, his own self! Who else should it be?"
"True," said Shakespeare, laughing; "there's no question on't."
"A song, a song," said Dick, the shepherd. "Let fair Mistress Anne sing the song about Robin."
Anne Hathaway accordingly, in a marvellously sweet voice, and to the old tune of Dulcina, sang some verses, which, although not word for word the same, in some sort were like the following stanzas:—