"Thus chances mock and changes fill the cup of alteration."
"Thus chances mock and changes fill the cup of alteration."
It was one evening in the merry month of May, about a year after the marriage of young Shakespeare, that Jack Froth, and several of his associates, were assembled at the Lucy Arms.
The apartment in which they were congregated was one which Froth had appropriated to his own especial use,—a good-sized room, whose windows looked into the orchard in rear of the hostel, one of those sweet and verdant orchards peculiar to the time, and which are now, for the most part, destroyed; but which, in Elizabeth's day, were attached to every goodly dwelling, or hostel, in a country town.
A half-open door, on one side of the apartment, gave a peep into a smaller room, in which, as the sun streamed from the lattice-window, its rays fell upon, and lighted up, the deep red curtains and square-topped hangings of an antique bed; and at the same time gilded the high-backed chairs with which the room was furnished.
On the ample hearth of the first-named apartment two enormous deer-hounds were to be seen, sprawling at full length, their occasional disturbed sleep, and short sharp bark, shewing that their dreams were of the woodland and the chase.
The occupants of the room were five in number. They were seated round a massive oaken table, which placed near the window, gave them a delicious view of the green and bowery orchard.
The fat and jovial Froth, "the lord o' the feast," as he leaned back in his strong oaken chair, whilst he occasionally looked out upon the orchard, listened to the recital of some verses his opposite neighbour was reading aloud. Seated directly opposite the window was a tall thin man, of about five-and-twenty years of age, clad in the faded suit of an officer of pikemen, an enormous rapier tacked to his waist, with dagger to match. His chair being drawn so close to the table that he sat bolt-upright, and, as he dallied with the glass he ever and anon carried to his lips, he also listened with attention to the words of the poem.
Opposite to him sat another man, about thirty years of age, clad in a tawdry suit, which in our own days would have been shrewdly suspected of having done duty on the boards of a theatre. Beside him, with apron doffed, and his cap thrown aside, sat mine host of the tavern—a portly and jolly-looking companion.
Such was the party assembled, and, as the reader finished the fragment of verse, his hearers seemed so much interested in its recital that for some moments there was a pause of expectation. It was like the expiring sound of sweet music, which has a soothing effect upon the listener, making him long for a renewal of the melody.
"There is more?" said Froth, inquiringly, as he turned his eye upon the reader.
"No more have I written," said young Shakespeare, who was indeed the reader of the poetry; "nor deemed I this deformed offspring of my brain worthy of notice."
"Then I pr'ythee, good William," said Froth, "repair thy voice by another draught of Canary, and give the two first verses over again."
"Has my verse, then, so much pleased you?" inquired Shakespeare.
"It hath more than pleased, it has delighted me," said Froth; "so to't again, lad."
"Two verses you shall have," said Shakespeare, smiling, "but no more." And he again read from his manuscript the following lines of a poem he had that morning commenced writing,—
"Even as the sun with purple-coloured face—"
"Even as the sun with purple-coloured face—"
"'Fore gad, bully host," interrupted Froth, "but thy countenance at this moment, round, fiery, and covered with huge angry welks and knobs, must have suggested that line. Was't not so, sweet William; didst thou not call the sun's face purple-coloured from the reflection of our host's mulberry visage?"
"Go to, go to," said the host; "'fore gad, if my face took but a tithe of the good vivers to keep it in colour that thine doth, I were altogether a ruined landlord."
"I cry you mercy, good William," said Froth; "proceed with thy stanzas. Mine host here is one of those prating knaves who would rather talk than listen, let who will be the orator."
And the poet again read from his manuscript,—
"Even as the sun with purple-coloured faceHad ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,Rose cheeked, Adonis hied him to the chase;Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn.Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,And, like a bold-faced suitor, 'gins to woo him.'Thrice fairer than myself'—thus she begun;'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,More white and red than doves or roses are.Nature that made thee with herself at strife,Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.'"
"Even as the sun with purple-coloured faceHad ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,Rose cheeked, Adonis hied him to the chase;Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn.Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,And, like a bold-faced suitor, 'gins to woo him.'Thrice fairer than myself'—thus she begun;'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,More white and red than doves or roses are.Nature that made thee with herself at strife,Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.'"
"And how call ye the poem?" inquired Froth, as young Shakespeare finished the second verse, and then thrust the paper into the breast of his doublet.
"I think of calling it 'Venus and Adonis,'" he said, "for fault of a better name."
"Call it what thou wilt, lad," said Froth, "'tis a glorious commencement. Like everything else thou dost, 'tis excellent."
"Ha, ha," said Pierce Caliver, "thou art full of thy ropery, Froth; thou word'st him, thou word'st him. See, he blusheth at thy praise."
"I word him not, but as I mean," said Froth; "an his cheek blusheth, 'tis more than thine was ever guilty of. I hate flattery as I hate an unfilled flasket in the woodlands at midnight. He hath but one fault, that lad."
"Ah, a fault," said Caliver, "can Will Shakespeare own a fault in thy eyes? I pr'ythee let's hear it."
"Nay, 'tis not a fault, either, 'tis a misfortune," said Froth, "he's married."
"Gad-a-mercy, that is indeed a scrape to get into!" said Ralph Careless. "I have been twice across the Atlantic, escaped shipwreck as often, been left for dead amongst the burning huts of a Spanish settlement; and yet have I never had such an escape as when I offered marriage to the Widow Crooke, and she altered her mind a week before the day fixed."
"That widow must be worthy looking on too," said Froth; "for truly her own escape exceedeth all thine put together."
"How so?" said Careless.
"In escaping from thee," returned Froth.
"Nay, the evil-favoured old hag," said Careless; "but she escaped not altogether scot-free either, since I drew a handsome forfeit ere I consented to let her break off."
"Had she given thee all she possessed," said Froth, "so she kept herself free of thee, she had the luck on't; but, come, the very name of marriage hath made our good William here a melancholy man. Oh! 'tis monstrous that tying together of couples for life, to claw and tear like a brace of tabbies cast over a clothes' line! Said I well, William? Why, fill again, and pass the flasket."
"Nay," said Shakespeare, "wooing, wedding, and repenting is, after all, but a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque pace. The first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding mannerly and modest;[13]and then comes repentance, and with his two logs fallen into a cinque pace, faster and faster, till he sink into his grave."
"Methinks, bullies," said the Host, "since we are on the subject of matrimony, that we must quaff a health for the nonce. Heard'st thou not that our good William here is the honoured father of a fair son—a goodly boy?"
"Ah, by St. Jago and charge Spain!" said Caliver, "and is it so? Why, then fill to the brim, my masters all;" and the health of the infant was pledged in flowing bumpers of Canary. After which, the long-necked glasses were flourished to a loud huzza, and being cast overhead, smashed upon the rushes with which the apartment was strewed.
"And now," said Froth, "thou shalt give us a song, William—a song of thine own, for what man amidst us could produce a verse worthy of thee to sing? Come, warble, and let it be to thine own words, Will."
"A song—a song!" said Caliver; "give us one, William, in praise of the wine-cup."
Shakespeare smiled, and then sang:
"Come, thou monarch of the vine,Plumpy Bacchus, with pink eyne;In thy vats our cares be drown'd,With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd:Cup us, till the world go round,Cup us, till the world go round."
"Come, thou monarch of the vine,Plumpy Bacchus, with pink eyne;In thy vats our cares be drown'd,With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd:Cup us, till the world go round,Cup us, till the world go round."
Whilst the chorus was ringing out, till every room in the hostel echoed with it, another individual entered the apartment.
The new comer was a tall, good-looking youth, clad in a worn leathern jerkin, which seemed as if it had endured the worst spite of the elements, and done duty in the woods for many years. His russet boots were drawn up to the thigh, and his well-worn wide-brimmed beaver was without feather or ornament, except a large assortment of fish-hooks, with the horse-hair twisted around it. In short, he looked what he really was—a dissolute hanger-on of a country town, and yet a good fellow withal, one given to the sports of the field, without means or license to pursue them—one of Diana's foresters, a poacher, a professed deer-stealer.
"You keep a goodly revel here, my masters," said he, drawing a chair, and seating himself unceremoniously at the table.
"Ha! what, Diccon Snare, is it thou, thou wandering knight of the hollow woods?" said Froth. "By my troth, thou art welcome; fill thyself a chalice for the nonce. How goes all at Warwick?"
"I scarcely know," said Snare, "since I have not been there for some days. If I have news at all, it is of these parts, and farther afield. There is work for you to-night an ye listen. The old Pike of Charlecote hath ridden forth, and taken in his train some thirty followers. The moon is up to be sure, but then the woodlands are but badly watched."
"And how know'st thou this, thou sworn enemy of an outlying stag?" inquired Shakespeare.
"How know I it? Why, from sure intelligence, and careful watching. How else should I know my trade?"
"Nay, thou hast served a pretty apprenticeship to the poaching trade, Diccon, that's certain," said Froth, "as the hangman's brand can testify! And what takes Sir Thomas to town with so strong an escort?"
"It seems there is more trouble at Court about the Queen of Scots," said Snare, "and her name is again mixed up with all sorts of intrigues and plots against our Queen. My Lord of Leicester hath stroked the beard of consideration upon the matter, and set on foot an association for the nonce. They are sworn keepers of the Queen's safety in life, and doubly sworn to revenge her death, should she fall by these malignant conspirators. A great many of the gentry around have gone up to join in this association, whilst the Queen of Scots is again placed in more severe keeping."
"Ha!" said Froth, "I heard somewhat of this before; and so—"
"And so," continued Snare, "Sir Thomas in great state hath set forth towards town, and sleeps to-night at Kenilworth, where the great Bear-ward at present lies."
"So that several of his foresters follow in his train, eh! is't so?"
"They do; he rides in state, for, as thou knowest, 'tis the pride of the old Pike to be followed by a whole troop. I saw him pass along the road as I lay perdue in the covert. Twenty of his fellows in coat and badge, with green and yellow feathers in their hats,[14]and as many falconers to make up the train."
"And that in truth makes a fair field for us," said Shakespeare. "What say ye, my masters all? Shall we be minions of the moon to-night? Shall we strike a buck at Charlecote?"
To men of the wild and peculiar disposition of the assembled party, nothing could be more pleasant than an excursion of the sort.
A midnight visit to the woodlands was by no means an uncommon circumstance in their lives; but hitherto they had pursued their sport in localities somewhat more removed from the town in which they dwelt. To the bold and imaginative Shakespeare, as his eye glanced into the moonlit orchard, the excursion had charms known only to himself. He had once or twice before watched the deer in the glades of Fulbrook, and he now joined in the expedition heart and hand.
Preparations were accordingly forthwith commenced, and the entire party made themselves ready for an exploit, which in those days, and with such men, was attended with something more of circumstance than in our own.
In the first place, a large closet in the bedchamber of the portly Froth was ransacked for such change of garment as was necessary for pushing through the more thick and tangled cover. Cross-bows and other weapons of the chase were then lugged out, and, amongst other articles, a sort of theatrical dress was produced; and being carefully packed up, was strapped upon the shoulder of Diccon Snare, to be used as occasion might serve.
This latter article of apparel had been purloined from the wardrobe of a company of masquers, who were in the habit of visiting Stratford. It was neither more nor less than the dress of "Mors, or dreary Death," a character then enacting in one of the tedious moral plays of the period.
It was fashioned so as to represent a skeleton; and seen in the woodlands in the night, would be likely to scare a forester out of his wits, and consequently, should the party be molested during their exploit, enables them to escape without collision or discovery.
By the time the party had indued their forest gear, the curfew proclaimed that it was time for them to set out; and once more seating themselves round the board, they arranged their plan of proceedings.
"Now, my masters all," said Froth, "a cup to hearten us, and another to the success of our venture, and then to horse."
"Let him whose courage fails remain here," said Caliver; "and let those to horse whose feet cannot prop up their bodies."
"No scoffing, lads," said Froth. "Thou knowest I am not able to travel on foot so far, or so fast as thou art; but in the field, I have twice thy skill at a shot."
"I have heard thee say so often," said Caliver. "To-night I hope to see a specimen of thy skill."
"Thus be it, then," said Snare. "You and I, Will Shakespeare will go straight to Charlecote Park. By 'ur Lady! we'll strike the best buck in the herd. You, Froth, being mounted, will accompany us, and remain without the park in readiness to receive the deer when we have struck it. You, Careless and Caliver, will walk apart lower down, and give us notice in case of approach."
"I like not that lying-out work, and alone too," said Froth. "The last time I played receiver on Wolvey Heath, I was nearly captured. He that dies a martyr, 'tis said, proves that he is not a knave. But, methinks, 'tis not so sure that he proves himself no fool."
"And wherefore art thou and Will Shakespeare to have the best of the sport?" said Careless. "Methinks, since you say the chase is left to take care of itself to-night, we might all four be strikers, and make a good venture on't."
"Nay," said Snare, "be it as you will. Will Shakespeare here is sound in wind and limb. You are both of ye but broken-down hacks at best, and, if you take my advice, will lie perdue without the palings; for, an we be molested, we shall have a smart run for it, I promise ye."
Having made their arrangements and laid the plot of their proceedings, the party soon after divided, and left the hostel by different doors. Shakespeare, Snare, and Froth, the latter mounted on horseback, and disguised in a sort of countryman's frock, took the road; whilst Caliver and Careless, leaving by the back door, crossed the orchard, and making a slight detour to the right, joined them about a mile from the town.
Scarcely had the party left the Lucy Arms a quarter of an hour ere Pouncet Grasp, accompanied by Master Doubletongue and a couple of ill-looking companions, entered it.
"Ah," said Grasp, peering about, and snifting like a terrier dog in search of a rabbit; "ah, Host, is your honoured guest, Master John Froth, within?"
The host of the Lucy Arms had an instinctive dread and a most unalterable dislike to the lawyer. He considered a visit from him little inferior in omen to that of a visit from the plague. He accordingly busied himself about some matter or other, and pretended not to observe Grasp.
"Not within?—eh, Host?" said the latter, making a sign to his two attendants, who immediately planted themselves at the front and back doors of the premises. "I am sorely unlucky in my visits. Host. An it please you, permit me to observemyselfif Master John Froth hath in reality gone abroad."
"Hast thou business, Master Grasp," inquired the Host, "with mine honoured guest to-night? If so, I take it the best way would be to confide it to me, or call again. I have said it: Master John Frothhathgone forth to-night."
"Business," said Grasp; "ah, to be sure; 'business, like time, stays for no man,' as the saying goes. Why, yes, I have a slight trifle of business; albeit I may not confide it to thee. Certes, Iwillcall again. Wilt thou meantime draw me a tankard ere I depart?"
Whilst the host busied himself in drawing the liquor called for, and which he immediately set about, in the hope of speedily getting rid of the trio, Grasp sauntered into the passage, and peeped into the private apartment of Froth, in order to be sure he was really out, and then whispered to his two neighbours to make a shew of leaving the house by the back way, and quietly conceal themselves in the orchard.
That done, he returned to the kitchen, drank off his liquor, and bade the host good night.
Scarce had he gone a dozen paces, however, ere he returned stealthily, and watching without the window till the host for some purpose left the kitchen, he very quietly re-entered it, and concealed himself there.
The Lucy family we have already had occasion to notice as descended from an ancient and honourable house. They might indeed say with Christopher Sly—"We came in with Richard Conqueror," since they have in truth, occupied an important position in England for many centuries.
The mansion of Charlecote, at the period of our story, stood in the midst of a park or chase much greater in extent than at the present time.
The ground plan of the building forms in shape the Roman capital letter E, perhaps in compliment to the virgin Queen, with whose arms it is decorated. The soft and gentle Avon gliding at the base, and the park, which immediately surrounded the building, was shadowed by oaks of great age, which gradually gave place to brake and thicket, almost impenetrable in some parts to aught save the hound or the game he followed. This again was relieved at intervals by open spaces of great beauty, in which the fern grew in wild luxuriance, and hundreds of brood short-stemmed oaks, at distant intervals, threw their huge branches over the green surface, as if rejoicing in their unconfined luxuriance. In such spots, so bright and fresh in the pale light of the moon, the fern decked with liquid dew, and the branches of the trees glittering with bright drops, the fairies might well be imagined to hold their sequestered revels.
Every glade and bosky bourne, every tree and fern-clad undulation, was a scene peculiarly adapted to the elfin and the fay. They seemed to tell, in their sweetness, and their unmolested seclusion, of the innocent ages of an early world, when faun and satyr, and nymph and dryad, revelled in the open glade, or reposed on the mossed bank beneath the sheltering boughs.
Stealthily, and with the utmost caution, not a word even whispered, but communicating to each other by signs as they advanced, young Shakespeare and Diccon Snare slowly emerged from the more thick cover upon one of these picturesque glades, and took their stand behind a huge oak—
"An oak whose boughs were moss'd with age,And big top bald with dry antiquity."
"An oak whose boughs were moss'd with age,And big top bald with dry antiquity."
"We near the herd," said Shakespeare, in a gentle whisper to his companion.
"We do so," said Snare, "a few yards more and we shall get within shot, thanks to our care in gaming the wind, and, look, ye, there they be! You can just see their antlered heads above the long white grass in yonder open space."
"We must be wary in our approach," said Shakespeare, in a whisper; "tread softly, that the blind mole may not hear a footfall."
"'Twere best to lay along and drag ourselves to yonder blasted oak," said Snare. "Be careful and keep where the fern is less thick. The slightest unnatural movement of the herbage, and they are off."
So saying, Snare lay flat on the ground, and began to worm himself towards the tree he had mentioned, Shakespeare doing the same and following close in his wake; and so quietly and cautiously did they continue their serpent-like course, that a looker-on would hardly have discovered the track they took except by the occasional movements of the long grass and fern.
Every now and then the crafty Snare lay perfectly quiet for a few moments, and then cautiously raising his bare head, looked forth to see if the herd were still unconscious of their approach.
Nothing could be more lovely than the entire scene, as it was looked upon by Shakespeare. Before and around him lay the wild chase, the deer couched "in their own confines," and nearly hidden in the long thick grass of ages—himself in a spot which, except under the peculiar circumstance in which he sought it, he could scarce have beheld the game so near,—those magnificent and antlered monarchs of waste, be it remembered. For in Elizabeth's day, and in the extensive parks of the great, the stag was a wilder and fiercer creature than the same animal domesticated as they are, from the confined space in which they are necessarily kept.
The danger attendant on the situation also lent its charm to one of his bold and ardent spirit. As his eye glanced amidst the magnificent scenery, his imagination was instantly carried back to the days of the early English kings, when Britain was one entire forest, waste or wold; and when, even at an after period, the conquering Norman had lain waste whole districts to give room for the chase. Then again, with the shifting change of thought, his imagination bodied forth the fabled beings of an earlier age. The mossed carpet on which he stood, the venerable trees around, the sweet scent of the fern, and the perfumed air of the fresh forest, as the dews of summer night fell around him, suggested those magnificent thoughts, peculiar to himself, and which in after life produced descriptions unequalled for beauty in any age. He was
"With Hercules and Cadmus,When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bearWith hounds of Sparta.Besides the groves,The skies, the fountains, every region nearSeemed all one mutual cry."
"With Hercules and Cadmus,When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bearWith hounds of Sparta.Besides the groves,The skies, the fountains, every region nearSeemed all one mutual cry."
Meantime whilst the mind of Shakespeare was impressed with the beauty of the situation, as well as interested in the sport, the less imaginative Snare, with his whole soul intent upon slaughter, and with all the cunning of his craft, his body flattened against the huge tree, one hand keeping his companion back, the other grasping his cross-bow, again cautiously peered out into the glade before him.
This was a moment of intense interest to the deer-stealers. They found themselves so close upon the wild and magnificent animals that they could see their slightest movement.
There is indeed, something inexpressibly exciting to the hunter or the deer stalker in thus finding himself in the midst of the herd, a spy upon them in their security, conscious at the same time that the slightest movement or mistake on his own part will ruin the hours of toil he has previously spent in gaining his position.
A magnificent stag lay a little to the right, and nearest to Shakespeare; he touched his companion lightly on the shoulder, and by a sign signified that he meant to fire at it.
Snare stretched his neck and peeped over his shoulder. As he did so, Shakespeare saw, that with the instinctive knowledge and jealousy of their nature, the herd were becoming aware that danger was in their close vicinity.
In an instant their heads were thrown back, the next moment Snare heard at some distance that short guttural noise, so peculiar to the deer at particular seasons of the year, and as the splendid animal upon which Shakespeare had fixed his eye caught the sound, it leaped to its feet and bounded from the spot, the whole herd in an instant also flying like the wind towards the cover, seemed to vanish into the mists of night; but ere his companion could stay his hand, Shakespeare had raised his bow to his shoulder and fired. The shot struck the deer just behind the shoulder, and the animal bounding into the air, fell struggling amongst the fern.
"Hark!" said Snare, as the same guttural sounds were again heard in the woods. "You should not have fired. 'Tis the signal from our comrades. The keepers are at hand."
"May the fiend take them," said Shakespeare.
"So say I," returned Snare; "but an we take not especial care, they will take us; for look ye, the startled herd will sweep by them yonder, and they will be upon us anon; and see, that huge beast is kicking and struggling like a dying ox,—quick, good William, strike roundly in and cut his throat."
So saying, Snare gave all his attention to the direction in which the sounds came, whilst Shakespeare, dashing upon the stag, seized the animal by the horns. There was then a short and desperate struggle, and with his sharp dagger he cut the creature's throat. He then as swiftly rejoined his companion. Scarcely had he done so ere they were both aware of the approach of the keepers, who having observed the affrighted herd, and at the same time noticed the peculiar sounds given by the watchers, and which were somewhat out of season, came directly upon them.
"We might easily shew them a clean pair of heels, and join the bulky Froth without the palings," whispered Snare; "but we must have yonder beast at all hazards; and we can but make a fight of it if it come to the worst. Down with thee, good Will, flat in the fern. Here they come—I see them plainly in yonder glade." So saying, Snare threw himself on the ground close beside Shakespeare, and immediately divesting himself of his jerkin and hat, rose up again a most grisly object—neither more nor less than Mors, or Dreary Death. Meanwhile the rangers came quickly on, four in number, and each armed with cross-bows and a short barbed, spear.
They advanced to within about a bow-shot from the tree behind which Snare and Shakespeare were concealed, when the former, slowly gliding from behind its stern, advanced directly upon them.
The first sight of such an apparition, seen but indistinctly amongst the huge boughs, brought the whole party to a stand. They but half made out its hideous outline, when it emerged into the clear moonlight, and seemed gliding upon them, "a bare-ribbed death, horrible to sight." To say the keepers were frightened would be to say little. They were at first paralysed, and then turning, they fled like the wind; whilst Snare immediately again threw himself flat on his face, and was lost to sight amongst the fern; so that, as the keepers looked back whilst they fled, the apparition had apparently vanished into the earth.
Rejoining Shakespeare, Snare now resumed his outward garment; and taking advantage of the panic, both hastily approached the deer, and securing its legs, fastened them on a quarter-staff which they had supported on their shoulders, they then hastened across the glade.
So soon as they had gained the park palings, and which at this period, and at this part, ran across a deep sandy lane, they threw down their burden; and casting themselves on the ground to regain breath after their rapid flight, listened attentively. In a few moments a huge broad-backed countryman, clad in the loose frock of a miller's man, mounted upon a strong-jointed horse, and carrying an empty sack on the pommel of the saddle, rode past.
"You ride late, Master Miller," said Shakespeare, as he clambered over the palings.
"Nay; rather I ride early, Master Forester," returned the other. "Hast anything for the mill to-night?"
"I have, good Froth," said Shakespeare; "but is there a clear coast?"
"By the mass! I think there be. Be quick, however, for three of Sir Thomas's fellows have passed this spot not a quarter of an hour back."
"Good!" said Shakespeare. "Then hand me thy meal bag." And the horseman threw his sack to Shakespeare, as Snare at the same moment heaved the carcase of the deer over the paling, and then following himself, the sack was quickly drawn over the body of the deer, and it was thrown across the horse, the trio making the best of their way along the deep sandy lane towards Stratford.
As they emerged from the lane upon a rushy mead, and left the boundary of the park, a low whistle was heard, which they answered. Soon afterwards they were joined by their companions, and enveloped in mists of the swampy ground they traversed.
It was about the hour when "night is at odds with morning which is which" that the party we have before seen assembled at the Lucy Arms once more entered its hospitable doors. Quietly, and with considerable caution, however, they stole in, one of them bearing upon his shoulders, nay, round his neck as it were, with the hind and fore legs protruding before him, the carcase of a goodly stag. This latter bent his tall form, as he was ushered into the kitchen of the hostel, and threw his heavy burthen upon the floor, whilst his companions and mine host, by the light of the fire, and in great glee, proceeded to examine it.
"By 'ur Lady, a fine beast," said the host. "Why, Will Shakespeare, this is even a better night's work than when you shot that beast in Fulbrook."
"A stag of ten, my masters all," said Froth. "'Fore gad, I am well nigh exhausted with long fasting and sharp watching. A cup of wine, mine host, a cup of wine to Sir Thomas Lucy's health."
Whilst the host produced his wine, and Froth and Careless seated themselves on the settle beneath the chimney, Snare and Shakespeare were busily engaged in skinning the stag, which having quickly accomplished, they as speedily cut it up, and disposed of the several portions in such places of security and concealment us the host pointed out. After which, the skin and the antlered head were thrust into the meal-bag, and carried into the orchard, where Shakespeare dug a hole and buried it.
That done they returned to the kitchen, and mine host having spread a table and furnished it with liquors, some rashers were cut from the carcase of the door, and fried, and eaten with a relish only known to men who had spent a night in the forest glades watching and killing the stag from which they were taken.
"By 'ur Lady, my lads," said Froth, as he washed down these delicious morsels, hot from the fire, with large draughts of mine host's best ale, "this is the best part of the night's work. I like not that lonely watching beneath the moon's rays. Give me the tankard and a savoury collop after the deed is done, and spare me the toil of the action. And yet, lads, an I had met yonder caitiff-keepers, I should have found them in work, I promise ye."
"No doubt," said Caliver; "it would have taken them all four to have carried thy fat paunch to the cage."
"I taken to the cage!" said Froth, "I would have cudgelled them to mummy."
"Ha, Cavaliere," said the host, "thou would'st have smote, thou would'st have feined, thou would'st have traversed, eh, ere limbo should have held thy portly body? And that reminds me, Lawyer Grasp, with two imps of the evil one, was here to-night inquiring for thee."
"Ah!" said Froth, turning rather blank, and setting down the tankard. "The peaking knave, then, hath entered the action against me for Master Doubletongue's debt. Would I had been at home, my lads, we would have tossed the caitiff in a blanket."
"Nay, Host," said Pierce Caliver, "I had rather myself not come in contact with that Grasp; by the same token, I owe moneys too. Therefore keep fast your doors while I am within them."
"My hand upon it," said the host; "I will keep all fast till noon; and none shall have egress or regress. Said I well, lads, eh?"
"You did, Host," said Careless, "for I, too, would as lief walk with the receipt of fernseed by daylight."
"And now, my lads all," said Snare, "let us have one song, and then a nap; after that to seek our several destinations. I am for Warwick when day breaks."
"And I for Monkspath," said Careless.
"And I for Stoneleigh," said Caliver.
"And I for home," said Shakespeare, with a look of mock solemnity, "where——"
"Where thou wilt be finely clapper-clawed for being out all night," said the host. "Such it is to be a married man—ha! ha! A young man married is a man that's marred. But truly, Will, thou art not yet married; thou canst hit a buck by moonlight with the best of us; so, I pry'thee, give us that song of thine about the horns, and we'll all join in chorus."
Shakespeare accordingly commenced the following glee. Snare and the others taking part, and joining chorus:—
Shak.What shall he have that killed the deer?[15]Snare.His leather skin and horns to wear.Shak.Then sing him home.Chorus.Take thou no scorn, to wear the horn,It was a crest ere thou wast born,Shak.Thy father's father wore it.Snare.And thy own father bore it.Chorus.The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
Shak.What shall he have that killed the deer?[15]Snare.His leather skin and horns to wear.Shak.Then sing him home.Chorus.Take thou no scorn, to wear the horn,It was a crest ere thou wast born,Shak.Thy father's father wore it.Snare.And thy own father bore it.Chorus.The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
The first faint light of the breaking dawn, as it gradually appeared through the diamond-paned window, found the entire party wrapped in slumber.
The fat and jovial Froth, with his huge legs stretched out before him, his portly body thrown back, and the tankard fast-clutched in his hand, showed by his apoplectic breathing, the heaviness of his slumbers.
Shakespeare, somewhat fatigued by the night's exertions, sat opposite, with his head on his folded arms.
Snare was down full length before the expired fire upon the hearth; and the others were disposed on either side.
Not a sound was heard, except the prolonged chorus of the sleepers, and the chirping of the cricket; when from beneath a large table at the farther end of the kitchen, and where he had lain concealed, the head of Pouncet Grasp was protruded. Stealthily, and with the greatest caution, he listened to the heavy breathing of the sleepers. He then as carefully emerged from his hiding-place, and stole on tip-toe towards the party, identifying each individual as he did so, and putting down his name in a small tablet he drew from the breast of his doublet.
"Oh, oh," he whispered to himself, as he closed the tablets, after writing down the name of William Shakespeare; "here is a precious nest of ye."
"Ah! ah!" he continued, as he stepped to the door, and carefully opening it, looked back ere he departed. "Here's a delicious job for a man to stumble upon! A good night's work you have made on't, Master William Shakespeare, have ye? Yes, and a precious piece of work have ye all made on't. A Star-Chamber matter will Sir Thomas make of this, as sure as my name is Grasp." So saying, he quietly opened the back door, and stole out to join the followers whom he had left in the orchard.
"Shall I call the other men, and make the capture, Master Grasp?" inquired one of his myrmidons in a whisper. "Not to-night, good Giles," said the lawyer. "By no means to-night. There is a precious fellowship within there; and they may capture us! Besides, I have found out a plot—a monstrous plot—a damnable plot—and yet a lovely plot—a most sweet piece of villany!"
"A monstrous plot!" said the constable; "What is't, another conspiracy to murder the Queen?"
"Worse," said Grasp. "Now, listen and perpend. Thou knowest Sir Thomas Lucy hath of late lost more than one deer?"
"I do," said the constable.
"Well, an he hath lost them, I have found them."
"Where?" eagerly inquired the constable.
"Here, in this veritable inn," said Grasp.
"And when?" inquired the constable.
"Why, now, even now: go to—see what it is to bear a brain."
"Nay, then, Master Grasp," said the constable, "if the case, I also have a discovery to tell of."
"Ah!" said Grasp, "what is it?"
"Whilst we lay perdue in yonder corner of the orchard. But, stay, dost see that tree there with the spade against it?"
"I do," said Grasp, eagerly.
"With that spade, and under the third tree in line therewith, did Will Shakespeare dig a hole this night, and into that hole did Diccon Snare bury a something concealed in a sack."
"Ha! say'st thou; by my faith the skin of the stolen deer," said Grasp, "as I'm a lawyer. Let us mark the tree; and now, my lads, I have ye emmeshed in a lovely web. No noise, ye knaves," he continued to his men, "but get through the hedge and away."
"Ha! ha! Master William Shakespeare," he said, as he followed his two ill-looking myrmidons. "Now, will I to Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote, knight and magistrate, and then will we let the law loose upon ye."
Our situation as recorder of events connected with this history, whilst it enables us to look from an elevated position upon those connected with our story, enables us also to transport our readers, with a thought, from pole to pole. Nay, we can even rival the swift flight of Puck, if we so will it, and "put a girdle round about the earth in somewhat less than forty minutes."
In virtue of this power, we therefore take leave to transport our readers upon the "sightless couriers of the air," and bid them look down upon the main of waters several thousand miles from the scene of our last chapter—even to the watery wastes which wash the coast of Florida.
A small speck—an atom—is seen slowly and laboriously making its way over the broad waves of the Atlantic. Steadily and beautifully, as we obtain a nearer view, does she seem to mount upon the rolling surge, and then again sink down into the vale of waters, almost lost to sight between the liquid mountains which follow each other in succession, apparently from end to end of the world.
How awfully grand is the situation! How curious to consider is the intellect, courage, and perseverance of those who guide that barque through such an unknown waste! The dreadful winds roaring above them, and beneath the multitudinous waters descending, "where fathom line would never find the ground," one touch of an unseen rock, one bolt starting in the vessel's hull, one unmarked and uncared-for blast of wind, one spark alighting in a crevice, and that vessel and all that it contains, unknown, unseen, is resolved into the vast tide, and washed amidst the atoms contained in its dark waters. Months have passed since the Falcon left the river which flows up to that old Dutch-built Cinque Port where our readers may remember to have last seen her. Steadily hath the wanderer held on day after day, through fair and foul, into the dark waste, alone, like some atom upon the surface, and still breasting the wave, as if eternity was before her in those rolling seas.
Strange that the spirit of adventure should sustain men in such a hopeless-looking wilderness! That the desire of finding new worlds, or their greed after gold, should take them from all they hold dear in their own land. Such, however, is the motive which actuates the major part of the crew of that labouring barque, whilst to one alone amongst them, and who seems the chief of the party, the secret spring which is indeed the prime mover of the adventure, is love.
The youthful Count, then, whilst he leads on his followers under the idea of new discoveries, great gains, and hatred of the Spaniard, is, in truth, seeking for one who has either perished by wreck or starvation, or is still living in hopeless abandonment or captivity, somewhere amongst these far-away seas.
One only confidant is aware of the secret motive, and that person is our old acquaintance Martin. If then we look within the hull of this small craft, we shall find its interior peopled by some sixty stern-looking and bearded wanderers, high in courage, stern in resolve, the captain and crew who work the vessel, the eccentric and faithful Martin, and one female in disguise, the latter "a count of wealth as well as quality," to all appearance, and who, as proprietor of the vessel and loader of the expedition, seeks ostensibly but to pursue his love of adventure.
In consequence of the inferiority of size, form, and fashion of this vessel, and the unknown ocean they traverse, the Falcon and her warlike fraughtage have boon boating about for many a weary week.
It was after being exposed to one of the fearful hurricanes so frequent in these seas, that we now look upon the Falcon and her devoted crew. Tempest-tossed as they had been for some weeks, to their great relief they at length began to find themselves approaching land, and by the delicious fragrance with which the air was loaded—an air which seemed as if it blew from some garden abounding with sweet flowers—they found themselves amongst "the still vext Bermothees," where they resolved to remain for a short time in order to refit.
Strange and unnatural appearances, however, whilst in this, as it first seemed, region of paradise, so astonished the sailors, that after a brief sojourn, the Count was necessitated to hasten his departure—
"The Isle seemed full of noises,Sounds and sweet airs, that gave delight, and hurt not."
"The Isle seemed full of noises,Sounds and sweet airs, that gave delight, and hurt not."
The sailors, too, with characteristic superstition, declared they heard strange voices commanding them to leave the shore,[16]and, as if to enforce their orders, a dreadful storm of thunder and lightning seemed to rend the very heavens, and darkness settled as a pall around them. Fearful shapes too were said to glare through the murky atmosphere around the ship, and the apparition of the ominous flame, called by seamen "Castor and Pollux," flitted above the mast. These portents were the prelude to a yet more tremendous storm, which threatening to swallow up the little vessel, eventually drove her on an island which runs parallel nearly to the coast of Carolina.
The Count here disembarked, and refreshed his followers, by rest amidst woods and groves of tall cedar trees, around whose trunks wild vines hung in festoons, and the grape seemed so natural to the soil, that the clusters covered the ground and dipt into the ocean.
Again they put to sea, and again they made a strange land filled with new wonders. Here, whilst the adventurers sought the interior of a country they had been led to believe contained cities in which the houses were studded with pearl, the Count and his immediate attendants sought the ruined colony from which Drake had carried off the remnant of followers, previously left by Sir Walter Raleigh. "They after riches hunt; he after love." The dangers and difficulties encountered by both parties it would be difficult to picture; for hunger, heat, wounds, and disease were the portion of the adventurers of Elizabeth's day. Through gloomy swamps they penetrated, and through interminable forests they hewed their way. Many were pierced by the poisoned shaft of the Indian, many died of despair, and many were the victims of serpents, reptiles, and savage beasts; whilst others again died of loathsome diseases unknown in their native land.
Still the Count, the faithful Martin, and their immediate followers held on. They had gained some tidings by which they learnt that it party of wrecked seamen had been carried captive by the natives to a city in the interior of the country; and they resolved to reach them, or perish in the attempt.
'Twas indeed an edifying sight to behold the stripling youth who led that small band. One evidently nurtured in luxury and ease, enduring the extremity of danger, fatigue, hardship, and privation, and lending a fire to his jaded followers by his heroic fortitude and example. What mattered it him, that for days hundreds of half-naked Indians, with their clubs and bows, hovered around his mail-clad band. One moment swarming to the close attack, the next showering flights of arrows from the distance. Still himself and party were resolved to penetrate to the rescue of their countrymen or die; and the little band at length reached the place they sought.
'Twas lucky for the young Count that he had steeled his mind to bear disappointment when he donned the light cuirass which adorned his breast; for himself and followers, on arriving at the capital of the country, found literally nothing to repay their toil. In place of boundless wealth and temples of the sun, the adventurers found a wretched Indian town, which had been sacked and partially burned by a detachment of Spanish soldiers, and who had apparently carried off those they sought as prisoners to their ship.
Here again, therefore, the Christian fortitude of the young Count supported his followers. "Murmur at nothing, comrades," he said. "If our ills are repairable, it is ungrateful; if otherwise, it is vain. There is comfort yet. The Spaniard is assailable, and the Falcon swift of pinion; we will return, embark, and swoop upon the enemy."
Well knowing that the Spaniards always went into the Gulf of Mexico by St. Domingo and Hispaniola, and directed their homeward course by the Gulf of Florida, where they found a continued coast on the west side, trending away north, and then standing to the east to make for Spain, the Captain of the Falcon directed his course accordingly; and guided by report of some barques he fell in with, managed to gain sight of the very vessel they were in search of.
The Spaniard was a huge carrack loaded with treasure; and when the English vessel sighted her, she was labouring heavily in a gale, and which the lighter and better-built Falcon rode with ease. Displaying his flag, the Count instantly gave orders to bear down and near the enemy; and disregarding the increasing winds which now blow almost a hurricane, the two vessels encountered each other.
How strange it seemed that amidst the fury of the elements, and which in a few short hours might overwhelm both vessels in the deep, the natural hatred the crews bore each other should urge on and help the destruction. And still more edifying was the gallantry with which the smaller English vessel bore down upon the huge golden prize, received her heavy fire, and, crashing upon her, whilst they were locked together, attempted to storm her bulwarks, and gain a footing on her deck. Then might have been seen a fearful sight,—amidst the tearing of masts and rigging consequent upon the vessels being locked together for the moment, and whilst they were simultaneously heaved upon each wave, was heard the ringing sound of musketry, the clash of weapons, and the despairing cry of agony, mingled with rattling sails and roaring wind.
Enveloped in smoke, none knew whether they were sinking amidst the dire confusion and horrible sounds around. Navigation was suspended whilst rage lasted, until the vessels separating with the increasing violence of the storm, in a crippled state, and, as if pausing for want of power to renew the fight, they were now gradually driven from each other. Not as they had met, however, did they part. In the confusion of the fight, and owing to their tearing apart ere the English adventurers could master the Spanish craft, and which by their valour and impetuosity they had nearly accomplished, several had fallen into the hands of the Spaniard, whilst a similar capture had also been made by the Falcon.
The young Count and Martin were unluckily amongst those left upon the deck of the Spanish vessel, and one or two of the before wrecked sailors, of whom the Count was in search, together with some Spaniards of condition, were the prize of the English.
This was a dire consummation to the crew of the Falcon after all their toils. The Spaniard was known to be a cruel devil on the high seas. The prisoners would be tortured or made to walk the plank. In addition to this, there was no possibility of rescue or renewal of the fight in such a sea, and in so crippled a state. Both vessels, therefore, lay rolling upon the waters, the crews glaring at each other till night.
Notwithstanding their crippled state, the Captain of the Falcon, with the characteristic industry of the English suitor, sat about preparing for a renewal of the engagement, and, after giving a multitude of directions, he found time to address himself to a tall noble-looking cavalier, who seemed the principal of those whom the chance of war had introduced into his vessel.
"This is an unlucky issue to our adventure, Seignor," he said, "unless we can repair the mischief by a second fight."
"A lucky one for me, good Captain," returned the cavalier, "I was forced with other prisoners upon the deck of yonder Spaniard, and ordered to fight against you, my own country men. In themeléeI managed to gain a footing upon your craft. Another day had perhaps seen us all committed to the deep."
"Whilst I," said the Captain, "in gaining that for which I adventured in this voyage, have lost my venture by losing my employer. Is not thy name Arderne,—Walter Arderne?"
"It is," said the cavalier, in some surprise, "How have you discovered so much?"
"There are those in this vessel who know you," said the Captain; "men from your own neighbourhood, and who are the followers of the owner of this craft, a noble gentleman who set sail from England for the very purpose of discovering and rescuing certain of his countrymen said to be cast away on the coast of Florida."
"You still more astonish me," said Arderne. "What was the name of this person?"
"My employer, and who has unluckily become a captive in yonder carrack, is called the Count Falanara, a noble having large estates in Warwickshire."
"We have no such name, or proprietor of land, in that county," said Arderne; "you have been deceived."
"In some sort I think so," said Captain Fluellyn; "will you favour me by stepping into the cabin of this noble, and in which, until his absence gave me opportunity of entering, I have never yet been?"
So saying, the Captain led the way into the small cabin the Count had occupied during the voyage, which had been fitted up under his own directions.
Nothing could be more elegant than the interior of this cabin; the curtains of the small sleeping-berth were of common silk, fringed with gold; the window beneath which the waves rippled was elaborately carved, and also framed and gilt; a splendid mirror of small dimensions, being framed in gold, ornamented the opposite side; the lamp which was suspended from the ceiling was also of pure gold; an elaborately-carved seat, with velvet cushions, was opposite the small round table fastened in the centre of the cabin, and upon it was placed a lute. In short, everything shewed that the recent occupier was a person of somewhat effeminate tastes and habits, and so the Captain seemed to think. "A soft nest," he said, "for one vowed to adventure, and the dangers of the New World. One would think a noble possessing the means for luxuries such as these need scarcely seek for treasure."
"Truly so," said Arderne.
"And yet," said the Captain, "it all depends upon the treasure sought. This Count, as you have said, hath in some sort put a cheat upon me; inasmuch, Master Arderne, as he was not what he seemed."
"True," said Arderne.
"These things are not the usual accompaniments of a sailor, or a rude son of adventure," said the Captain, somewhat contemptuously, touching the lute and the framed mirror with the end of his sheathed rapier. "On my first acquaintance with this youth—this noble—and when I took instructions anent our voyage, I looked upon him as a coward. He was for avoiding all unnecessary danger and collision with an enemy. Subsequent events, however, and his endurance under toil, and his ardour after that he sought, caused me to change that opinion. A week ago, as I listened to the melody of the voice which accompanied yonder lute, it suddenly struck me the Count was a female."
"A female!" said Arderne. "Had she no familiar friend—no confidant with her—who was aware of her real name, think ye?"
"She had," returned the Captain, "a shrewd and faithful friend, who seemed her confidant; albeit, I could make him out as little as I could his superior. He also is captured or lost in the confusion."
"We must take that vessel, Captain, or perish!" said Arderne.
"We will at least do our best," said the Captain, preparing to leave the cabin, and look to the exertions of his men. But at that moment a sudden cry arose in the vessel, which made both him and Arderne hasten their steps. The Spaniard was on fire.
This was indeed a terrible consummation. The night was dark—the burning vessel some miles off.
Regardless of the billows rolling mountains high, Arderne and a resolute company got out the boats of the Falcon, and attempted to approach the blazing vessel.
'Twas, however, all in vain. The conflagration rapidly increased; so that ere the boats neared her, she was on fire in many places; her ordnance thundering off as the flames reached them, rendering it impossible to approach near. That several escaped in their boats was likely; but the English sailors, in spite of Arderne's desire to keep near, rowed back to tho Falcon, whence they remained gazing upon the flaming craft—a terrific spectacle thus seen by night. The shape, cordage, masts, her high and towering poop, and all her gilded furniture, displayed in the hot flames, as if some painter had drawn out every portion.
All night and part of the next day did the haughty-looking Spaniard burn, till she was consumed to the water's edge, and then, as the Falcon neared her, there arose ever and anon a column of smoke from the rolling sea, consequent upon the close decks, full of spices, exploding under water, and which the fire had not taken hold of.
Stratford-upon-Avon, like most country towns, possessed at this period, amongst other and worthier inhabitants, a certain amount of fragments, who were indeed in themselves nothing, but who wished to make themselves, as they fancied themselves, something.
Those stuck-up portions of humanity, besides being extremely chaste in their ideas of propriety, were perhaps the most intolerant and unforgiving Christians in the world.
Brotherly love and charity were as often and as forcible in their mouths as real humanity was wanting in their hearts. Did a poor maiden err, and allowed her failing to be discovered, she was to be utterly cast out, abandoned, destroyed—no redemption allowed. Did a youth but shew the germs of a generous spirit, and fling out never so little, he was to be hunted down as one of the wild and wicked, irrecoverably disowned, and driven from society. Such folks are, as we have said, always to be found in a small community of citizens—the unwholesome impurity which circulates in its veins and arteries, and poisons by degrees the stream of its life.
Should any of these envious censors happen to observe one whom they consider of mark and likelihood beyond the common herd, they endeavour to make shipwreck of such superiority, by nipping it in the bud. They feel conscious of their own common-place inferiority. They know themselves in reality nothing, and they resolve to reduce, if they can, the superiority of others to their own level, or to trample and destroy it utterly, if possible.
"Such a commodity of warm slaves" in Stratford had for some time looked with evil eye upon young Shakespeare. There was a superiority about him which, as it was more observable to their envy, they could by no means behold with quietude. They regarded him with a rankling dislike, and received, invented, or promulgated with avidity any thing they could gather to his disadvantage.
Our readers will perhaps think it odd, that one so young should already have found enemies in his native town. They will, however, remember, that "Envy always dogs merit at the heels," and that Shakespeare, as he was no common person, was at the same time the most open, generous, and unsuspicious of mortals—a man likely to expose himself to censure, and care little about it either.
Back-wounding calumny, as he well knew, "the whitest virtue strikes." With every aggravation of circumstance, therefore, the somewhat desultory life young Shakespeare led, became canvassed by these good citizens of Stratford.
He was noted as one of irreclaimably wild and dissolute habits—"quoted and signed to do some deed of shame;" and through the industry of Grasp and Doubletongue, the Charlecote exploit got wind all over the neighbourhood.
No sooner did Grasp hear of the return of Sir Thomas Lucy from Kenilworth, and which happened a few days after the adventure, than he hastened over to Charlecote, and demanding audience of the stately knight, laid all he knew before him.
Our readers will readily picture to themselves the ire of Sir Thomas on hearing this piece of intelligence, and which, as Grasp related the conversation he had heard whilst lying in perdue at the hostel, plainly shewed the knight that his park had been broke, and his deer shot under his very nose.
"Ha!" he said, as he rose from his chair, and looked forth into the lovely chase; "and is it so? and are we bearded thus? Now, I will teach these knaves a lesson they shall not easily forget! Theoutrécuidanceof that wild young fellow—that young Shakespeare, it shall go hard, but I will punish. A slight touch of the whip would do much towards turning so fiery a spirit. Ah! and what then, nothing but my parks, my woods, and my forest-walks will suffice for the recreation of that young springald.
"Master Grasp, I am much bounden to you for this intelligence. At once we will proceed against the whole gang of desperadoes. Let me see your list again. Ah! I see. And now, with regard to the Lucy Arms, we will begin there first. No more shall that swaggering Host make mine own property the den in which these ruffians congregate, and lay their plots to rob and plunder me."
"Master Fillpot was soliciting a fresh lease of the Lucy Arms, was he not, honoured Sir?" inquired Grasp.
"He was so," said Sir Thomas. "His lease expired last Midsummer, and I was about to renew it. I will renew it with a vengeance, Master Grasp, as you shall see anon."
"Marry and amen," said Grasp. "The Lucy Arms, grieved am I to say it, since they are pertaining to so honourable a house, hath been for some time a sign of disrepute in the town, a rallying point for certain dissolute and shameless characters to assemble at."
"They shall no longer be so," said. Sir Thomas, ringing a small bell on his table, "We will incontinently proceed there. Let the head keeper be sought immediately," he said to the domestic, who answered the summons.
"He awaits in the court with the hawks, Sir Thomas," said the domestic.
"Order him hither," said the knight, "and inform the ladies I shall not go to the marshes this morning. I have business at Stratford which will employ me till after noon."
The man bowed and withdrew, and immediately afterwards the head keeper, a tall, athletic-looking man, holding his falcon on his glove, entered the room.
"Your fellows keep good watch, Oswald," said the knight. "During my absence at Kenilworth, I have been again robbed; one of the best bucks in the park has been stolen."
"I heard not of it, Sir Thomas," returned the falconer.
"So it appears," returned the knight. "Nevertheless it hath been done; by the same token, this worthy, honest person saw the deer brought to the kitchen of the Lucy Arms at Stratford, where it was skinned, cut up, and actually some part of it eaten by William Shakespeare and his companions."
"You amaze me," said the keeper; "on that night some of those I left in charge of the park were scared by a horrible apparition, the same which has been sometimes seen in the chase of Kenilworth, and so alarmed Roger Watchum, the Earl's head keeper, that he took it as a warning of death, and never joyed after. It hath grievously scared our people too, and they are afraid to go out at night, except in couples."
"Let them quit my service in couples then," said Sir Thomas, "since they are such cowardly hounds, and do you put a bullet through that ghost wherever you find it. I am well served by fellows who, scared by a shadow, run scampering about the woods, and leave the deer to the mercy of caitiffs and common robbers the whilst."
The head keeper well knew the stern disposition of his master, he therefore only bowed and waited further orders, whilst Sir Thomas walked up and down the apartment for some minutes without speaking. After a while, however, he again addressed the keeper.
"Go, sirrah," he said, "get together half a score of my out-door serving-men with pick and crow-bar. Send them forward to the Town-end at Stratford; and do thou and half a dozen of thy fellows, prepare to attendme."
"And now, Master Grasp," he said, "we will take your's, and the depositions of the men you have brought with you, who saw this Shakespeare in the act of burying the buck's-hide in the orchard of the Lucy Arms."
Meantime whilst these transactions were taking place at Charlecote, the unconscious delinquents were again assembled at the hostel, where we fear, it must be confessed, more mischief was being plotted against the quieter portions of the community.
The spirit of mischief, and the love of sport, was, after all, the chief mover of the whole party. They enjoyed those stolen pleasures, and, indeed, doubly relished the banquets they furnished forth, from the very circumstances of their being so procured.
On the present occasion, the presiding genius of the tavern—the jovial Froth, with Pierce, Caliver, and Careless, were the parties assembled in the parlour of the Lucy Arms.
'Twas the time, according to the magnificent wight Armado, "when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper,"—about the sixth hour.
The meal was accompanied by sauce of the best quality, hunger, and savoured by good humour and hilarity. It consisted of a smoking haunch from the very buck we have already heard so much controversy about, and which was washed down by large draughts of liquor, various in kind, and exquisite in flavour.
It would have done the reader's heart good to have beheld mine host of the tavern, with the sleeves of his doublet tucked up, standing at the table to carve the savoury joint, and whilst he ever and anon partook of a morsel and pledged his guests in a bumper, waiting upon them and uttering his quaint sayings.
William Shakespeare and Diccon Snare had promised to be of the party on this evening, but from some cause or other which was unexplained, neither had kept the appointment.
Meanwhile the supper was finished, the haunch devoured down to the very bone, the napkin was removed, and the sparkling liquors in their quaint-cut bottles and flasks being placed upon the board, the party sat in for a carouse. They had all been over to Warwick on that day, and pleasure and action gave a zest to the evening's entertainment and the enjoyment of the hour; still the absence of Shakespeare and Snare made the evening's enjoyment, after all, seem incomplete. There was a feeling of something wanting to crown the joy of the party; for those who had once been in the society of the delightful Will, would be likely, without knowing the extent of their feelings at the moment, to experience a terrible void if he disappointed them.
The assemblage, however, were not men to allow the hours to hang on hand; and in the hope and expectation that their friends would join them, they carried on the war in jovial style. Their jests principally were levelled against Sir Thomas Lucy, whose rude and overbearing keepers they were the more pleased at gaining a triumph over; inasmuch as one or two of their own party had before been severely punished for offences against the game laws—offences, which men of their sort looked upon in the light of no offence at all, and rather as a sort of feather in their caps, anything but a theft; or, if a theft, a species of stealing which those of spirit, and ranking as gentlemen, had a right to indulge in: for what says the old doggrel?