I.From Oberon, in fairy land,The king of ghosts and shadows there,Mad Robin I, at his command,Am sent to view the night sports here.What revel routIt kept aboutI will o'erseeAnd merry beIn every corner where I go,And make good sport with ho, ho, ho!
I.
From Oberon, in fairy land,The king of ghosts and shadows there,Mad Robin I, at his command,Am sent to view the night sports here.What revel routIt kept about
I will o'erseeAnd merry beIn every corner where I go,And make good sport with ho, ho, ho!
II.When house or hearth doth sluttish lie,I pinch the maidens black and blue;The bed-clothes from the bed pull I,And lay them naked all to view.'Twixt sleep and wakeI do them take,And on the clay-cold floor them throw;If out they cry,Then forth I fly,And loudly laugh I, ho, ho, ho.
II.
When house or hearth doth sluttish lie,I pinch the maidens black and blue;The bed-clothes from the bed pull I,And lay them naked all to view.'Twixt sleep and wakeI do them take,And on the clay-cold floor them throw;If out they cry,Then forth I fly,And loudly laugh I, ho, ho, ho.
III.By wells and rills, in meadows greenWe nightly dance out hey-day guiseAnd to our fairy king and queenWe dance our moonlight minstrelsies.When larks 'gin singAway we fling,And babes new-born steal as we go,An elf insteadWe leave in bed,And wind out-laughing, ho, ho, ho![7]
III.
By wells and rills, in meadows greenWe nightly dance out hey-day guiseAnd to our fairy king and queenWe dance our moonlight minstrelsies.When larks 'gin singAway we fling,And babes new-born steal as we go,An elf insteadWe leave in bed,And wind out-laughing, ho, ho, ho![7]
How much longer Mistress Anne Hathaway's song might have continued it is impossible to say, but as she finished the last verse steps were heard without the door, followed by sounds, as if some one in a faint voice demanded admittance, and then a dull heavy blow, like a person falling, and which shook the door violently.
The wind piped loud and drear, whilst all paused and listened, and presently a deep groan, which appeared to come into the very room from beneath the door, still further startled the party.
The village maidens were too much frightened to cry out, but each threw herself into the arms of the swain next her, whilst Master Hathaway rose from his seat, and Shakespeare felt obliged to bestow a kiss upon the ripe lips of Anne, in order to reassure her.
"Gad-a-mercy," said Hathaway, "'tis surely Robin himself come amongst us."
"Ah!" said Dame Hathaway, "this comes of singing ribald songs to offend him. Now the good year; what shall we do to appease the sprite? Ah, mercy on me, there is another groan, as I am a true woman."
"Some one is surely in distress," said Shakespeare, rising, "suffer me to unbar the door."
"Troth, I'd rather not," said Hathaway; "since it may be a device of the evil one to come amongst us."
"Nay, but it may be some wayfarer lost or misled on this inclement night," said Shakespeare. "A few minutes' neglect may cause death. I pr'ythee allow me to open and look out. There are enough of us here," he continued, smiling at the horror-stricken peasants, "to cudgel Puck and all his crew."
So saying, Shakespeare stepped across to the door, and, drawing the bolts, quickly opened it, when the body of a man to all appearance dead, rolled into the apartment.
The visitation we have just described caused a sufficiently startling interruption to the cozy comfort of the entire party. Young Shakespeare started back in some surprise, and the whole circle, springing from their seats, stood gazing upon the object so suddenly introduced amongst them.
The villagers looked upon the visitation as something supernatural, and were afraid to move; but Shakespeare, after closing the door, with main force against the driving wind and snow, stooped down and examined the object at his feet.
"Move the log upon the hearth, Master Hathaway," he said, "and make it send up a flame, so that I may see better. Ah, 'tis as I thought, some poor devil caught in the storm. He seems dead."
"Dead!" cried Dame Hathaway, regaining courage, when she found the visitor was not a fairy, or perhaps Robin Goodfellow inpropriâ personâ. "Dead! Gad-a-mercy, how dreadful!"
"Best warm his inside," said Master Hathaway, approaching. "Here, let us drag him close to the fire, and give him something to drink."
Suiting the action to the word, Master Hathaway took the inanimate body by the shoulders, and, drawing it before the fire, laid it along upon the hearth,—a ghastly object,—appearing, in the blazing light, the prostrate form of what had once been a tall strong man. The face was now, however, pinched and ghastly, and the limbs already stiffening.
The readiest remedy at hand being a portion of the hot cider, with the hissing crab in it, some was immediately poured down the throat of the prostrate wayfarer, whilst all hands set to work to draw off the heavy boots, and divest him of some of his outer garments, in order to rub and chafe his body. In the progress of this operation it became apparent that the person of the visitor had been exposed to all the vicissitudes of flood and field; since the mud frozen upon his outer garments, and the peat-moss which was incrusted upon his long boots, doublet, and torn belt, showed that he had wandered through more than one morass in his progress.
He was evidently a person of condition, as was apparent from his dress, which, torn and soiled as it was, proclaimed the rank of the wearer, by its fashion. He was completely armed too, having a long heavy sword in his belt, and poniard in his girdle.
"Ah!" said old Hathaway, as he gazed upon the man's face, after pouring a draught of hot cider down his throat; "I surely know that countenance."
"See, he's coming to," said Dame Hathaway; "he opens his eyes, aye, and his mouth too. Give him more liquor."
"'Tis so," said Hathaway, after regarding the prostrate form; "I thought I knew that face. Dame," said he, calling his wife aside, "this is a somewhat dangerous visitor, inasmuch as he is one whom it is considered treason to shelter."
"And who then is it, husband?" inquired the Dame.
"'Tis Eustace the priest," whispered Hathaway, "who used to lie up at Clopton, and through whom 'tis said the old knight got into so much trouble. His coming bodes no good to us, I fear."
"Gad be here" said Dame Hathaway, "that's ill tidings to give us on a twelfth-night, or rather morn. But be he priest or sinner, traitor or faitour, or whatever else he may turn out, we cannot do otherwise than help him in his present need."
"Right," said Hathaway; "we must shelter the man, that's certain."
In accordance to this humane resolve, and which was indeed at the period sufficiently hazardous, the priest was conveyed up stairs, and laid upon a four-post bed. But although every attention was paid to him, it was soon apparent that his hours were numbered.
Calling Dame Hathaway to his bed side, as he somewhat recovered, the priest desired that Master Hathaway might be summoned.
"I fear me your kindness, good Master Hathaway," he said, "may possibly get you into misfortune; and were I able to rise and leave your cottage, I would rather do so, than lay you under the danger of succouring me."
"Heed it not," said the good farmer, "a belated wayfarer should ever find shelter in an Englishman's cottage."
"But, in me," said the priest, "you behold a man condemned to death, and whom the officers of justice are now in search of."
"I know you only as one in need," returned the farmer. "Those who search know for what they search. You are welcome to my roof whilst needing it. When you no longer need it, go forth."
"I shall never leave it alive," said the priest. "Listen whilst I relate the causes which have driven me to this extremity."
"Go to," said Hathaway, "sleep would do you more good. But an it pleases you to be a talker, I am all attention."
"You doubtless know me," said the priest, "and so much of my history as led me to fly from Clopton what time the good Sir Hugh was arrested and sent to the Tower."
"Hap I do, hap I don't," said the farmer. "Take another sip of the warm sack my dame hands you, and go on from thence. At least I've heard of the events of that night."
"I escaped pursuit on that night," said the priest. "They sought me in the south, but I fled north, across the border, and took refuge in Scotland."
"Ah!" said old Hathaway, "I dare be sworn there you found plenty of your own sort. Scot and plot hath rhymed together pretty often during this reign."
"It hath," said Eustace; "and I speedily entered into a plot there."
"One you found ready-made to your hand," said Hathaway; "Eh?"
"I did," said the priest. "I fell in, whilst in the mountains, with one Morgan, also a fugitive from England: he introduced me to Babington, Savage, and others, who were zealous Catholics, and engaged in a project for dethroning Elizabeth, and restoring by force of arms the exercise of the ancient and true religion. The Pope, the Spaniard, and the Duke of Guise, had all emissaries amongst this company. I, however, persuaded them of the vanity of any attempts upon the kingdom, so long as one so prudent and popular as Elizabeth was suffered to live. An assassination, an insurrection, and an invasion, must at one and the same time be attempted, I told them, that they saw at once the force of my arguments. We met, during this discussion, in an old castle situate in Strathdon, and called Corgarff—a wild and desolate place. To you who dwell in fertile and pleasant England, my good folks," continued the priest, "the aspect of the wild region in which we held our meetings, would have appeared sufficiently terrible. No shrub, no tree, not a blade of grass was to be seen on this drear mountain land. Nothing but blasted heath, rocky glens, and deep morasses. The people wild, desperate and fearful, as the land they inhabit."
"In few," continued the priest, "having assumed the disguise of a soldier, and the name of Geffrey, I left this place for England, with the purpose of obtaining a secret interview with the Queen of Scots, during her imprisonment. This opportunity I found whilst the queen was in custody of Sir Amias Paulet, rigorous as that confinement was. To her I communicated tidings, that on the event of Elizabeth's death, her own deliverance would be attempted; all the zealous Catholics would fly to arms, and that foreign forces taking advantage of the general confusion, would fix her upon the English throne, and re-establish the Catholic religion."
"Alas! alas! what terrible doings you who meddle with religious matters think upon," said Master Hathaway; "better to kneel down under the blue sky, and worship God without form and ceremony, if such is to be upheld by treason and bloodshed, from one end of the kingdom to the other."
"Alas! thou speakest wiser than thou art aware of," said the father, "and after a life of intrigue and dark underhand doings, in death I find that all such measures are but a serving the cause of the devil, in place of doing our duty towards God."
The dying priest now became so faint and exhausted that he could scarcely proceed.
"I feel," he said, "the hand of death rapidly approaching, and bitterly doth it now weigh upon my soul, that I have in some sort aided the enemies of my country in raising that dreadful tempest which sooner or later must now fall upon the land."
"Truly a heavy weight to lay upon the breast of a sick man," said Hathaway, shuddering. "And how then came you thus?"
"Our scheme," said the priest, "was discovered. Nay, it had been all along known. The Queen of Scots approved the project, and even when we were ripe and ready for action, one of our party, named Ballard was seized. This indeed so alarmed us, that finding we were also strictly watched wherever we went, we dispersed in parties, and under cover of night, and in various disguises, we fled from London a week back.
"Of all who were engaged, however, and we numbered fifteen individuals, all, I have since learned in the different towns where I have ventured, have been taken, some in woods, some in barns and outhouses where they sought shelter; nay, I have myself lain in concealment beneath the straw in the barn adjoining your cottage here for the last few days. This morning I stole out, and whilst you were engaged with your village dance, I endeavoured to reach a secret refuge known to me at Clopton, and which place I concluded was uninhabited. Unexpectedly, however, I found as I entered the private part of the mansion, that I was mistaken. I was encountered by one Martin Delville, who it seems hath remained in charge of the hall. He attempted to seize me, and in defending myself, I received a shot in the breast. Still I managed to escape, and wandering through the country, I endeavoured to find some place of refuge, some roof where I might be sheltered. Faint with loss of blood, I still held onwards in the hope of reaching Stratford, but a dancing light, which at one moment seemed to await my coming, and the next went bounding from me, and by following which I have been more than once nearly drowned, at length led me back to the spot from whence I had started. As the light vanished from my eyes, its place was supplied by the distant appearance of your comfortable fire, seen through the casement, and the driving snow. I but managed to reach your door, and that was all—life is fast ebbing away with the blood that flows from my wound."
"Nay, cheer up," said Dame Hathaway, "perhaps it may not be so bad; I have some Friar's balsam here at hand which will do wonderful things."
"It's no use, goodwife," said Hathaway, "I see death in his face. He bleeds inwardly as thou see'st, and is almost choked. Not all the friars that ever lived could save him, and to speak truth he hath had already quite enough to do with such cattle, for see what sloughs and pitfalls they have led him into."
"Nay," said Dame Hathaway, "it was Robin Goodfellow, you see, who led him into all these sloughs and pitfalls he describes, and at length brought him to our door."
"Robin Goodfellow, or Robin Badfellow,"[8]said old Hathaway——
"Hist, hist!" said Dame Hathaway, "never abuse Robin if you wish to thrive."
"Well, go to," said her husband, "the man is sped, and there's an end. Do thou and Anne remain with him whilst I go down to the lads below. 'Tis almost dawn. Alas, alas! this is a sad finish to our twelfth-tide sports; but we must still not suffer our guests to depart without their breakfast."
As Hathaway spoke, he descended to the apartment below, where the guests were still sitting around the fire, and discussing matters appertaining to the appearance of the misled wayfarer, and telling of woeful tales and dire stories, which suited the hour and the circumstance.
At old Hathaway's re-appearance amongst the circle, all were set to work to clear up the apartment, put it to rights, and prepare for the breakfast it was customary to partake of before the company finally broke up. The first faint streaks of dawn were beginning to appear as they departed. The snow-storm had cleared up, the diamond panes of the windows were fretted with frozen crystals, and as old Hathaway threw open the door and looked forth, the trees in the orchard were heaving with congealed snow, the ground was covered with the same white sheet, icicles hung in clusters from the roofs of the outhouses, and all around was softened and rounded by one white feathery crust. In short, it was one of those delicious winter mornings so often seen after a driving dreary and tempestuous night,——a morning in which the old world look of the buildings and barns around, seen in the clear wintry air, and the while flaky look of the country, gives so delightful an aspect to a rural hamlet.
Old Hyems seems then to smile as benignantly as he can,——to have smoothed the icy furrows of his brow, and consented to give to human mortals a slight respite, ere he fetches from the frozen bosom of the north more cutting blasts and angry winds.
"Then icicles hang by the wall,And Dick, the shepherd, blows his nail,Then Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail.When blood is nipp'd, and ways are foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-whit,to-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."
"Then icicles hang by the wall,And Dick, the shepherd, blows his nail,Then Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail.When blood is nipp'd, and ways are foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-whit,to-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."
The confession of the dying priest will doubtless recall to our readers the state of England at this period. Matters indeed were fast hastening towards that great event of Elizabeth's reign, which, for its mighty import, and the magnificence of its preparation, is, perhaps, without a parallel in the history of the country. The minds of men indeed were at this time fully impressed with the certainty of some great and terrible convulsion being at hand. It seemed that a fearful storm was surely and slowly gathering above their heads, and which, sooner or later, was to burst upon the land like some torrent breaking bounds. There was no occasion for men to ask each other from whence this ruin was to come. The great enemy of the country,—the haughty, vindictive, and cruel foe of England at this period, was the iron-hearted bigot of Spain: and upon Spain were the eyes of all men turned with apprehension. 'Twas the general theme of conversation, the all-absorbing topic of the day; and torture, murder, and every sort of evil that fiends could inflict upon the inhabitants of a conquered country was to be expected, should a successful invasion take place. Yes; Spain was then the bugbear of nearly every Englishman's fire-side. One or two startling events, however, which made men "whisper one another in the ear," were to take place, ere this grand convulsion shook the nation; and yet, amidst the anxieties consequent upon such a state of things, it is curious how mankind continue the even tenor of their lives.
The twelfth-tide revel at Shottery had introduced young Shakespeare to some new acquaintance in that place. Amidst the youths he had met there, he found one or two lads of spirit; and, as he bent his steps across the fields towards the village, he would fain have persuaded himself that it was to renew his acquaintance with them that he had set forth. Ere he had reached the village, however, he felt obliged to confess that the real desire of his heart was neither for the companionship of the lads of the village, nor to learn tidings of the wounded priest, but really and truly to see again and hold converse with the handsome Anne.
"Oh heaven, were man but constantHe were perfect. That one errorFills him with faults."
"Oh heaven, were man but constantHe were perfect. That one errorFills him with faults."
Mortals indeed are prone to error; and he whom we reverence as the greatest of men, was no more secure from the failings the flesh in heir to than his fellows. In truth, the youthful Shakespeare was again in love.
Those of the most generous sentiments and finest feelings are perhaps more subject to this passion; for,
"Eating love inhabits in the finest wits of all."
"Eating love inhabits in the finest wits of all."
It is not to be supposed that the melancholy fate of the beautiful Charlotte was so soon and entirely forgotten; but youth is not the season for ever-during melancholy. Bright thoughts will then spring up amidst the most gloomy recollections; and if one thing more than another can soothe the cares, and help to "pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow," it is the sweet companionship of woman in all the brilliancy of her glowing charms: and so thought Shakespeare as he took his way across those pleasant fields betwixt his own town and Shottery. "Yes," he said, as he came within sight of old Hathaway's cottage,
"To heal all grief, to cure all care,Turn foulest night to fairest day,To breathe delight, AnneHath a way."
"To heal all grief, to cure all care,Turn foulest night to fairest day,To breathe delight, AnneHath a way."
In youth we are more prone to fancy one elder than ourselves. The modest lad seems to look up to the full-blown woman, and to feel that his attentions, if received, are bestowed upon a worthy object; that he is indebted to her who consents to regard one so inferior (as at that moment he conceives himself) for women profess, in general, whatever they may feel, a contempt for the attentions of a mere boy, as they term the lad of seventeen or eighteen—a foolish lad, whom we laught at for his simple folly and childish admiration. This is dangerous sophistry, however, for a fair maid to indulge in.
In the middle period of life the fancy of the lover strays towards the fresh and budding flower, and the coy maiden is often sought out for a wife. In age, alas, 'tis but second childishness.
When Shakespeare reached the cottage of Master Hathaway, he felt his heart palpitate as he knocked at the door. His was a new acquaintance, and he hardly knew how the good yeoman might receive a visit so soon repeated. The voice of the old dame, however, bidding him come in, reassured him, and he lifted the latch and entered.
"Ah, Master Shakespeare," said the old dame, who was sitting at her spinning-wheel, "troth am I right glad to see thee. My husband and I have been oft-times talking of you since the night you was here."
"And the goodman," said Shakespeare, "is he hearty?"
"Troth is he, and away to Warwick to-day with Goodman Coulter, Hodge the smith, and others."
"And your fair daughter?" said Shakespeare; "I see her not here. How fares she?"
"A little dashed in spirit with this matter you wot of—the wayfarer whom we had to bury yesterday," said the dame.
"He is then dead. I thought his end was near."
"He died soon after you left," said Dame Hathaway. "The crowner sat on's body, and the man Martin from the Hall was examined with Lawyer Grasp and Master Dismal, and the man were known to be an escaped traitor. And so he's buried in a hole like a dog; and there's an end. And a good end too, if men will go about to compass such mischief as he seems to have been hatching all his life."
"And fair Mistress Anne," said Shakespeare, "is she too busied like yourself, 'weaving her thread with bones'?"
"No," said Dame Hathaway, "though she is occupied, she is out in the orchard with Mopsy, and Lawyer Grasp, and Master Doubletongue."
"Grasp!" exclaimed Shakespeare, as a sort of strange feeling shot across him; "what doth the scrivener at Shottery?"
The dame smiled, knowingly. "The bright day hath brought him forth mayhap," said she.
"'Tis the bright day that brings forth the adder," said Shakespeare; "and that Doubletongue too. I am sorry they are acquainted with Mistress Anne."
"Why so?" said the dame. "Master Grasp is rich. He hath store of moneys 'tis said. He hath been saying some pretty things to Anne; nay, in good sooth I think he,in some sort, affects her."
"May the pestilence strike the crafty knave!" said Shakespeare to himself, as a slight pang of jealousy shot through his breast. "He affect the handsome Anne Hathaway!"
"You know Master Grasp?" said Dame Hathaway, inquiringly.
"I do," said Shakespeare, drily.
"I thought as much," said the good dame, "for I heard his discourse to Anne, and, sooth to say, he did not speak well of you; nay, he speaks vilely of you."
"Thank Heaven, therefore," said Shakespeare, smiling; "the praise of the wicked is less to be coveted than their censure. By your leave I will seek your daughter in the orchard."
"I pray you do," said Dame Hathaway, "and bid them in to dinner."
When Shakespeare entered the orchard he found the two damsels engaged in removing apples from a sort of store-house erected at the further end of it, to another outhouse nearer to the dwelling; and, as the two elderly swains had gallantly volunteered to assist them in their labours, the damsels were amusing themselves by taxing their good-nature and strength to the utmost.
Accordingly as the youth strolled amongst the tree towards them, he beheld the unhappy Grasp bent double under the weight of an enormous basket, so filled with apples that he could scarce stagger beneath it, whilst Anne Hathaway, with both hands, was still piling up more fruit. Master Doubletongue was similarly loaded, and both the maidens were laughing till their sides ached at the rueful figures their patient lovers exhibited.
The situation was indeed felt by the suitors as sufficiently ridiculous, and when they saw some one approaching both would fain have thrown down their burthens if they had been able.
"Nay, I pray thee, Good Mistress Anne," said Grasp, "give me not the entire produce of the orchard at one turn. I am neither Hercules nor Atlas. My back is well nigh broke, as well as my heart, by your cruelty. I would fain stand upright. Heaven relieve me," he muttered to himself, "from this pestilent load."
"My strength sufficeth not to remove so large a load," said Anne, still laughing, "all I can do is to take them out by degrees, as I have placed themone by one!"
"I should die ere relieved by so slow a process," said Grasp. "Oh, my back, my weary back is cramped with long suffering and weight of apples."
"Then trudge off, and throw them into yonder wood-house," said Anne. "I'll never entertain your services if you are thus idle."
"I cannot budge a foot," said Grasp, "I am, as it were, rooted in the snow. Heaven help me."
"Stop whilst I give you this small basketfull," said Anne, emptying more apples into the load.
"Nay, then, I can no longer bear it," said Grasp; and he sank upon his knees, whilst both the lasses kept piling more apples upon his head.
"I am utterly foredone, and must fain succumb," said Grasp; "my better parts are vanquished, lo, I fall," and, as he sank under his burthen, the huge load rolled in heaps around him.
"I shall be crushed, altogether crushed and flattened like a shrove-groat shilling," said Master Doubletongue. "I pray you, fair damsel, to help me down with this burthen. I would fain do my best in your service, but I am not able, I find, to do the work of a younger man."
But the saucy maidens, having brought their two admirers to their present doleful state, as soon as they saw young Shakespeare approaching, ran, shrieking with laughter to meet him, leaving their swains to extricate themselves as they best could.
"I do perceive that I am made an exceeding ass of by this lively virgin," said Grasp, gathering himself up from amongst the rolling apples; "nevertheless her comeliness and favour hath quite entamed my spirits to her worship. I would fain contract a marriage, and the good yeoman her father is right willing to receive me for a son-in-law."
"And I," said Doubletongue, "should greatly like to wive also, an I could achieve the maiden Mopsy. Mass, but she is fresh as an April morn, and strong as a porter. Would to Heaven she had relieved me of this burthen ere she fled! Help me down with it, good Grasp, an you love me."
"Who was that I saw approaching when the maidens deserted us?" inquired Grasp. "See, they are now returning with him into the house, without so much as 'I thank ye,' for all we have done for them."
"'Tis surely young Shakespeare," said Doubletongue, "your sometime clerk."
"Oh, the young scapegallows," said Grasp, "by my fay, and so it is. His presence here bodes no good to my suit, and I have already possessed Mistress Anne with my opinion of him. Nay, Sir Thomas Lucy hath spoken with me about him, too. The dare-devil lad hath somehow offended Sir Thomas, and he vows to deal hardly with him an he can catch him trespassing on his domain. I'll stir him further to't."
"He hath trespassed upon our domains here too, I think, and carried off my sweet friend Mopsy," said Doubletongue. "I'll abuse the varlet where'er I come."
"Thou canst not say worse of him than he deserves," said Grasp; "an I can but once catch him tripping, I'll be his ruin yet."
"Methinks we bad better wend our steps back to Stratford this morning," said Doubletongue. "I am sore wearied, and sorely nipped with the cold blast. The pestilence seize this Shakespeare, I had rather not encounter him."
"I would we were both rid of him," said Grasp; "albeit I am somewhat sorry to leave him in the company of the fair Anne; such a smooth-tongued varlet is sufficient to corrupt a whole village."
"Let us slink by and get a peep in at the window," said Doubletongue; and the worthy pair of friends left the orchard.
On that evening a youth and a village maiden were soon strolling quietly along the footpath leading from Shottery to Stratford-upon-Avon. The youth, with head inclined, was telling a soft tale in the ear of his companion—a tale such as evidently was pleasing to her, for her handsome face was radiant with smiles. There was something in the step and bearing of both which proclaimed them superior to the common ran of mortals: albeit their costume was but a degree removed from, and in somewhat better taste than that of the peasant of the period. Both were extremely handsome, and it was evident they were lovers, inasmuch as (although the occasional passer seldom failed to stop and turn to regard them) they were so entirely wrapped in each other's society that they seemed lost to all external objects.
As they reached a part of the path which in crossed by the high road, they stopped, and a stately knight, accompanied by two ladies, and attended by several mounted serving men, rode by. The ladies seemed struck with the form of the handsome maiden; and the cavalier, after passing, turned and leant upon the cantle of his saddle, and steadily regarded the youth.
"'Tis he," said the Knight of Charlecote, to himself, "and the girl is Hathaway's daughter. 'Tis pity she should mate with so reckless a youth."
"Who, said ye, they are?" inquired the elder daughter of Sir Thomas; "methinks I have seen the youth at Clopton Hall."
"See him when and where thou wilt, Alicia," returned the knight, "I fear me you will have seen but a graceless suitor, from all I have learned through the scrivener Grasp. 'Tis the wool-comber's eldest son, young Shakespeare of Stratford."
After this brief discourse, the party rode on.
With lovers, days, weeks, and months pass swiftly by. The fair and witty Rosalind is made to tell us, however, that time trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized, for "if the interim be but a se'night, time's pace is so hard, that it seems the length of seven years."
With the swifter foot of time, however, during the even course of love between young Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway, we shall pace over some few months in our history.
Angry winter must be supposed to have departed; the fields and meadows to have thrown off his livery, and the woodland scene around Stratford-upon-Avon, to be dressed in the green investiture of the coming spring.
The hard pace of time therefore must be now imagined to be progressing with the fair Anne, inasmuch as she has been wooed and won by the youthful Shakespeare. She is indeed between the contract of her marriage and its solemnization.
It was one lovely evening, about this period of our story, that an exceedingly handsome female was sitting pensive and melancholy in her own apartment at Shottery Hall, a large mansion situated just without the village.
Our readers have before had a glimpse of this lady, during the eventful night of the party at Clopton, what time she was engaged in the dance with Walter Arderne. Clara de Mowbray had indeed, been one of the intimate friends of the fair Charlotte, her confidant and associate from childhood. She was herself an orphan, and possessed of great wealth; and although but one-and-twenty years of age, seemed to have already given up the pleasures of the world, and dedicated her days to good and charitable deeds in and around her own neighbourhood. She was, therefore, as a matter of course, the lady patroness of the little village near which she dwelt.
Whether it was that she mourned over the fate of the early friend, whose death had been attended with such awful and melancholy circumstances, or whether the loss of her parents had left a sad impression upon her spirits, we cannot tell; but certain it is, that Clara de Mowbray seemed to labour under some secret and deep-seated grief, which rendered society a burden to her.
As she sat on this evening in her own apartment, her attendant announced a maiden from the village, who was desirous of seeing her.
"'Tis the handsome Anne Hathaway——is it not?" inquired Clara. "Indeed I sent to request she would come hither."
"It is, lady," returned the attendant.
"Set a chair for her here beside the window, and wait on her in."
"They tell me she is soon to be wedded," said the attendant, as she brushed the chair with her apron, "and that she hath refused a good offer for the sake of her present lover."
"I have heard as much," said the lady; "and 'tis of that I would speak with her."
The Lady Clara had known Anne Hathaway from childhood, consequently, there was little of form or ceremony between her and the more humble friend.
"I have sent for you, Anne," said Clara, as soon as the damsel entered, "to talk about your future prospects. I have been so great a recluse, that I have only just heard of your intended marriage. I trust you will be happy, Anne."
"I hope so, lady," said Anne.
"And do youthink so?" inquired Clara.
"Wherefore should I not, lady?" inquired Anne.
"There are one or two things," continued the lady, "I have heard of your betrothed, which leads me to ask the question, Anne; and also because we are old friends, and I love you. In the first place, I hear your suitor is younger than yourself. Is't not so?"
"It is, lady," said Anne.
"And I hear also that he is of no calling; that he is poor, and his friends needy."
"All that you have said is true," said Anne Hathaway; "but—" and she paused.
"But you are in love," said Clara. "Well, I suppose there is no advice I can give you which will avail against that argument. I would have you, however, consider well; and (as I know neither of the parties) I cannot judge in how far your own judgment is right in this matter."
"I would you could see the two together," said Anne, smiling, "you would then have little left to urge in favour of my richer suitor."
"Indeed!" said Clara, smiling; "yet one word more, Anne. I hear the youth—let me see, how is he named?"
"Shakespeare," said Anne, "William Shakespeare."
"Well, then, I hear that this lover of yours—this young Shakespeare, is of a daring spirit; that he associates with youths as reckless as himself; and that, in very sooth, he bears altogether a character for idleness even in the town where he dwells."
"What do you charge him with in particular?" said Anne, smiling.
"Nay, nothing more than I have hinted at," said Clara. "He is slightly regarded by the townsfolk of Stratford, from his idle propensities. If there be a bear to be baited at Kenilworth Green, who so sure to be there as this younker. If there is a wrestling-match and a bull-baiting at Coventry, thither is your swain sure to go. If there be, in short, a wake or fair, or revel, in this or the adjoining county, young Shakespeare is as certain to be seen upon the Green as those resident on the spot. Nay, I have been told that he hath himself beaten one of our Warwickshire champions here at Shottery last Christmas, and that he is giving to poaching withal."
"In respect ye have named his delight in all sort of out-door sports, you are right, lady," said Anne; "but that he is given to poaching is a malicious rumour."
"Well," said Clara, "I see your affections are set upon this match, and far be it from me to oppose your will. I too well know the misery of blighted love. Heaven guard you, Anne. Ere you wed, it would please me to seethe youth."
"You have seen him," said Anne.
"I remember him not," said Clara.
"'Twas at Clopton you met with him," said Anne. "William hath told me he met you on the night of that unhappy ball, and that Master Walter Arderne shewed you to him in the room."
Clara started. She then said, in some surprise, "Did your lover know Walter, then?"
"They were sworn friends, lady," said Anne.
"Shakespeare!" said Clara. "'Tis a name I remember. Was not the youth who saved Charlotte Clopton from death in the park called Shakespeare? If so, him indeed have I met at Clopton, and have heard both Charlotte and Walter Arderne speak of."
"'Tis the same youth, lady," said Anne.
"Indeed," said Clara; "that doth indeed surprise me;" and Clara remained for some time lost in deep thought. "I have a relic," she said, "of Charlotte's given me by Martin, and which was much treasured by poor Charlotte. 'Tis a small piece of verse of exquisite beauty. If I recollect rightly, Martin told me it was written by this lad—this lover of yours. Stay, I will shew it you;" and Clara, after searching in a small casket, brought forth a scrap of paper with some verses written on it, which she read aloud, and then handed to Anne.
"I am not much given to poetry," said Anne, smiling; "but I see by the character they are written by William; but methinks I should have known them for his by other tokens. He often repeats such verse in our walks. He hath written scores of such pieces as the one I now hold in my hand."
"Nay, then, I cannot wondor at what I have heard," said the lady; "neither am I surprised at such a man being the friend of Walter Arderne. There is one thing more I would ask," said Clara, blushing. "You know my secret, Anne, and can perhaps give me some news of him you wot of, through means of your lover. Where now is Walter Arderne?"
"I shall grieve you, lady, if I say that for some time no accounts have been received of him, and it is greatly feared he hath perished amongst the adventurers with whom he left England."
"How is this news derived?" she said.
"William hath learnt so much from Martin, whom he has occasionally seen whilst Martin remained at Clopton; but latterly Martin seemed to grow uneasy, and as reports were circulated relative to the loss of that part of the expedition with which Master Arderne sailed, he at length left Clopton, where he had been residing almost alone, and went to London. Whilst there he met some of the adventurers who had returned with Sir Francis Drake, and of them he heard dire accounts of the dangers and hardships they had encountered. From them too he learned that Walter Arderne had greatly distinguished himself amongst the followers of Christopher Carlisle at the taking of St. Jago, near Cape de Verde; that he had afterwards sailed for Hispaniola, and assaulted and taken St. Domingo. He was also heard of on the coast of Florida; and it was at the burning of one of the towns, either St. Anthony or St. Helens, on that coast, that Master Arderne is supposed to have perished."
"Was he then not seen and identified amongst the slain or wounded?" inquired Clara.
"It appears not," said Anne. "The expedition, with the exception of some smaller ships separated from them in a storm, sailed along the coast o£ Virginia, where they found the remains of a colony previously planted there by Sir Walter Raleigh, and which had almost gone to decay. The miserable remnant of adventurers," continued Anne, "who were found by Sir Francis Drake at this place, and who are described to have appeared more like living mummies than Christian men, abandoned their settlement, and prevailed on Sir Francis Drake to bring them to England."
"And have no further tidings been since heard?" inquired Clara.
"Nothing certain. A small portion of the fleet which separated from Drake's squadron after this, and sailed along the coast of Florida, inflamed with rage against the Spaniards and the riches they had already gained, after a short cruise, returned with an account of their having observed a wreck near Raleigh's ruined colony;[9]and that they had even seen some individuals apparently again located there. They had, however, steadily pursued their course without inquiry; albeit they judged this wreck to have been one of the ships Walter Arderne had held command in."
"So then," said Clara, "these unfortunate men may have been left to perish, exposed to all the vicissitudes of war and climate, and half-naked in an enemy's country!"
"'Tis to be feared so," returned Anne, "although the dreadful mortality which the climate produced amongst Drake's followers is but a feeble restraint on the avidity and sanguine expectation of the young adventurers of England; nay, other expeditions are said to be about to set sail; should it be so, that coast may be again visited."
"And this you have learnt from your lover?" said Clara.
"I have, lady; he loves to talk to me in our walks about the wonders seen in these islands of the sea in the far West. I would you could hear him describe what he has learnt from one or two of the youths who have adventured and returned: how they have seen and landed upon islands inhabited by people of wondrous appearance; islands full of strange sounds, and in which the most ravishing melody floated in the air, the musicians being spirits and invisible to sight."
"Methinks," said Clara, "I should much like to hear your lover's account of such wonders."
"Nay, so interested is he in these accounts, and the riches to be found on the Spanish main, that had I not over-ruled his design, he would himself have adventured this year with Martin Frobisher."
"I have heard something of Frobisher's former expedition," said Clara. "What were the particulars?"
"Nay, I can but inform you as I have learned it from the lips of others," said Anne.
"They set out, I have heard," said Clara, "for the purpose of discovering a passage to Cataia, in the Indies, by the north-west seas. I do not myself quite understand such matters, but I believe they sailed beyond Friesland, where they came in sight of land inhabited by strange and savage people. In this land they discovered some black substance like sea-coal, and on their return showed it to a goldsmith in London, and he found it to be rich in gold ore, was't not so?"
"It was, lady," said Anne; "this encouraged Martin Frobisher to make a second voyage, when he freighted two vessels home with this black stone, and his project is now so risen in credit that he is about to set sail a third time, with fifteen goodly vessels; nay, had I not used my influence, as I before said, William Shakespeare had surely adventured amongst the crew."
"And so would you as surely have lost a lover, as he would have lost his venture," said Clara. "I have no opinion of these wild schemes—and yet I have half a mind to fit out an expedition and venture myself in quest of a treasure."
"You, lady!" said Anne; "but you are not serious?"
"I was never more so," said Clara.
As she said this, Clara rose from her seat—a hint to her visitor that the interview had lasted long enough.
"Yet stay," she said, as Anne was about to depart. "We have been long friends, Anne Hathaway, and if I find the choice you have made a worthy one, I will befriend you both. One thing I have forgotten to mention, and that is the report I have heard of this match between you and young Shakespeare being disapproved of by your father. Is that also true?"
"My lover is at present poor," said Anne.
"Enough," said Clara. "Farewell, Anne, I intend leaving Shottery for some time, but when I return, remember you have a friend in me. Here," she continued, "is a present I had intended to have given you after your marriage. Take it now, as we shall not meet again for many months. I leave Shottery to-morrow."
And so the friends parted.
The fair Clara remained buried in thought for some time after the departure of Anne Hathaway.
At length she arose from her seat, and her eye fell upon the sonnet she had received from Martin. "The verse is indeed beautiful," she said. "Happy, happy Anne, how much is thy lot to be envied! In thy rank in life there is little impediment to the affections. Thou lovest and art beloved again: there is no drawback in regard to inequality, or matching in degree. The village lad loves and chooses his mate as the turtle, unembarrassed by wealth or worldly interest. This youth must, however, be in mind at least far superior. Well, thy prospect is a happy one! Whilst mine, alas! he I love is perhaps lost in the watery wastes of unknown seas—perhaps starving on some desert shore."
As Clara thus indulged her melancholy thoughts, she rang a small silver bell, and desired her attendant to summon to her presence the steward or major-domo of her household.
"Hubert," she said, "I am about to leave Shottery for London. My horses have of late had but idle times, and an excursion will do them good. I ride with twenty followers."
The orders of Clara were law with Hubert. He therefore bowed; and she continued, "I take this strong escort," she said, "because I shall have great charge with me in gold and diamonds. To you I will at once confess the purpose of my journey to London, and my farther intentions when there. I am about myself to fit out an expedition to the coast of Florida, and in person to visit the strange lands said to exist in the New World."
"In choosing amongst my people," she continued, "pick out those youths who you think would be likely to volunteer for such an exploit."
"And when do we depart, lady?" inquired the steward.
"The day after to-morrow," said Clara.
And again the steward bowed, and then withdrew.
The very name of the New World during the reign of Elizabeth, was suggestive of boundless wealth, and the wildest hopes of gain. The islands already visited by the adventurers of the period, were said to be scenes of enchantment—a sort of demi-paradise, where the most lovely Indian females wandered about in all the innocence of the golden age.
Such was the idea men entertained of the New World, as it was then called, and in consequence, albeit those who had returned from this land of promise, presented in their own worn appearance but small encouragement to others to try fortune in their boasted region; still the voyage, as it was designatedpar excellence, was in great repute amongst the "rash, inconsiderate, and fiery voluntaries" of Elizabeth's reign. And, under these circumstances, sea-faring men of all sorts, and even those who had never beheld the sea, occasionally made up the file as soldiers for the various expeditions in vogue. The hardships and dangers these men encountered beneath the hot sun of the tropics at this time; their endurance under difficulties, whilst exposed to privation in their marches through unknown forests, defiles, and mountains, is wonderful to contemplate. Nay, perhaps, the very difficulties to be encountered, and the watery wastes to be traversed, even enhanced the desire these desperadoes felt in undertaking the venture; added also to this spirit of enterprise, and the prospect men behold in the sunny distance, of lovely lands, and scenes of enchantment in the bright islands they thought to find, there was in the breast of the Englishman at this period a rankling and deep-seated hatred of the Spaniard—then the stoutest soldier of the civilized world—a foe not only worthy in that day of the Englishman's sword, but who bore away from him the palm of soldiership, and, of whom, he felt in some sort jealous. The Spaniard, at the same time, whilst he had been drilled into wonderful efficiency by long conflict with the Moors, the French, and Italians, surpassed all other men in the qualities which conquer kingdoms, even at fearful odds.
The Spanish hidalgo still possessed all the chivalry of the crusader, with augmented bigotry and superstition. Fighting was his element, and greed of gold and religious fanaticism his stimulants. His pride was beyond description. He was—