William Shakespeare as he lived Part 29

"Go to," said Hathaway, "sleep would do you more good. But an it pleases you to be a talker, I am all attention."

"You doubtless know me," said the priest, "and so much of my history as led me to fly from Clopton what time the good Sir Hugh was arrested and sent to the Tower."

"Hap I do, hap I don't," said the farmer. "Take another sip of the warm sack my dame hands you, and go on from thence. At least I've heard of the events of that night."

"I escaped pursuit on that night," said the priest. "They sought me in the south, but I fled north, across the border, and took refuge in Scotland."

"Ah!" said old Hathaway, "I dare be sworn there you found plenty of your own sort. Scot and plot hath rhymed together pretty often during this reign."

"It hath," said Eustace; "and I speedily entered into a plot there."

"One you found ready-made to your hand," said Hathaway; "Eh?"

"I did," said the priest. "I fell in, whilst in the mountains, with one Morgan, also a fugitive from England: he introduced me to Babington, Savage, and others, who were zealous Catholics, and engaged in a project for dethroning Elizabeth, and restoring by force of arms the exercise of the ancient and true religion. The Pope, the Spaniard, and the Duke of Guise, had all emissaries amongst this company. I, however, persuaded them of the vanity of any attempts upon the kingdom, so long as one so prudent and popular as Elizabeth was suffered to live. An a.s.sa.s.sination, an insurrection, and an invasion, must at one and the same time be attempted, I told them, that they saw at once the force of my arguments.

We met, during this discussion, in an old castle situate in Strathdon, and called Corgarff--a wild and desolate place. To you who dwell in fertile and pleasant England, my good folks," continued the priest, "the aspect of the wild region in which we held our meetings, would have appeared sufficiently terrible. No shrub, no tree, not a blade of gra.s.s was to be seen on this drear mountain land. Nothing but blasted heath, rocky glens, and deep mora.s.ses. The people wild, desperate and fearful, as the land they inhabit."

"In few," continued the priest, "having a.s.sumed the disguise of a soldier, and the name of Geffrey, I left this place for England, with the purpose of obtaining a secret interview with the Queen of Scots, during her imprisonment. This opportunity I found whilst the queen was in custody of Sir Amias Paulet, rigorous as that confinement was. To her I communicated tidings, that on the event of Elizabeth's death, her own deliverance would be attempted; all the zealous Catholics would fly to arms, and that foreign forces taking advantage of the general confusion, would fix her upon the English throne, and re-establish the Catholic religion."

"Alas! alas! what terrible doings you who meddle with religious matters think upon," said Master Hathaway; "better to kneel down under the blue sky, and wors.h.i.+p G.o.d without form and ceremony, if such is to be upheld by treason and bloodshed, from one end of the kingdom to the other."

"Alas! thou speakest wiser than thou art aware of," said the father, "and after a life of intrigue and dark underhand doings, in death I find that all such measures are but a serving the cause of the devil, in place of doing our duty towards G.o.d."

The dying priest now became so faint and exhausted that he could scarcely proceed.

"I feel," he said, "the hand of death rapidly approaching, and bitterly doth it now weigh upon my soul, that I have in some sort aided the enemies of my country in raising that dreadful tempest which sooner or later must now fall upon the land."

"Truly a heavy weight to lay upon the breast of a sick man," said Hathaway, shuddering. "And how then came you thus?"

"Our scheme," said the priest, "was discovered. Nay, it had been all along known. The Queen of Scots approved the project, and even when we were ripe and ready for action, one of our party, named Ballard was seized. This indeed so alarmed us, that finding we were also strictly watched wherever we went, we dispersed in parties, and under cover of night, and in various disguises, we fled from London a week back.

"Of all who were engaged, however, and we numbered fifteen individuals, all, I have since learned in the different towns where I have ventured, have been taken, some in woods, some in barns and outhouses where they sought shelter; nay, I have myself lain in concealment beneath the straw in the barn adjoining your cottage here for the last few days. This morning I stole out, and whilst you were engaged with your village dance, I endeavoured to reach a secret refuge known to me at Clopton, and which place I concluded was uninhabited. Unexpectedly, however, I found as I entered the private part of the mansion, that I was mistaken.

I was encountered by one Martin Delville, who it seems hath remained in charge of the hall. He attempted to seize me, and in defending myself, I received a shot in the breast. Still I managed to escape, and wandering through the country, I endeavoured to find some place of refuge, some roof where I might be sheltered. Faint with loss of blood, I still held onwards in the hope of reaching Stratford, but a dancing light, which at one moment seemed to await my coming, and the next went bounding from me, and by following which I have been more than once nearly drowned, at length led me back to the spot from whence I had started. As the light vanished from my eyes, its place was supplied by the distant appearance of your comfortable fire, seen through the cas.e.m.e.nt, and the driving snow. I but managed to reach your door, and that was all--life is fast ebbing away with the blood that flows from my wound."

"Nay, cheer up," said Dame Hathaway, "perhaps it may not be so bad; I have some Friar's balsam here at hand which will do wonderful things."

"It's no use, goodwife," said Hathaway, "I see death in his face. He bleeds inwardly as thou see'st, and is almost choked. Not all the friars that ever lived could save him, and to speak truth he hath had already quite enough to do with such cattle, for see what sloughs and pitfalls they have led him into."

"Nay," said Dame Hathaway, "it was Robin Goodfellow, you see, who led him into all these sloughs and pitfalls he describes, and at length brought him to our door."

"Robin Goodfellow, or Robin Badfellow,"[8] said old Hathaway----

[Footnote 8: The sprite was sometimes so named at this period.]

"Hist, hist!" said Dame Hathaway, "never abuse Robin if you wish to thrive."

"Well, go to," said her husband, "the man is sped, and there's an end.

Do thou and Anne remain with him whilst I go down to the lads below.

'Tis almost dawn. Alas, alas! this is a sad finish to our twelfth-tide sports; but we must still not suffer our guests to depart without their breakfast."

As Hathaway spoke, he descended to the apartment below, where the guests were still sitting around the fire, and discussing matters appertaining to the appearance of the misled wayfarer, and telling of woeful tales and dire stories, which suited the hour and the circ.u.mstance.

At old Hathaway's re-appearance amongst the circle, all were set to work to clear up the apartment, put it to rights, and prepare for the breakfast it was customary to partake of before the company finally broke up. The first faint streaks of dawn were beginning to appear as they departed. The snow-storm had cleared up, the diamond panes of the windows were fretted with frozen crystals, and as old Hathaway threw open the door and looked forth, the trees in the orchard were heaving with congealed snow, the ground was covered with the same white sheet, icicles hung in cl.u.s.ters from the roofs of the outhouses, and all around was softened and rounded by one white feathery crust. In short, it was one of those delicious winter mornings so often seen after a driving dreary and tempestuous night,----a morning in which the old world look of the buildings and barns around, seen in the clear wintry air, and the while flaky look of the country, gives so delightful an aspect to a rural hamlet.

Old Hyems seems then to smile as benignantly as he can,----to have smoothed the icy furrows of his brow, and consented to give to human mortals a slight respite, ere he fetches from the frozen bosom of the north more cutting blasts and angry winds.

"Then icicles hang by the wall, And d.i.c.k, the shepherd, blows his nail, Then Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail.

When blood is nipp'd, and ways are foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, _Tu-whit_, _to-who_, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE SUITOR.

The confession of the dying priest will doubtless recall to our readers the state of England at this period. Matters indeed were fast hastening towards that great event of Elizabeth's reign, which, for its mighty import, and the magnificence of its preparation, is, perhaps, without a parallel in the history of the country. The minds of men indeed were at this time fully impressed with the certainty of some great and terrible convulsion being at hand. It seemed that a fearful storm was surely and slowly gathering above their heads, and which, sooner or later, was to burst upon the land like some torrent breaking bounds. There was no occasion for men to ask each other from whence this ruin was to come.

The great enemy of the country,--the haughty, vindictive, and cruel foe of England at this period, was the iron-hearted bigot of Spain: and upon Spain were the eyes of all men turned with apprehension. 'Twas the general theme of conversation, the all-absorbing topic of the day; and torture, murder, and every sort of evil that fiends could inflict upon the inhabitants of a conquered country was to be expected, should a successful invasion take place. Yes; Spain was then the bugbear of nearly every Englishman's fire-side. One or two startling events, however, which made men "whisper one another in the ear," were to take place, ere this grand convulsion shook the nation; and yet, amidst the anxieties consequent upon such a state of things, it is curious how mankind continue the even tenor of their lives.

The twelfth-tide revel at Shottery had introduced young Shakespeare to some new acquaintance in that place. Amidst the youths he had met there, he found one or two lads of spirit; and, as he bent his steps across the fields towards the village, he would fain have persuaded himself that it was to renew his acquaintance with them that he had set forth. Ere he had reached the village, however, he felt obliged to confess that the real desire of his heart was neither for the companions.h.i.+p of the lads of the village, nor to learn tidings of the wounded priest, but really and truly to see again and hold converse with the handsome Anne.

"Oh heaven, were man but constant He were perfect. That one error Fills him with faults."

Mortals indeed are p.r.o.ne to error; and he whom we reverence as the greatest of men, was no more secure from the failings the flesh in heir to than his fellows. In truth, the youthful Shakespeare was again in love.

Those of the most generous sentiments and finest feelings are perhaps more subject to this pa.s.sion; for,

"Eating love inhabits in the finest wits of all."

It is not to be supposed that the melancholy fate of the beautiful Charlotte was so soon and entirely forgotten; but youth is not the season for ever-during melancholy. Bright thoughts will then spring up amidst the most gloomy recollections; and if one thing more than another can soothe the cares, and help to "pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow," it is the sweet companions.h.i.+p of woman in all the brilliancy of her glowing charms: and so thought Shakespeare as he took his way across those pleasant fields betwixt his own town and Shottery. "Yes," he said, as he came within sight of old Hathaway's cottage,

"To heal all grief, to cure all care, Turn foulest night to fairest day, To breathe delight, Anne _Hath a way_."

In youth we are more p.r.o.ne to fancy one elder than ourselves. The modest lad seems to look up to the full-blown woman, and to feel that his attentions, if received, are bestowed upon a worthy object; that he is indebted to her who consents to regard one so inferior (as at that moment he conceives himself) for women profess, in general, whatever they may feel, a contempt for the attentions of a mere boy, as they term the lad of seventeen or eighteen--a foolish lad, whom we laught at for his simple folly and childish admiration. This is dangerous sophistry, however, for a fair maid to indulge in.

In the middle period of life the fancy of the lover strays towards the fresh and budding flower, and the coy maiden is often sought out for a wife. In age, alas, 'tis but second childishness.

When Shakespeare reached the cottage of Master Hathaway, he felt his heart palpitate as he knocked at the door. His was a new acquaintance, and he hardly knew how the good yeoman might receive a visit so soon repeated. The voice of the old dame, however, bidding him come in, rea.s.sured him, and he lifted the latch and entered.

"Ah, Master Shakespeare," said the old dame, who was sitting at her spinning-wheel, "troth am I right glad to see thee. My husband and I have been oft-times talking of you since the night you was here."

"And the goodman," said Shakespeare, "is he hearty?"

"Troth is he, and away to Warwick to-day with Goodman Coulter, Hodge the smith, and others."

"And your fair daughter?" said Shakespeare; "I see her not here. How fares she?"

"A little dashed in spirit with this matter you wot of--the wayfarer whom we had to bury yesterday," said the dame.