"Harry and I in youth long sinceDid doughty deeds, but some nonsense;We read our books, we sang our song,We stole a deer; nor thought it wrong;To cut a purse deserves but hanging,To steal a deer gets merely banging."
"Harry and I in youth long sinceDid doughty deeds, but some nonsense;We read our books, we sang our song,We stole a deer; nor thought it wrong;To cut a purse deserves but hanging,To steal a deer gets merely banging."
"Ha, ha!" said the Host. "Art thou there, bullies? Why, then, confusion to these Bohemian tartars! and we lads of mettle will still feast at their expense. What we must hedge, we must lurch. An we are borne down by the vile in spirit, we must resort to cozenage,—we must filch,—we must steal,—we must coney catch,—we must cozen the dappled deer from the fern."
"Truly thou art in the right, Host," said Froth; "but I most especially marvel what keepeth the jovial Will to-night. He struck the buck, and should be at the carving of the haunch. We lack him—we lack him much. By my fay! the cup lacks flavour, whilst expectation is thus defeated. Oh, 'tis a glorious boy! Come, lads, let us in his absence cheer our spirits with a catch. Give us Will's own song of the horns: an we have not himself, we'll have his verse." And the party sang,—
"1. What shall we have that kill the deer?2. His leathern skin and horns to wear.3. Then sing him home.Take thou no scorn to wear the horn,It was a crest ere thou wast born."
"1. What shall we have that kill the deer?2. His leathern skin and horns to wear.3. Then sing him home.Take thou no scorn to wear the horn,It was a crest ere thou wast born."
The chorus was trolled out again and again, the singers applauding their own exertions vigorously, by repeated raps upon the table. Mine Host sat with his hands clasped before him, his head keeping time with drunken precision:
"The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,Is not a thing to laugh to scorn."
"The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,Is not a thing to laugh to scorn."
When just at this moment the whole company were startled by an apparition nearly as appalling in appearance as the spectre they had themselves scared the keepers of Sir Thomas Lucy with in Charlecote, and which indeed was neither more nor less than Sir Thomas Lucy himself.
The knight advanced a few paces into the room, accompanied by several of his men, and stood to regard the party. Mine host was the first to catch sight of him, and the lusty chorus he was trolling out died away in a faint quaver, and as the rest of the company, following the direction of his staring eyes, turned and beheld the tall knight, conscience made cowards of them all, and, with a desperate rush, they endeavoured to get out of the room. Two dashed into the sleeping-chamber of Froth, whence they escaped into the orchard, whilst mine host, Caliver, and Careless, bolted through the open window.
Following the example of these latter fugitives, Froth made also an attempt to escape by the window, but his huge body became fixed like a wedge, as he endeavoured to throw himself forwards upon the grass without, and his nether man presented so fair a mark that the irate knight pointing him out to his head keeper, the sturdy forester stepped up, and by a most industrious application of his hunting-whip, so stimulated the exertions of Froth, that, bellowing with pain, he at last managed to get through the opening.
If the stately knight had been given to mirth, the sight of this swollen porpoise, during his efforts to escape,—his huge legs kicking at his tormentor,—his great body fast jammed,—would have furnished him with laughter for some minutes.
Sir Thomas, however, was too irate to be so moved; he sought for proof of the guilt of the parties in this their sanctum, and, quickly proceeding to overhaul the lodgement of Froth, he found sufficient evidence of their poaching propensities; cross-bows, matchlocks, and snares of various sorts, were rummaged out and brought to light; and even the costume of Dreary Death, and other disguises, were produced. In fact, the query which had been often suggested by some of the more staid neighbours of the vicinity, as to how the swash-bucklers and rollicking blades constituting the society of the Lucy Arms, managed to live, was brought to light. They lived by their exertions on the road and the glade. They were squires of the night's body—Diana's foresters—gentlemen of the shade.
No sooner was Sir Thomas fully satisfied on this point than he retired from the interior, and, mounting his horse, ordered the men awaiting him at the town-end to be summoned.
"Master Grasp," he said, "I have more than once given this caitiff host notice to quit, and he hath still hung on and craved to remain my tenant. You have seen him this day evacuate the premises of his own free will, and I will now give my own people possession."
Thus saying, Sir Thomas ordered his men to enter the hostel, and proceed to unroof it,[17]after which he desired them with pick and spade to demolish and destroy as much as they could effect that night, and in the morning to return and level the Lucy Arms with the ground. That done, he reiterated his commands to the obsequious Grasp to proceed against the whole party as aiders and abetters in the robbery—William Shakespeare, in particular, as principal. Toprosecuteandpersecutewith the utmost rigour of the law. After which he turned his horse, and, grave and stately, attended by his keepers, rode off to Charlecote.
On the morning of the day on which Sir Thomas paid a visit to the Lucy Arms, William Shakespeare, seated in a small parlour at the back of his house, was employed reading from a somewhat bulky volume certain matters which appeared deeply to interest him.
So much so, indeed, that albeit his attention was often called from the subject of his studies by the little crowing baby he held in one arm; still he ever returned with renewed avidity to devour a few more pages, as often as the playful infant gave him an opportunity of doing so.
The volume Shakespeare was reading from was a thick squat folio, then some thirty years printed, and called Hall's Chronicles. Many and various were the histories contained in this thick volume; and the deep interest young Shakespeare felt in their perusal, and the impression they made upon his mind, may be imagined when we enumerate them as set forth. First, then, there was "the unquiet time of King Henry ye Fourth." That was indeed a stirring page in England's history, "when trenching war channelled her fields," and intestine jars and civil butchery "daubed her lips with her own children's blood."
Then followed the victorious acts of King Henry the Fifth—a glorious epoch—a "record of fair act," and which, as we read of, he already saw before him, "the warlike Hal, in the vasty fields of France,"
"Assuming the port of Mars, and at his heelsLeash'd in, like hounds, famine, fire, and sword,Crouching for employment."
"Assuming the port of Mars, and at his heelsLeash'd in, like hounds, famine, fire, and sword,Crouching for employment."
Then came the troublous season of King Henry the Sixth, when
"Cropp'd were the flower-de-luces in our arms,And England's cost one-half was cut away."
"Cropp'd were the flower-de-luces in our arms,And England's cost one-half was cut away."
Then followed the boisterous reign of King Edward the Fourth, the pitiful life of King Edward the Fifth, the tragical doings of King Richard the Third, the "politic governance" of King Henry the Seventh, the triumphant reign of King Henry the Eighth.
How diligently young Shakespeare perused this book; and how carefully he remembered the impression made upon his mind, his after-life has shewn us.
At the present moment, like many a less elevated genius, his studies were disturbed by civil discord, domestic brawls, and the matters of every-day life around him.
Such, however, was the fine disposition of the man, that it took much to disturb the serenity of his temper and the equanimity of his mind.
We have seen that, in the amiability of his disposition, he was snatching an hour's leisure from the business in which he was engaged, and helping to nurse his child whilst pursuing his studies. This employment in itself would but have enhanced the pleasure afforded by such study. But unluckily (albeit he gave as little attention thereto as possible) he was at the same time subjected to the observation and sharp rebuke of his somewhat shrewish better half.
The stolen hours spent with his associates of the Lucy Arms had caused him a series of lectures and upbraidings, which completely ship-wrecked his domestic peace.
All this be suffered in silence, for, as he could not compromise his companions by disclosing their confederacy in his deer-stealing exploit, he wisely held big tongue; not that he, however, deemed it right to keep secret counsel from the wife of his bosom; but in this case, where others were concerned, honour bound his tongue. In his own words he could have told her—
"That he knew her wise, but yet no further wiseThan William Shakespeare's wife. Constant she was,But yet a woman: and for secrecyNo lady closer, for he well believedShe would not utter what she did not know,And so far would he trust the gentle Anne."
"That he knew her wise, but yet no further wiseThan William Shakespeare's wife. Constant she was,But yet a woman: and for secrecyNo lady closer, for he well believedShe would not utter what she did not know,And so far would he trust the gentle Anne."
In the present instance the gentle Anne appeared determined to have a serious quarrel with her husband. She flatly told him she would never rest till she had discovered where and with whom he had passed the night; and her upbraidings, as is frequently the case with females in her station of life, were by no means mild.
"The venom'd clamours of a jealous womanPoison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth."
"The venom'd clamours of a jealous womanPoison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth."
And William Shakespeare found it, and accordingly at length his patience gave way, and he arose, laid aside his book, placed his child in the cradle, and notwithstanding his stomach warned him it was near the dinner hour, he donned his castor, left the small apartment, and was about to leave his house for the Lucy Arms, when, just as he reached the door, he beheld Diccon Snare.
Dismounting from his horse, Snare entered the front-room of Shakespeare's house; and having desired the lad to whom he gave charge of the steed to lead it round to the shed in rear, he closed the door behind him carefully, and then threw himself into a chair, as one who had ridden far and fast since he had taken to the saddle.
"There is ill news abroad, Will," said he; "the Charlecote business is blown—Sir Thomas Lucy knows all. That much concerns you, for you are made the principal in the affair. Other matter hath also come out regarding some transactions in which Caliver and Careless are concerned. Caliver is in custody. Careless hath escaped, and, as I am not altogether exempt, I am for London with all speed."
"For myself I care nothing," said Shakespeare; "but for Pierce, Caliver, and Careless, I am grieved. But whence is all this derived?"
"I met one of Grasp's lads at Kenilworth this morning," said Snare, "who with an officer was searching for Caliver; he gave me a hint to convey intelligence to the lads of the Lucy Arms; and I have ridden hard to give you the first notice."
"This doth indeed look ugly," said Shakespeare. "Sir Thomas hath ever held me in his hate, and undeservedly so. Wherefore he hath this dislike, I partly guess; now he has me on the hip, I doubt not he will do his utmost against me. But I pry'thee come in, Snare, you look pale, and lack refreshment. Our meal is about to be served."
"Nay, but," said Snare, "your wife, Will,—she likes me not; nay, she forbade my coming hither last Martinmas."
"Heed it not," said Shakespeare, smiling; "believe me, she meant not what she said. A friend both tired, hungry, and in need of shelter, shall never be turned fasting from my door. Besides, hath not thy love brought thee hither to warn me? Tush, man! Do you tell me of a woman's tongue—
"That gives not half so great a blow to the ear,As doth a chestnut in a farmer's fire."
"That gives not half so great a blow to the ear,As doth a chestnut in a farmer's fire."
And Shakespeare threw open the door, and ushered his friend Snare into the inner-room, where they found the dinner spread, and the wife not best pleased at having to tarry.
"Not a word of matters appertaining," he whispered to Snare, as they entered. "Mistress Anne will not endure thee long, Diccon. After the meal is finished, she will take herself off to the upper-room."
Snare therefore followed his friend, and looking somewhat scared, made a leg, and paid his compliments to the hostess as he best could.
'Twas exactly as Shakespeare had surmised. The handsome Anne, whose brow grew somewhat contracted when she saw her husband usher in Snare, left the pair to themselves, as soon as she had finished her meal.
After her departure, Shakespeare placed liquor before his guest; and over a social glass they debated seriously of their affairs.
The high spirit of Shakespeare, however, would not permit of his long remaining under dominion of care or apprehension; and, under influence of a cup or two of Canary, he began to rail upon Sir Thomas, and lash him alternately.
"Out upon the clod-pate," he said; "his brains are as thick as Tewkesbury mustard. He imprison me—he have me whipped! Pshaw! I laugh at the dull ass! I will make him a jest to the whole country!"
"O' my word, Will, he will be more likely to drive thee from it," said Snare; "for Launcelot Quill, Grasp's head clerk, vows he never saw man more angered than the old knight is against thee."
"Tush, man!" said Shakespeare, "never tell me of his anger. Let him do his spite. He hath already done me several ill turns, from the bare suspicion that I have broke his park. Now, I doubt not, he will fine, imprison, and what not, if he can but catch me! Come, another cup, and then to inform our companions of the Lucy Arms of this matter. Best, however, clap-to the outer door, and make all fast," he said, rising and drawing the bolt across the fore-door, "lest this Cavaliero Justice hath already let loose his myrmidons against me. Ha! ha!" he continued, reseating himself, "he a Justice of the Peace!—he a Parliament Member! Why, I will fashion a better justice after supper out of a cheese-paring. I pr'ythee, Snare, reach me that ink-horn. I will write a lampoon upon the peaking Cornuto, and fasten it up against his park-gates—I will, indeed, lad!"
"Nay, but Will," urged Snare, "thou wilt scarce venture, daring dog as thou art, further to irritate the knight? I tell thee, being married and settled here, this business will already go far to ruin thee."
"Ruin me!" said Shakespeare, somewhat bitterly. "Ruin me, saidst thou? Why, man, dost think me in a thriving condition here in Stratford?"
"Not entirely so," said Snare, looking around; "I would I could see thy nest better feathered, Will, and I trust I shall yet do so."
"I think it not," said Shakespeare; "business decreases apace with me. I am called wild, inattentive, dissolute,—nay, I have had one or two slight misunderstandings with my family; and, as thou sayest, this last business and the rancorous hatred of Sir Thomas, will go hard with your poor friend. But, come, here we have a couplet or two in his condign praise: for a taste—
"A parliament member, a justice of peace,At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse;If lowsie is Lucy, as same volke miscalle it,Then Lucy is lowsie whatever befall it."
"A parliament member, a justice of peace,At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse;If lowsie is Lucy, as same volke miscalle it,Then Lucy is lowsie whatever befall it."
"'Fore heaven, Will, stop," said Snare, laughing, "Thou hast indeed touched up the knight; thou hast tied him to a post, and wilt lash him into madness."
"Nay, but stay," said Shakespeare, "I will give him another stanza yet. Hearkee to this:
"He thinks himself great.Yet an asse in his state,We allowe by his ears but with asses to mate;If Lucy is lowsie as some volke miscalle it,Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it."
"He thinks himself great.Yet an asse in his state,We allowe by his ears but with asses to mate;If Lucy is lowsie as some volke miscalle it,Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it."
"Nay," said Snare, "an thou stick that up, thou hadst better put the seas between thyself and Britain. The Knight of Charlecote will be driven stark staring mad."
"Well," said Shakespeare, "we shall see how matters progress. If Sir Thomas bears me hard, as true as thy name is Diccon Snare, I will nail this lampoon to his park-gates, and have it sung to filthy tunes through the town."
It was one bright morning, a few days after the events we have recorded that a gay and gallant-looking party rode into the grounds of Clopton and approached the Hall.
The mansion, which had for some time remained shut up, now appeared to be resuming something of its former state. Its latticed windows were once more open, whilst servants were to be seen moving about the offices and gardens, and even the bark and bay of dogs were heard in the kennel.
The good Sir Hugh had suddenly returned to his home from the Low Countries. Time had gradually ameliorated his deep grief, and restored the equilibrium of his mind. He felt tired of camps and military service, and his thoughts turned to the green woods and sweet scenes of his own home.
A feeling we suspect which almost all soldiers, however much ambition and the love of profession may keep them in harness, more or less experience. There is a period in the lives of all men in which the occupations of a country life form a sort of recreation after the toils and cares of the world. That which we disregard in youth, amidst the gaieties and frivolities and ambitions of life, in age seems to come as a natural repose. A wise provision of nature, and which in earlier times was perhaps better exemplified. To youth, the bright weapon, the helm, the shield, and the defence. To riper age, the plough, the hoe, and the dibble.
Sir Hugh had returned to his sweet home, and, albeit a settled melancholy was on his spirits, he could better enjoy that home now that absence had rendered it less painful to him to look upon, and he returned with renewed zest to his old employments. He was in his garden, giving directions to his gardener about the different plants, and flowers, and shrubs, and turning over in his mind the varieties which in his daughter's time she had loved to cultivate—
"DaffodilsThat come before the swallow dares, and takeThe winds of March with beauty. Violets dim,But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyesOr Cytherea's breath; pale primrosesThat die unmarried, ere they can beholdBright Ph[oe]bus in his strength."
"DaffodilsThat come before the swallow dares, and takeThe winds of March with beauty. Violets dim,But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyesOr Cytherea's breath; pale primrosesThat die unmarried, ere they can beholdBright Ph[oe]bus in his strength."
He was busied amongst his "somewhat o'erweeded garden," when an attendant announced that Sir Thomas and Lady Lucy were advancing towards the house, with the intention, no doubt, of paying him a formal visit on his return. Upon which the good Sir Hugh set his dibble in the earth, smoothed down the cuffs of his doublet, belted on the long rapier, which he had laid aside upon the walk when he commenced work, and, adjusting his short cloak and starched ruff, entered his house to receive these distinguished guests.
Sir Thomas Lucy, in the kindness of his heart, had hastened to pay a visit to his old friend the moment he heard of his arrival, and, well knowing there would be many things to excite the feelings of Sir Hugh on his return, he was resolved to carry him back to Charlecote.
"I will have no denial, Sir Hugh," he said, "I have come hither to bring ye forth to Charlecote. We have wanted you long, and by my fay we cannot away without ye."
"Nay, but," said Sir Hugh, "I am but now returned. Methinks in a few days I should be more prepared to leave home again."
"Prepare me nothing," said Sir Thomas. "What the good-year, dost think we will let thee sit down to a solitary meal here, when we have shot the buck, and dressed the haunch on purpose for thee? Come, man, Lady Lucy takes no denial; and, see, my daughters are here to fetch thee."
There was no resisting this, so Sir Hugh, sighing as he glanced upon the lovely daughters of his neighbour, ordered out his steed at once.
It was a lovely morning, as the party rode through the grounds of Clopton, and emerged upon the road to Stratford. Many matters were discussed by the two friends after their long separation.
Sir Thomas rode, as was customary at the period, with his falcon on his glove, his falconers being in attendance. Nay, even the ladies carried their favourite hawks, which they petted, and even talked to as they rode; a favourable opportunity for giving them wing being not altogether neglected occasionally.
"We must have a day on't in the marshes, Sir Hugh," said the Knight of Charlecote, "and you must away with me next week to the Cotswold Hills, to the coursing, Sir Hugh. By 'ur Lady, I have a pup of old Snowball, which, an I am not mistaken, will win the match. 'Tis a goodly cur, I promise ye."
"I will see him run," said Sir Hugh.
"And that reminds me," said Sir Thomas, "to tell thee I have of late been much molested by a knot of young fellows breaking my parks and shooting my deer."
"Ah, the caitiffs," said Sir Hugh, "can'st not take them?"
"In sooth can I, and will trounce them too. One, especially, have I marked for punishment; and my lawyer hath him in hand. A wild lad of the town here, named Shakespeare."
"Shakespeare!" said Sir Hugh; "not young William Shakespeare, the eldest son of the wool-comber?"
"The same," said Thomas. "I shall impound the knave ere many hours more are over his head."
"Nay, I am truly sorry to hear this," said Sir Hugh, "for I have reason to think well of that lad."
"'Tis more than any one else hath, then," said Sir Thomas. "He hath been a bitter thorn in my side for some time."
"Truly, you surprise me; hath he then so altered since I left these parts?"
"I know not that," said Sir Thomas; "but I well know he hath the reputation of the wildest young fellow in the neighbourhood."
"Nay, then I am utterly astonished," said Sir Hugh. "We must talk further of this matter; and I must see if I cannot get you to over-look, in some sort, young Shakespeare's offence."
"I would do much to pleasure you," said the Knight of Charlecote; "but my lawyer hath instruction to prosecute him with rigour. I was resolved to make a Star Chamber matter o't. If he be, however, so much favoured by thee, my good friend, we must look to't. But come, here we are at Charlecote. Ha!" he continued, pulling up his steed suddenly; "what have we nailed up against the gate? Dismount, Hubald!" he said to the Falconer, "take it down, man, and read it, and see what 'tis."
The head Falconer dismounted, and approaching the gates, took down a good sized placard written in large characters, a single glance at which seemed to cover him with dismay.
"What is it, in the name of wonder?" said the Knight. "Read, man, read; don't stand glaring like a driveller. Is my place placarded for sale?"
"An it so please ye," said the Falconer, "a gnat hath gotten into my eye, and I cannot well make it out. 'Tis a verse, too, and I cannot read a verse anyhow."
"Thou art a knave," said the Knight. "Read, I tell thee. I am curious to know what such documents can have to do with my gates. Read, I say, without more circumstance." And accordingly the Falconer, like one affrighted at his own voice, and in doleful tones drawled out the following couplet:—
"A parliament member, a justice of peace,At home a poor scarecrow, in London an ass.If Lucy is—"
"A parliament member, a justice of peace,At home a poor scarecrow, in London an ass.If Lucy is—"
"Ahem! 'If Lucy is—'" And the Falconer stopped.
"Proceed, sirrah," said Sir Thomas, with the calmness of concentrated rage; "proceed, a God's name!" And again the Falconer read—
"If Lucy is lowsey as some folk miscall it,Then lowsey is Lucy whatever befall it."
"If Lucy is lowsey as some folk miscall it,Then lowsey is Lucy whatever befall it."
To paint the ire and astonishment of Sir Thomas would be difficult.
"Here's goodly stuff toward," he said, as the Falconer stopped after the four first lines, and stood looking as much scared as if he had himself been guilty of the composition. "This, then, Sir Hugh, is doubtless the production of thy witty friend. A pestilence strike such wit! say I. Here, hand me the paper. Now may the fiend take me, an I do not give him his full deserts for this insult." And cramming the placard into the bosom of his doublet, to be read carefully and at more leisure, Sir Thomas put spurs to his horse and rode into the courtyard of his mansion.
A week has elapsed since Sir Hugh Clopton paid his visit to Charlecote. He has been a few days returned to his own home again, and is filled with pleasurable sensations on account of a letter just received from London, and announcing the arrival there of his nephew, Walter Arderne. The ship in which Walter has received a passage home is called the "Falcon," it is lying at Deptford; and the letter from the nephew to the uncle treats of strange matter; and promises, when they meet, still stranger news, connected with his escape, and safe return to England. A postscript adds, that as Walter has returned naked, as it were, to his native land, and has little to delay him preparatory to his returning to Clopton, his strong love for his uncle, "sharp as his spur," will help him on his road as fast as his horse can bring him. One only drawback is there to the contentment of Sir Hugh, and that is the account his nephew gives of the loss of the faithful Martin.
Still (although Sir Hugh felt more happy at this intelligence than he had been for some time) he did not let his feelings interfere with a project he had conceived after his return home, of going into Stratford in order to pay a visit to John Shakespeare, in Henley Street. The good Sir Hugh felt, that however much the son of the wool-comber might have disgraced himself, at any rate he himself was in duty bound to try and befriend him. "A deer-stealer," he said, as he mounted his horse and rode forth, "and given to all unluckiness in catching hares and rabbits too; and then that biting satire nailed against the park-gates, and stuck up all over the town: nay, 'twas too bad, and that is the truth on't. Here, too," he continued, (fumbling in the pocket of his doublet,) "is a vile ballad I bought of an old hag, who was bawling it through the streets of Stratford but yesterday. Let me see what saith the doggrel:
"Sir Thomas was too covetousTo covet so much deer,When horns enough upon his head,Most plainly did appear."
"Sir Thomas was too covetousTo covet so much deer,When horns enough upon his head,Most plainly did appear."
"By 'ur Lady, but 'tis sad stuff; and here be more—
"Had not his worship one deer left?What then? he had a wife,Took pains enough to find him hornsShould last him during life."
"Had not his worship one deer left?What then? he had a wife,Took pains enough to find him hornsShould last him during life."
"Ah, a very simple lad, and a wilful. Had it not been for these things—these scraps of bad verse—I could have made matters up, I dare be sworn." And Sir Hugh (who by this time had reached Henley Street) dismounted, and entered the house of the wool-comber.
How well the Knight of Charlecote had bestirred himself, and how well he had been assisted in his prosecution of the deer-stealers by the wretched Grasp, was evident, since Sir Hugh found that Snare was in jail at Warwick, Caliver in durance at Coventry, and that William Shakespeare had fled.
Yes, Shakespeare had fled from Stratford-upon-Avon. How trivial a circumstance did that seem at the time! Except his own family, none seemed to know or care much about him. A mere youth was driven from his home to avoid punishment for a trifling indiscretion; persecuted by a man of high and chivalrous feeling, and who knew him not, but by the ill report of the vile; a man who, had he but suspected the great worth and brilliant genius of the fugitive, would have been one of the first to befriend, in place of injuring and driving him, alone and friendless, from his home. And that act, whilst it lent an imperishableeclatto his own name, was, perhaps, the exciting cause of the greatness of the offender.
It was dark night when Shakespeare left his home. The resolve was suddenly taken: his high spirit could not brook the thought of degradation and punishment at the suit of the Knight of Charlecote. The misrepresentations, the misconceptions, and the absurd reports of the Stratford noodles, had disgusted him; and (even amidst the laughter caused by the lampoon affixed to the gates of Charlecote) he fled from the town.
Added to these feelings, there was the natural ambition which a young man, a husband, and a father, entertained to enter into some wider sphere of action, find where the talents he possessed might be brought into play. Domestic difference, too, and undeserved reproach,—or, ifdeserved, ill-timed, galled his spirit, and his gentle nature rebelled against the treatment he had received. The fire in the flint, 'tis said, "shows not till it be struck."
'Twas night when he left his home. To his mother alone had he confided his intent, and to her he had entrusted the care of both wife and children. 'Twas two hours past midnight when he donned his hat and cloak, took his quarter-staff in his hand, and prepared to start.
Gently he ascended the stairs, and entered his sleeping-room. The handsome Ann was buried in a deep sleep; and as one snowy arm encircled her infant, her dark-brown locks lay like a cloud upon the pillow. What a picture of rustic English beauty did she present! One kiss of her parted lips, and he descended the stairs, and let himself out by the back-door.
He was obliged to be cautious as he crossed the orchard, and gained the open fields in rear of his dwelling. It would, however, we opine, have been somewhat dangerous had the emissaries of Grasp molested him on this night, as his spirit, although bruised, was not broken, and he would have been a difficult person to capture. Ere he left the orchard, he turned and looked long and fixedly at his own and his father's dwelling. He felt that, perhaps, he might never again behold the sloping roofs which covered relatives so dear. All, save one (his mother), were buried in deep sleep, and unconscious of his flight. A minute more, and he was gone from his native town. Hurrying onwards over the meadows and woodlands—avoiding the high-road—across the country towards Warwick—"over park, over pale—through brake, through briar." Without any fixed notion as to his route, London was his destination; and with a mind ill at ease, the solitude of the woods was most congenial to his thoughts. Thus he traversed, alone and at night, the first few miles of that delicious and park-like scene between his native town and Warwick; and still, as his steps were destined towards the latter town, old haunts, and points of interest, lured him from the direct line; and the breaking dawn found him standing, leaning upon his staff, on Blacklow Hill—a spot, we dare say, well known to the majority of our readers. The sweetness of this locality, and the delicious scene around, for the moment took him from his own particular griefs; his mind reverted to the terrible deed of stern and wild justice it had been the scene of.
In the hollow of the rock beneath his feet, Piers Gaveston, the minion of Edward the Second, had met his sudden fate.
Amidst the fern and on the mossed face of the rugged rock were still to be seen the name of the victim, and the date in which the deed had been done, rudely cut at the moment of the execution.
Around him were the oaks of the Druids; in the distance, embosomed in softest verdure, gray with age, and softened in the mists of early dawn, were the towers of the magnificent Warwick.
On right, on left, were the deep woodlands, at this period covering nearly all Warwickshire like a huge forest. 'Twas a scene peculiarly adapted to call forth all the chivalrous feelings and historical recollection of such a being. The distant rush of the water from the monastic mill at Guy's Cliff, a sound which the monks of the adjoining abbey in bygone times had loved to hear, soothed the melancholy of his soul;—a sort of dreamy and shadowy remembrance of ages "long ago betide;"—a feeling as if the gazer upon such a scene had been familiar with the iron men who lived in feudal pride, and owned those towers in bygone days, stole upon him. He stood upon the domain of that mighty Earl of Warwick, "the putter up and plucker down of kings;" the blast of whose bugle in that county had often assembled thousands, "all furnished, all in arms." In thought he followed the proud baron in all his stirring career. Knight and esquire and vassal, a "jolly troop of English" swept by with tuck of drum and colours spread; and then he saw the mighty earl dying amidst the dust and blood of Barnet:—
"His parks, his walks, his manors, that he had,Even these forsaking him; and, of all his lands,Nothing left him but his body's length."
"His parks, his walks, his manors, that he had,Even these forsaking him; and, of all his lands,Nothing left him but his body's length."
Any one who could have looked upon that youthful poet at the moment, might have surmised the Shakespeare after-times has been wont to picture. There was the divine expression,—the countenanceonce seen, even in a portrait, never to be forgotten; the eye of fire, "glancing from heaven to earth;" the splendid form, with head thrown back and foot advanced. And thus he stood upon Blacklow Hill—
"A combination and a form, indeed,To give the world assurance of a man."
"A combination and a form, indeed,To give the world assurance of a man."
Not like a fugitive flying from the paltry spite of a scrivener set on by a country squire, but like the herald mercury.
"New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill."Long did the fugitive linger in this spot, till—"Light thickened, and the crowWing'd to the rocky wood."
"New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill."Long did the fugitive linger in this spot, till—
"Light thickened, and the crowWing'd to the rocky wood."
He then, as hunger forced him from his retreat, crossed the meadows, and entering the town of Warwick, sought an old hostel situate in the suburbs. No sooner did he enter this town, than he began to find himself one remove from the dull seclusion of his native place. The streets seemed all alive; a huge bonfire was a-light in the market-place, and hundreds of the rough sons of toil were assembled around, and in the adjoining thoroughfares.
Another diabolical conspiracy of the Jesuits had been discovered, and their designs frustrated. The news had just travelled to Warwick, and all was exultation, execration, and wild riot; whilst, added to this was a whispered rumour that the Queen of Scots was to be immediately brought to trial for participation in the plot. Sir Walter Mildmay, Sir Amias Paulet, and Edward Barker,—it was said at the Castle,—had waited upon Mary, informing her of the commission to try her, and also that Mary had refused to submit to an examination before subjects. Thus, then, all was excitement, stir, and bustle, as Shakespeare, unmarked by all, passed through the streets of Warwick and entered, the market-place,—a scene, perhaps, not quite so rude and riotous as in earlier times in that old town, yet still sufficiently characteristic of the period.
At one side of the market a company of fleshers, butchers, and half-clad hangers-on, reeking with the "uncleanly savours of the slaughter-house," threw up their sweaty night-caps, and urged their savage mastiffs to the charge, whilst an unlucky bear, tied to a strong stake, hugged and bit and bellowed with the agony of the attack. At another part a rout of fellows were to be seen wrestling and playing at quarter-staff; others, as they sprawled before a low hostel, were dicing and drinking, whilst a whole company danced and shouted around a bonfire, in which the effigies of Philip of Spain, tied back to back to a shaven monk, were being burnt. At another part of the market a considerable crowd was gathered around a sort of rhyming pedlar,—a tatterdemalion poet, who said, and shouted, and sang, the latest news, the newest ballad, and the last lampoon made upon Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecote:—
"A Parliament member, a justice of peace—At home a poor scarecrow, in London an ass."
"A Parliament member, a justice of peace—At home a poor scarecrow, in London an ass."
Passing through this crowd, and gathering from several knots of the citizens much of the stirring news, Shakespeare entered a small tavern situate in the outskirts of the town, near the Priory walls, where, although he found less bustle, there was yet a decent assemblage of guests. Here again he had opportunity of hearing those events which at the moment interested the kingdom from one end to the other. Violent philippics were levelled against Mary of Scotland, Philip of Spain, the Pope, and all communicating and consorting with them. The Queen of Scots, it was asserted by one of the travellers, had been found guilty of writing a letter to Philip, in which she offered to transfer all England to the Spaniard should her son refuse to embrace the Catholic faith. Another guest affirmed she had entered into a conspiracy against her own son, and instigated agents to seize his person and deliver him into the hands of the Pope, or the King of Spain.
As the fugitive sat beneath the huge chimney, and listened to the noisy debate of these politicians, amidst the hum of voices, and with the names of Walsingham, Babington, Burleigh, Hatton, Leicester, and others, ringing in his ears, he fell asleep, and with his arms folded, his head dropping upon his breast, his feet stretched out upon the hearth, his quarter-staff fast clutched in his arms, in company with others snoring in different parts of the apartment, did he pass the first hours of the night on which he fled from Stratford.
It was by no means an uncommon occurrence in Elizabeth's day for guests and wayfarers at a hostel of this sortsoto pass the night. Your traveller oft-times took his supper, folded his arms, drew his cloak around him, and slept in his boots and doublet when on a journey. The comfort of a good bed, as in our own day upon the road, was by no means thought so necessary. Nay, during the reign of Henry the Eighth, the peasant slept upon the floor with a log of wood for a pillow; and a comfortable bed to the hardy English peasant or the yeoman was a luxury indeed. The traveller, therefore, who meant to be early on the road, paid his shot over-night, and departed with "the first cock." Accordingly, the morning broke as Shakespeare brushed the dew from the grass some miles from Warwick, and the sun shone out brightly as he neared the towers of Kenilworth, then in all its pride and magnificence. The parks, and woods, and chase of this fortress were well known to the poet; and the beautiful little village, with its priory situated close to the walls, amidst verdant meadows, and surrounded with thick and massive foliage, had been a favourite haunt. Here, when a school-boy, he had accompanied his father, what time the Earl of Leicester entertained Queen Elizabeth for seventeen days, "with pomp, with triumph, and with revelling." And here he had taken his first impression of regal pride and power. At the same time he also got an inkling of the theatrical diversions then in vogue; for hither came the Coventry men, and acted an ancient play upon the green—a play long used or represented in their antique city, and called "Hock's Tuesday," and in which the Dane, after a formal engagement, was discomfited. Here, too, us he stood upon the margin of the castle-lake, he beheld another pageant, in which
"Arion,[18]on a dolphin's back,Uttered such dulcet and harmonious breath,That the rude lake grew civil at her song."
"Arion,[18]on a dolphin's back,Uttered such dulcet and harmonious breath,That the rude lake grew civil at her song."
Many other rough, sports, too, had he seen on this occasion and on this spot; the gracious Queen, sitting patiently the whilst, "kindly giving her thanks to the actors for nothing."
"Her sport to take what they mistook,And what poor duty could not do,Noble respect took it in might, not merit;And where she saw them shiver and look pale,Make periods in the midst of sentences,Throttle their practis'd accents in their fears,And in conclusion dumbly breaking off,Out of their silence did she pick a welcome,And in the modesty of fearful dutyShe read as much, as from the rattling tongueOf saucy and audacious eloquence."
"Her sport to take what they mistook,And what poor duty could not do,Noble respect took it in might, not merit;And where she saw them shiver and look pale,Make periods in the midst of sentences,Throttle their practis'd accents in their fears,And in conclusion dumbly breaking off,Out of their silence did she pick a welcome,And in the modesty of fearful dutyShe read as much, as from the rattling tongueOf saucy and audacious eloquence."
As Shakespeare turned from the neighbourhood of Kenilworth, the scene was by no means new to him, yet still it made considerable impression upon his mind; the huge castle and its flanking walls and towers, and the buildings which had been added to it during various reigns, altogether made up a pile of feudal grandeur such as was hardly to be equalled in the kingdom. There stood the new and magnificent buildings of the favourite Leicester—the towers of old John of Gaunt, "time-honoured Lancaster,"—the lodgings of King Henry the Eighth—the old bower of Cæsar, (built by Geoffrey de Clinton,) the tilt-yard, the swan tower, the water tower, Lunn's tower, Fountain tower, Saintlow tower, and Mervyn's bower. There was the plaisance, the orchard, the huge court, the garden, the glassy lake, and the wild and magnificent chase. All these, much as they had been impressed upon the mind of Shakespeare in former rambles, seemed doubly interesting and impressive now that lie was leaving the scene, perhaps for ever, without purse, profession, or prospect. Nay, should he meet some outlaw or common robber on the road, he might have said, with his own Valentine—
"A man I am, crossed with adversity,My riches are these poor habiliments,Of which, if you should here disfurnish me,You take the sum and substance that I have."
"A man I am, crossed with adversity,My riches are these poor habiliments,Of which, if you should here disfurnish me,You take the sum and substance that I have."
Those who have left the home and haunts of their childhood, and all there so dearly loved, can best describe the feeling of desolation which the one solitary wanderer for the first time feels, and which each mile seems to add to. He who has first embarked for a distant clime, leaving all worth living for, to "make a hazard of new fortunes in the world," can best remember "how slow his soul sailed on, how swift his ship."
When Shakespeare left the neighbourhood of Kenilworth, all was strange and new to him; and he might then be said to have entered upon "the wide and universal theatre."
All travel at this period was performed on horseback. Roads were foul, ill-made, and difficult; so much so, that in winter a man might have been dead in London three mouths before his next heir at York heard the news. The towns and villages, too, were then few, small, and far apart; and as Shakespeare inquired his weary way onwards, how sweet in remembrance seemed the bowery beauty of that sequestered spot he had quitted—sweet Stratford! and where he knew every face he met, where he saw and mixed with his own family every day, every hour. Sometimes, as he lay along, and rested beneath the shade of melancholy boughs, he loved to ponder upon those dearly-loved relatives, and imagine what they were doing, what they thought of his absence, and whether they missed him. His mother, too, she who had always so loved her first-born, who could read his high desert, and appreciate his brilliant talents, when all else passed him by, how would she miss him!